**In a Gilded Cage**
Eleanor crept into the flat, careful not to wake her mother as she slipped off her shoes, wincing at the blisters from the wretched new heels.
*”Back so early? Did you run off? Didn’t like the wedding?”* Her mother peered out from the hallway, her voice thick with suspicion.
*”Why are you even up? Keeping tabs on me?”* Eleanor snapped.
Her mother pressed her lips tight and vanished into the bedroom. A pang of guilt twisted in Eleanor’s chest. She’d waited up, concerned, and all she’d earned was rudeness. Sighing, Eleanor followed, settling beside her on the sofa and hugging her close.
*”Don’t sweet-talk me. If you don’t want to say, fine. I’ll hear it from Lucy’s mother soon enough.”*
*”Mum, I’m sorry. I’m exhausted, my feet are killing me. The reception was lavish—fifty guests at least, maybe more. Noisy, lively. Lucy looked stunning in white. And the groom—handsome as anything…”*
*”Then why slink off early?”* Her mother cut in.
*”Mum, they were all so—stuffy. Like peacocks preening. Not my sort. And I’ve an早起 tomorrow.”*
*”Where to? It’s Sunday.”* Her mother narrowed her eyes.
*”Exactly. I’ll tell you in the morning. Off to shower.”* She kissed her mother’s cheek and retreated to her room.
She peeled off her dress with disdain. Next to the others’ finery, it had looked cheap, threadbare. Under the scalding water, she scrubbed her back raw where that sweaty oaf’s hands had roamed.
He’d dragged her onto the dance floor despite her protests. What was she to do, make a scene? His belly pressed into her, his palms damp and suffocating. Her heels stabbed her feet. She’d endured till the music faded.
Then he’d cornered her at the table, pouring wine, leering. No one spared her a glance—not even Lucy, lost in bridal duties. Just once, across the room, a man’s gaze lingered. But he’d done nothing to save her.
She’d feigned a trip to the loo and fled. A taxi home. No, she’d never want a wedding like that—scripted, hollow, every guest an actor. She’d been set dressing.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Music and laughter echoed in her skull. That man’s face flickered in her mind. *”Wish he’d asked me instead of that bloated pig. Stop thinking of him.”* She turned over, finally drifting off.
Golden September yielded to a sodden October. Lucy returned from honeymoon and summoned Eleanor, eager to gush.
Curious to glimpse how the wealthy lived, Eleanor stopped at a bakery for Lucy’s favourite éclairs. As she left, she collided with a man—who stepped aside with a chuckle.
*”It’s you,”* he said.
She looked up. *Him.* The mystery man from the wedding. Shock rooted her to the spot.
*”Come now, we’re blocking the door.”* He tugged her aside, amused. *”You vanished like Cinderella. I never got your name.”*
*”No glass slipper left behind,”* she managed, smiling.
*”Let me drive you home.”*
*”I’m visiting Lucy—the bride. Changed your mind about shopping?”* She nodded at his empty hands.
*”Meeting you outweighs pastries.”* He guided her to his Range Rover.
She’d never ridden in such luxury—nor in much else, truth be told. He drove confidently, no need for directions. Her pulse quickened.
*”I know where Lucy lives. Her husband and I are partners—and friends.”*
En route, he shared bits of himself: Edward, divorced, owned a Labrador…
*”Rich, handsome, successful. Charming. Just as Mum ordered,”* she thought.
*”You’re late,”* her mother fretted when she returned.
*”Went to Lucy’s. Her new place—”* She indulged her mother’s nosiness, describing the mansion, Lucy’s tropical tan in dreary autumn.
*”How’d you get there? It’s ‘Millionaires’ Row.’”*
*”A lift. Someone I met.”* She braced for the interrogation.
*”At the wedding? One of *them*, I hope? Did you give him your number?”*
*”Yes, Mum, I *thrust* it at him,”* she deadpanned.
*”Don’t sass. A proper man notices you, and you—”*
*”I *gave* the number. Interrogation over?”*
*”Why the attitude? I want you settled, like Lucy. Not scraping by with some penniless student.”*
*”When have *we* ever scraped?”*
*”Fine, I exaggerate. But—do you fancy him?”*
*”Mum, *stop.* I’m not marrying anyone.”*
Her phone rang—Edward. Saved by the bell.
*”No point delaying. Free Sunday? Fancy horse riding?”*
She agreed, too flustered to question his sudden ‘*you.’*
At her grandmother’s, she’d only known plough horses—hulking, terrifying. But this? Exhilarating.
Edward wooed her deftly, easing her into his gilded world. His charm opened doors. She basked in his attention.
Next weekend, he arrived unannounced—flowers, cake in hand. She cringed at their shabby flat, the faded wallpaper. He didn’t blink. Complimented her mother, charmed them both.
*”A dream man,”* her mother sighed later. *”If he proposes, you’ll say yes?”*
*”Mum! We’ve barely met!”*
Yet by New Year’s, he *did* propose—diamond ring and all.
*”Thank heavens. I can die happy,”* her mother wept. Eleanor rolled her eyes.
They married in March, sunlight melting the icicles, the air sweet with spring. She’d insisted on simplicity—no fuss. He’d agreed.
After, she moved into his manor.
*”Finally, someone to talk to. The other wives only care facials and Harrods,”* Lucy laughed.
Now neighbours, Lucy was six months pregnant.
But Edward let Eleanor go nowhere alone. His driver ferried her to uni, fetched her after. Once, class ended early. She walked home, relishing the budding trees.
A classmate, Simon, caught up. They shared coffee. How she’d missed *normal* chatter. Lately, her peers avoided her.
*”You’re miles away,”* Simon said.
*”I should go,”* she murmured.
*”Does he control you?”*
*”No, just—time to go.”*
Edward waited, icy. *”Where were you?”*
*”Uni.”*
*”Don’t lie. Lecture was cancelled. Meeting a lover?”*
*”A *classmate.* We had coffee. What’s the harm?”*
His eyes frosted over. *”You’re my wife now. I’ve rivals, enemies waiting for missteps. You *won’t* embarrass me.”*
*”How is coffee embarrassing?”*
*”You understand *nothing.*”* He lunged, gripping her wrist. *”You’ll obey—”*
*”Or what? Kill me? When I’m a doctor, will every patient be a ‘lover’?”* She wrenched free.
The slap came too fast to dodge. Her ears rang. Blood trickled from her split lip. He loomed closer.
*”Understood?”*
*”I—”* Her mouth numb. *”Understood.”*
The second blow knocked her unconscious.
She woke alone, trembling. Upstairs, the bedroom door was locked. No phone.
Morning brought a swollen face. He finally entered.
*”Learnt your lesson?”*
*”I *hate* you! Let me out!”*
Another strike. Another lock-click.
At lunch, the cleaner slipped her out. *”He’ll kill me,”* the woman whispered.
*”Say I tricked you.”* Masking her bruises, Eleanor fled.
Her mother gasped. *”He seemed so *decent.* Forgive me. What if he comes?”*
*”Don’t fuss.”*
She called Simon—now a trainee medic. He documented her injuries, texted Edward: *”Touch her again, these go viral.”*
Edward vanished. Two weeks later, the bruises faded enough for uni.
Divorce came swiftly. That summer, post-exams, she and Simon spotted Edward at a café—arm in arm with a new girl.
While he visited the loo, Eleanor warned her: *”Run. He beat me. He’ll hurt you too.”*
*”Who *areThe young woman stared at her for a long moment, then quietly gathered her handbag and slipped out the door just as Edward returned, his puzzled gaze sweeping the empty table before landing—too late—on Eleanor’s retreating figure through the glass.
