**The Gilded Cage**
Emily slipped into the flat, careful not to wake her mum as she kicked off her new shoes—the ones that had rubbed her feet raw all evening.
*”Back so early? Run away? Didn’t like the wedding?”* Her mum’s voice came from the hall, making Emily jump.
*”Why are you even up? Waiting to interrogate me?”* she snapped, then instantly regretted it when her mum pursed her lips and turned away. Guilt gnawed at her. She sighed and followed, sliding onto the sofa beside her.
*”Don’t sweet-talk me now. If you don’t want to talk, fine. I’ll hear everything from Charlotte’s mum anyway.”*
*”Mum, sorry. I’m exhausted, my feet are killing me. The venue was gorgeous—fifty guests, maybe more. Loud, fun. Charlotte looked stunning in white, and the groom’s handsome…”*
*”Then why’d you leave early?”* her mum cut in.
*”Everyone there was so… posh. Like they were playing roles in some fancy pantomime. And I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”*
*”Sunday? Since when?”* Her mum frowned.
*”Exactly. I’ll explain in the morning. Shower time.”* She pecked her mum’s cheek and escaped to her room.
She peeled off her dress—cheap compared to the designer gowns everyone else wore—and scrubbed her skin under scalding water, trying to erase the memory of the sweaty bloke who’d dragged her onto the dance floor. He’d ignored her refusals, clamped her against his belly, his damp hands sliding over her back. She’d gritted her teeth through the whole song.
Later, he’d cornered her at the table, pouring wine she didn’t want. No one noticed—not even Charlotte, busy with guests and her new husband. The only person who *had* glanced her way—a tall, dark-haired bloke—did nothing to rescue her. So she’d bolted, hailed a cab, and left. No, she didn’t want a wedding like that. A scripted show where she was just an extra.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Music, clinking glasses, toasts—it all echoed in her head. And that man’s gaze. *”Wish he’d asked me to dance instead of that walrus,”* she thought, then rolled over, annoyed at herself for even remembering him.
Autumn turned bitter. When Charlotte returned from her honeymoon, she invited Emily over. Curious about how the other half lived, Emily stopped at a posh bakery for Charlotte’s favourite eclairs. As she left, she collided with someone—*him*. The mystery man from the wedding.
*”You!”* he said, stepping back with a grin.
Her stomach flipped. *”You’re blocking the door,”* he laughed, tugging her aside. *”You vanished like Cinderella. I didn’t even get your name.”*
*”No glass slipper left behind,”* she shot back.
He offered her a lift, and against her better judgement, she agreed. His Range Rover was *insane*—plush seats, that new-car smell. He drove without asking for directions.
*”I know where Charlotte lives. Her husband’s my mate,”* he explained, catching her wary look.
By the time they arrived, she’d learned his name—James. Divorced. Owned a golden retriever. *”Rich, handsome, charming. Mum’s dream,”* she thought wryly.
*”You’re late!”* her mum scolded when she got home.
*”Went to Charlotte’s. Her place is… wow.”* She described the marble floors, the heated pool.
*”How’d you get there? It’s in *Billionaire’s Row*,”* her mum said, using the locals’ nickname for the ritzy estate.
*”A friend drove me.”* Instantly, she regretted the slip.
*”From the wedding? One of *them*? Please tell me you gave him your number!”*
*”Yes, Mum, I shoved it into his hand,”* Emily deadpanned.
*”Don’t sass me! A man like that notices you, and you—”*
*”I gave him my number! Can we drop it?”*
*”Why the attitude? I just want you settled, like Charlotte. Not scraping by with some broke student!”*
*”Since when have we ever *scraped by*?”* Emily narrowed her eyes.
*”Fine, I exaggerated. But tell me he’s at least a bit nice?”*
*”Mum, *stop*. I’m not marrying anyone yet.”*
Her phone rang—James. Saved by the bell.
*”No time like the present,”* his voice was warm. *”Free Sunday? Fancy horse riding?”*
She’d only ever seen knackered carthorses at her gran’s. But she said yes.
The ride was magical. James was a perfect gentleman, easing her into his world of private clubs and first-name basis with maître d’s. The next weekend, he turned up unannounced—flowers, cake, the lot. She cringed at their shabby flat, but James didn’t blink. *”Feels like home,”* he’d said, charming her mum to bits.
*”That man’s a *catch*,”* her mum sighed later. *”If he proposes, you won’t say no, will you?”*
*”We’ve met *three times*!”*
Yet by New Year’s, there was a diamond on her finger.
*”Thank God,”* her mum wept. *”I can die happy now.”*
Their March wedding was small, just as Emily wanted. Sunlight glinted off melting icicles; the air smelled like daffodils. Hope fizzed in her chest.
Moving into his mansion felt surreal. *”At least I’ve got you to talk to,”* Charlotte said, rubbing her baby bump. *”The other wives only care about spas and handbags.”*
But freedom vanished fast. James’s driver took her to uni, fetched her after. No detours. One day, lectures ended early. She walked home, relishing the spring air—until her classmate, Ben, caught up with her.
Over coffee, she realised how much she’d missed normal chats. The others had started avoiding her since the wedding.
*”Penny for your thoughts?”* Ben asked.
*”I should go,”* she muttered.
*”He’s controlling you, isn’t he?”*
*”No, I just—”*
James was waiting when she got back. *”Where were you?”* His voice was ice.
*”Uni.”*
*”Liar. Lecture was cancelled. Meeting a *boyfriend*?”*
*”He’s just a coursemate! We had *coffee*!”*
James’s eyes turned glacial. *”You’re *my* wife now. I’ve got rivals, enemies. You can’t embarrass me like this.”*
*”How is *coffee* embarrassing?”*
*”You *stupid* girl,”* he hissed, yanking her arm so hard she cried out. *”If you *ever* disobey me—”*
*”What? You’ll hit me? When I’m a doctor, will you accuse every patient of flirting?”*
The slap came out of nowhere. Blood filled her mouth before she even registered the pain. The second blow knocked her out.
She woke alone, locked in their bedroom. The cleaner freed her the next day, gasping at her bruised face. *”He’ll kill me for this,”* the woman trembled.
*”Say I tricked you,”* Emily whispered, then ran.
Her mum screamed when she saw her. *”He seemed so *polished*! What if he comes here?”*
*”Mum, *stop*.”*
Ben—now a trainee medic—patched her up, photographed her injuries, and texted James: *”Touch her again, and these go viral.”*
James never came back. The divorce was quick.
Months later, she and Ben spotted James in a café with a new girl. While he was in the loo, Emily warned her. *”He beat me. Run.”*
*”Who even *are* you?”* the girl scoffed.
*”His ex. Please—don’t tell him I was here.”* She fled before James returned.
*”Why risk it?”* Ben hissed outside.
*”Because no one warned *me*,”* she said. *”Not even Charlotte.”*
They moved away. Ben became a surgeon; she, a cardiologist. Their son, Oliver, was her joy. Her mum never meddled again.
Years later, in a salon, Emily glanced at a magazine: *”Tycoon James Waltham Murders Wife.”*
*”Silly girl,”* she sighed. Outside, Ben pushed Ollie’s pram past the window.
SheAs Emily watched her little family through the glass, she realized the truest wealth wasn’t in gold or mansions but in this—love without chains, a life without fear, and the quiet miracle of ordinary happiness.
