**The Gilded Cage**
Emily slipped quietly into the flat, easing off her shoes with a wince—new heels that had rubbed her feet raw.
“Back so early? Did you run off? Didn’t like the wedding?” Her mother’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Why are you even up? Waiting to ambush me?” Emily shot back.
Her mother pressed her lips together and retreated. Emily instantly regretted her sharpness. Mum had stayed awake, worried, just wanting to know how the evening had gone, and she’d snapped at her. Guilt pricked at her. She followed into the living room and sank onto the sofa beside her, wrapping an arm around her.
“Don’t butter me up. If you don’t want to talk, fine. I’ll hear everything from Charlotte’s mum soon enough.”
“Sorry, Mum. I’m just exhausted, and my feet are killing me. The venue was gorgeous—fifty guests, at least. Loud, lively. Charlotte looked stunning in her white dress, and the groom—”
“Then why leave early?” her mother interrupted.
“Mum, they were all so stuffy, prancing about like peacocks. Not my crowd. And I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Mum frowned, searching her face.
“Exactly. I’ll tell you in the morning. Going for a shower.” Emily pecked her cheek and escaped to her room.
She peeled off her dress with disgust—once her best, now laughably plain next to the designer gowns at the reception. Under the scalding spray, she scrubbed her back raw where the damp hands of some sweaty bloke had groped her during a dance she couldn’t refuse. He’d pulled her tight against his gut, fingers clinging like leeches. The heel straps had sliced into her skin. She’d endured it, then fled when he slid into her seat, plying her with wine. No one noticed. Charlotte, the only person she knew, was swept up in guests and her new husband. Only once had she caught another man’s gaze—interested but indifferent as she struggled free.
She’d lied about the loo and bolted, hailing a cab outside. No, she didn’t want a wedding like that—scripted, performative. She’d felt like an extra in someone else’s show.
Sleep wouldn’t come. The clink of glasses, laughter, toasts—it all echoed. And that man’s stare. *Wish he’d asked me to dance instead of that oaf. Stop thinking about him.* She turned over, willing sleep to take her.
Autumn faded into a bitter October. Charlotte returned from her honeymoon and invited Emily over. Curious to see how the wealthy lived, Emily stopped at a patisserie for Charlotte’s favourite cakes. As she left, she collided with a man in the doorway.
“After you,” he said, stepping back.
She looked up—*him*. The one from the wedding. Shock rooted her to the spot.
“Come on, we’re blocking the way,” he laughed, tugging her gently aside.
“You vanished from the wedding like Cinderella. I didn’t even get your name.” His smile was easy, teeth white.
“Didn’t lose a shoe, though,” Emily managed.
“Need a lift? I’ve got my car.”
“Visiting Charlotte—the bride. Changed your mind about shopping?” She eyed his empty hands.
“Found something better.” He nodded at the cake box. “Come on.” He guided her to a sleek Range Rover.
She’d never ridden in anything so plush. He drove smoothly, not asking for directions. Her pulse jumped.
“I know where Charlotte lives. Her husband and I are business partners.”
As they drove, he introduced himself—Daniel, divorced, owned a Labrador.
*Rich, handsome, successful. Charming. Exactly what Mum wants.*
“Where’ve you been? I was worried,” Mum scolded when she got home.
“Went to Charlotte’s. You should see her place—” She indulged her mother’s curiosity, detailing the mansion and Charlotte’s sun-kissed glow despite the season.
“How’d you get there? She’s in *Billionaire’s Row* now.”
“A friend gave me a lift,” Emily muttered, already regretting the interrogation to come.
“Met at the wedding? Please say he’s one of *them*. Did you give him your number?”
“Oh yes, Mum, *forced* it into his hands,” Emily snapped.
“Why the attitude? A proper man shows interest, and you—”
“I *gave* him my number. Happy? Interrogation over?”
“What’s got into you?”
“I’m *tired* of this! You just want me off your hands, don’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I want you married to someone *worthy*, like Charlotte. Not some penniless student.”
“Since when have we been penniless?” Emily narrowed her eyes.
“Well—I exaggerated. But darling, you *do* like him, don’t you?”
“*Mum*. I’m not marrying anyone yet.”
Her phone rang—Daniel. Saved by the bell.
“Didn’t want to wait. Free Sunday? Fancy horseback riding? I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
She agreed, realising too late they’d slipped into first names.
The ride was exhilarating. Daniel wove her carefully into his world—effortless charm, doors opening at his smile. She basked in his attention.
The next weekend, he arrived unannounced with flowers and cake. She cringed at their small flat, the worn rug, faded wallpaper. But he didn’t seem to notice, laughing with Mum, reminiscing about his own modest childhood.
“A dream,” Mum sighed after he left. “If he proposes, you won’t say no?”
“Mum! We’ve barely *met*.”
Yet by New Year’s, he did propose, sliding a diamond onto her finger.
“Thank heavens,” Mum wept. “Now I can die in peace.” Emily rolled her eyes.
They married in March—sunshine, melting icicles, the scent of spring. She’d insisted on simplicity. He’d agreed.
Then came the cage.
Daniel never let her go anywhere alone. A driver took her to uni, fetched her after. One early finish, she walked home, savouring the budding trees. A classmate, Alex, spotted her. Over coffee, she realised how she’d missed normal conversation.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Alex asked.
“I should go,” she deflected.
“He controls you, doesn’t he?”
“No—just late.” She stood.
Daniel was waiting.
“Where were you?” Cold.
“Uni.”
“Don’t lie. Lecture was cancelled. Why no call? Meeting a *lover*?”
“He’s a *classmate*.”
His voice turned to ice. “You’re my *wife*. I have enemies—people waiting for me to slip. You *embarrass* me.”
“*Embarrass* you? Over *coffee*?”
“Are you *stupid*?” He lunged, yanking her wrist. “If you disobey me—”
“Or what? *Kill* me? When I’m a doctor, will every patient be your enemy?” She twisted free.
She didn’t see the slap coming—just ringing silence, coppery blood on her tongue. His lips moved, but she heard nothing.
“*Do you understand*?”
She nodded, dazed. The next blow flung her back. Darkness swallowed her.
She woke alone, the bedroom door locked. By morning, her face was swollen, lips split. No phone. No escape.
The cleaner finally freed her at lunch. “He’ll kill me for this,” the woman trembled.
“Say I tricked you.”
She ran—through backstreets, hood up, faces recoiling at her bruises. Mum gasped.
“He seemed so *decent*! What if he comes *here*?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
But she called Alex, who documented her injuries and sent photos to Daniel with a warning: *Touch her again, and these go viral.*
Daniel vanished. Two weeks later, the bruises faded enough for uni.
Divorce came quickly. That summer, post-graduation, she and Alex shared a coffee when Daniel strode past, oblivious, with a new girl. When he left for the loo, Emily approached her.
“Run. He’ll hurt you like he did me.”
“Who *are* you?”
“His ex. Don’t tell him we talked.” She fled.
Alex scolded her. “What if she *tells* him?”
“*No one* warned me,” Emily said bitterly.
They moved away. Alex became a surgeon; she, a cardiologist. A son, Mitya, arrived. Mum never meddled again.
Years later, in a salon, Emily read an old magazine: *Businessman Daniel Pierce Brutally Murders Wife.*
*Silly girl.* She sighed.
Outside, Alex pushed a pram.
She smiled. *Enough money to stay human—that’s all that matters.*As she watched her son giggle in his pram, Emily knew she had finally found the freedom she’d once only dreamed of.
