The Golden Cage
Emily tiptoed into the flat, carefully peeling off her shoes to avoid waking her mother. She winced as the blisters on her feet stung.
“Back so early? Did you run away? Didn’t like the wedding?” Her mother peered into the hallway.
“Why aren’t you asleep? Were you waiting up for me?” Emily snapped.
Her mother pursed her lips and retreated to her room. Guilt pricked Emily—her mum had stayed awake, worried, and she’d been rude. She followed, sinking onto the sofa beside her and wrapping an arm around her.
“Don’t butter me up. If you don’t want to talk, fine. I’ll hear everything from Lucy’s mum anyway.”
“Mum, I’m sorry. I’m exhausted, and my feet are killing me. The venue was posh, at least fifty guests. Loud, lively. Lucy looked stunning in her white dress. And the groom’s handsome…”
“So why leave early?” her mother interrupted.
“Mum, they were all stuck-up, puffing like peacocks. Important people, you know? Not my crowd. And I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“Where? It’s Sunday,” her mother frowned.
“Exactly. I’ll tell you in the morning. Going for a shower.” Emily kissed her cheek and slipped away to change.
She scowled as she dumped her dress—cheap and plain compared to the other guests’ finery. The shower scalded her skin, scrubbing away the memory of clammy hands.
A sweaty banker had dragged her onto the dance floor, ignoring her protests. Trapped against his belly, she’d endured his damp palms on her back, her shoes cutting into her heels until the music ended. Then he’d plied her with wine at the table. No one cared—Lucy was busy with guests and her new husband. Only one man had glanced her way, but he never intervened.
She’d bolted to the loo, then hailed a cab. No, she didn’t want a wedding like this—scripted, performative. She’d felt like an extra in someone else’s play.
Lying awake, the clink of glasses and laughter still ringing, she pictured *him*. “Wish he’d asked me to dance instead of that bloated pig. Stop thinking about him,” she muttered, turning over.
Autumn’s chill set in. Lucy returned from her honeymoon and invited Emily over. Curious about how the rich lived, Emily stopped at a bakery for Lucy’s favourite scones.
As she left, a man held the door open.
“It’s you,” he said suddenly.
Emily looked up—the mysterious wedding guest. Stunned, she froze.
“Step out, we’re blocking the way.” He laughed, guiding her aside. “You vanished like Cinderella. I never got your name.” His smile flashed perfect teeth.
“I didn’t lose a shoe,” she quipped.
“Going home? Let me drive you.”
“Visiting Lucy, the bride. Changed your mind about shopping?” She arched a brow.
“Meeting you is worth skipping scones.” He nodded at her bakery box and led her to his Range Rover.
The plush interior was foreign—she rarely rode in cars at all. He drove confidently, not asking for directions. Her pulse quickened.
“I know where Lucy lives. Her husband’s my business partner,” he explained, noticing her alarm.
En route, he introduced himself—Jack, divorced, with a Labrador. *Handsome, successful, charming. Everything Mum wants for me.*
“You’re late! I was worried,” her mother scolded when she returned.
“Went to Lucy’s. You should see her place—” She detailed the mansion, her mother’s eyes gleaming.
“How’d you get there? It’s in ‘Billionaire’s Row’.”
“A friend drove me.” She regretted the admission instantly.
“From the wedding? One of *them*, I hope? Did you give him your number?”
“Yes, Mum, I *thrust* it at him,” Emily snapped.
“Why the attitude? A man like that notices you, and you—”
“I *gave* him my number. Enough interrogation?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m sick of your prying. Rushing to marry me off?”
“Don’t be daft. I want you secure, like Lucy. Not scraping by with some student—”
“Since when have we *scraped by*?” Emily narrowed her eyes.
“Well… I exaggerated. But don’t you like him at all?”
“Mum, *stop*. I’m not ready.”
Her phone rang—Jack. Saved by the bell.
“Didn’t want to wait to call. Free this Sunday?”
“Just studying.”
“All day? Perfect weather—fancy horse riding? Never tried? I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
She agreed, realising too late they’d slipped into first names.
The ride thrilled her—she’d only ever seen farm horses. Jack wove her gently into his world of wealth, his charisma opening doors. She basked in his attention.
The next weekend, he arrived unannounced with flowers and cake. Emily cringed at their shabby flat—worn carpet, peeling wallpaper. But Jack smiled, joked, listened. “My childhood home felt just as cosy,” he said. Her mother melted.
“A dream man,” she sighed later. “If he proposes, you won’t say no?”
“Mum, we’ve barely met!”
Yet by New Year’s, Jack proposed with a diamond ring.
“Thank God. Now I can die happy,” her mother clutched her chest. Emily rolled her eyes.
They married in March, sunlight glinting off melting icicles, the air sweet with spring. Emily insisted on simplicity. Jack agreed.
Moving into his mansion, she rejoiced when Lucy said, “At least you’ll talk to me. The other wives only care about spas and shopping abroad. Doubt they’ve ever read a book.”
But Jack controlled her—chauffeur to university, no solo outings. Once, after cancelled lectures, she walked home. Cherry blossoms swelled as classmate Tom caught up. Over coffee, she relished normal conversation.
“You’re miles away,” he said.
“I should go.”
“He’s controlling you?”
“No, I just—” She stood.
At home, Jack waited.
“Where were you?” His voice cut ice.
“University.”
“Don’t lie. Lectures were cancelled. Meeting a lover?”
“He’s a classmate!”
His eyes turned glacial.
“We just had coffee. What’s wrong with that?”
“You’re my *wife*. I have enemies waiting for missteps. You can’t risk—”
“Risk *what*?”
“Are you dense?” He lunged, yanking her wrist. “If you disobey—”
“Or what? Kill me? When I’m a doctor, will every patient be your enemy?” She twisted free.
The slap came fast—no pain, just ringing silence. Blood trickled down her chin. He stepped closer.
“Understood?”
She tasted copper. “Yes.”
The second blow flung her onto the bed. Darkness swallowed her.
When she woke, he was gone. She sobbed, stumbling to the locked bedroom. Morning brought swelling, bruises. Jack took her phone.
The cleaner finally freed her, gasping at her face. “He’ll kill me!”
“Say I tricked you.” Emily fled, hiding her face behind a scarf.
Her mother wailed, “He seemed so *decent*! What if he comes here?”
“Don’t be silly.”
She called Tom—now a trainee medic. He documented her injuries, texted Jack: *Touch her again, and these go viral.*
Jack vanished. Two weeks later, bruises fading, she returned to uni.
Divorce came quickly. That summer, post-exams, she and Tom spotted Jack with a young blonde in a café.
“Be careful,” Emily whispered to the girl while Jack was in the loo. “He beat me. Run.”
“Who *are* you?”
“His ex-wife. Don’t tell him.” She hurried out. Through the window, she saw Jack return, the girl shrugging. *She didn’t tell.*
“Why risk it?” Tom hissed outside.
“No one warned me,” Emily said. “Not even Lucy.”
They moved away. Tom became a surgeon; Emily, a cardiologist. Their son brought joy. Her mother never meddled again.
Years later, in a salon, Emily read a tabloid: *Tycoon Jack Harrow murdered wife in brutal attack.*
“Silly girl,” she sighed. Outside, Tom pushed their son’s pram.
She smiled. *How lucky I am. Money’s just money—enough to stay human.*
“Ready for you,” the stylist called.
