**The Gilded Cage**
Molly crept into the flat, peeling off her coat as quietly as she could, not wanting to wake her mother. She stifled a wince as she slipped off her new shoes—cheap things that had rubbed her feet raw.
“Is that you? Back so soon? Run away, did you? Didn’t fancy the wedding?” Her mother’s voice carried from the hallway.
“Why aren’t you asleep? Keeping watch over me?” Molly snapped.
Her mother pursed her lips and retreated into the sitting room. Instantly, regret pricked at Molly’s conscience. Of course her mother had waited up, wanting to hear all about it. She followed, settling beside her on the sofa and wrapping an arm around her.
“Don’t butter me up. If you don’t want to talk, so be it. I’ll hear it all from Emily’s mum soon enough.”
“Sorry, Mum. I’m knackered, and my feet are killing me. The place was grand, fifty guests at least. Noisy, lively. Em looked stunning in white. And the groom—handsome as ever…”
“Then why leave early?” her mother interrupted.
“Mum, everyone there was so full of themselves, like prize turkeys at a county fair. Not my sort. And I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“Where? It’s Sunday.” Her mother frowned.
“Exactly. I’ll tell you in the morning. Right, I’m off for a shower.” Molly pecked her mother’s cheek and escaped to her room.
She peeled off her dress—plain compared to the finery the other guests had worn—and stepped into the shower, scrubbing where the sweaty businessman had clutched her during their dance. He’d dragged her onto the floor despite her protests, pressing her against his belly, palms damp on her back. Her heels had dug into her skin. She’d barely endured it.
Later, he’d sidled up to her table, topping up her wine. No one noticed—not even Emily, busy playing bride. Only once had a man caught her eye, but he’d done nothing to rescue her. She’d slipped away, hailed a cab, and fled. No, this wasn’t the wedding she’d want—scripted, performative, everyone playing a role while she felt like an extra.
Sleep wouldn’t come. The music, clinking glasses, laughter—it all rang in her ears. That man lingered in her thoughts. “Wish he’d asked me instead of that oaf. Stop—don’t think of him,” she scolded herself, turning over.
October’s chill replaced September’s warmth. Emily returned from her honeymoon and invited Molly round. Curious about how the wealthy lived, Molly stopped at a patisserie for Emily’s favourite éclairs. As she left, she collided with a man in the doorway. He stepped aside with a chuckle.
“It *is* you,” he said.
She looked up—the mystery man from the wedding. Shock rooted her to the spot.
“Out you come—we’re blocking the way.” He guided her aside, grinning. “You vanished like Cinderella. Didn’t even get your name.”
“No lost slippers here,” Molly managed a smile.
“Let me drive you home.”
“I’m visiting a friend—the bride, actually. Changed your mind about shopping?”
“After stumbling into you? Worth skipping every éclair in London.” He nodded at her box. “Come on.” He steered her toward his Range Rover.
The car was vast, plush—nothing like the buses she usually took. He drove smoothly, not asking for directions. Her pulse quickened.
“I know where your friend lives. Her husband and I are partners—and mates,” he explained, catching her wary look.
As they drove, he introduced himself—Charles, divorced, with a golden retriever.
“Rich, handsome, successful. *And* nice. Just what Mum wants,” Molly mused.
“You’re late—I was worried,” her mother fretted when she returned.
“Went to Em’s. You should see her place—” She indulged her mother’s curiosity, describing the sprawling house, her tanned friend.
“How’d you get there? It’s miles—that posh estate near Ascot.”
“A friend gave me a lift.” Too late, she saw the gleam in her mother’s eye.
“From the wedding? One of *them*, I hope? Did you give him your number?”
“Oh yes, Mum, *forced* it on him.”
“Why the attitude? A proper gentleman notices you, and you—”
“I *gave* him the number. Happy? Interrogation over?”
“What’s got into you?”
“I’m sick of this! D’you want rid of me that badly?”
“Don’t be daft. I want you settled—like Emily. Not scraping by with some broke student!”
“Since when have *we* scraped by?”
“Well—maybe I exaggerated. But darling, you *do* like him?”
“Mum, *stop*. I’m not marrying anyone yet.”
Her phone rang—Charles. Saved by the bell.
“Didn’t want to wait. Free Sunday?”
“Just studying.”
“All day? It’s lovely out. Fancy riding? Never tried? I’ll fetch you at eleven.”
She agreed, only later realising they’d slipped into first names.
Riding was thrilling—so different from the weary farm horses she’d feared as a child. Charles was attentive, easing her into his world of wealth and charm. Impossible to refuse.
The next weekend, he arrived unannounced—flowers, cake, effortless grace. Molly cringed at their shabby flat, the worn rug, but Charles didn’t blink. Compliments flowed; her mother melted.
“He’s *perfect*,” she sighed later. “If he proposes—”
“Mum! We’ve barely met!”
Yet by New Year’s, he did—diamond ring and all.
“Thank heavens,” her mother clasped her hands. “Now I can die happy.” Molly rolled her eyes.
They married in March, spring’s promise in the air. Molly had insisted on simplicity; Charles obliged.
After, she moved into his estate.
“Finally, someone to talk to,” Emily—now heavily pregnant—laughed. “The other wives only care about spas and shopping.”
But Charles never let Molly go anywhere alone. His driver took her to uni, fetched her after. One day, lectures ended early. She walked home, savouring the rare freedom. Buds swelled on the branches.
A classmate, Tom Lawson, caught up. They ducked into a café. How she’d missed ordinary chats. Lately, even classmates kept their distance.
“What’s wrong?” Tom asked.
“I should go.”
“Does he *control* you?”
“Don’t be daft.” But she left.
At home, Charles waited. “Where were you?” Cold.
“Uni.”
“Don’t lie. The lecture was cancelled. Meeting a lover?”
“He’s in my *class*.”
Charles’ eyes iced over. They’d argued before—never like this. His slap came fast, splitting her lip. The second knocked her out.
She woke alone, every sob agony. The bedroom door—locked. By morning, her face was swollen, her phone gone.
A maid found her later, gasping at the bruises. “He’ll kill me for letting you out!”
“Say I tricked you,” Molly begged. She fled, hiding her face all the way home.
Her mother clutched her chest. “*Him*? He seemed so—Oh, love, I’m sorry! What if he comes here?”
“Don’t fuss.” Molly called Tom—now a trainee medic. He dressed her wounds, documented them, sent photos to Charles: *Touch her again, these go viral.*
Charles vanished. The bruises faded. The divorce was swift.
That summer, post-exams, Molly and Tom spotted Charles in a café, doting on a young woman. While he was away, Molly warned her—”Run. He *hit* me.” The girl scoffed.
Tom scolded her after. “What if she tells him?”
“If someone had warned *me*… Even Emily pretended not to know.”
They moved away. Tom became a surgeon; Molly, a cardiologist. They had a son. Her mother never meddled again.
Years later, in a salon, Molly read an old magazine: *Businessman Charles Whitmore Brutally Murders Wife*.
“Silly girl,” she murmured. Outside, Tom pushed their boy in his pram. *Thank God for them—for Mum—for* enough *money to stay human.*
“Ready?” the stylist called. Molly stood, smiling.
