Chapter Four: The Gilded Cage

I woke to silence and cold sheets beside me.

Dominic was gone. The indent from his body had already cooled, which meant he'd been up for a while. I lay there for a moment, listening to the city hum outside the windows—so far below we might as well have been in another world.

The clock on the nightstand read 7:47 AM. I had no idea what time he'd left.

I pulled myself out of bed and padded barefoot across the room. The penthouse felt different in daylight—less like a trap, more like a museum. Everything in its place. Nothing out of place. Nothing real.

The closet was through a door I hadn't noticed last night. I opened it expecting to find his clothes, or maybe nothing at all. Instead, I found an entire section of the space had been cleared. New clothes hung there—designer labels I recognized but could never afford. Jeans. Dresses. Blouses. All in my size.

My throat tightened.

I ran my fingers across a silk blouse, then checked the tag. The color was the exact shade of blue I'd mentioned loving once, at some event Dominic probably didn't even attend. Had he been watching long enough to know things like this?

I changed into jeans and a simple sweater, ignoring the feeling that he'd dressed me like a doll before I even arrived.

The penthouse was even quieter in daylight. I wandered through it like I was exploring a tomb. Open floor plans. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything white or black or the color of money. There were no family photos, no books with broken spines, no evidence that anyone actually lived here.

On the kitchen counter, I found a note written in handwriting too neat to be human.

‘Meetings until eight. Make yourself comfortable. —DV’

Comfortable. Right.

I explored anyway, opening drawers that contained nothing, walking past rooms that served no purpose. The penthouse was a performance, just like our marriage. Beautiful. Meaningless.

I was halfway down a hallway when I spotted a door different from the others. Darker wood. More serious. My hand found the handle before I could think better of it.

The door didn't budge.

“That room is off limits,” Dominic said behind me.

I hadn't heard him approach. No footsteps. No sound at all. I turned to find him standing in the hallway, still in his work clothes, studying me like I was a calculation he'd already figured out.

“Are there any other boundaries you'd like to test on your first day?” His tone was flat. Not angry. Worse than angry.

“I was just exploring.”

“You were testing.” He moved closer, and I didn't step back this time. “There's a difference.”

“What's in there?”

“That's not your concern.”

“Of course it isn't.” I turned away from him, moving back toward the main living space. “Nothing in this place is my concern. I'm decoration. I'm not supposed to be curious about the gallery.”

He followed me. “You can have access to anything else.”

“Except the one room.”

“Yes.”

I stopped walking. “How long have you been planning this?”

“What?”

“All of it. The clothes. The locked room. The secret clause.” I spun to face him. “How long have you been collecting pieces of my life before I even signed that contract?”

His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might not answer. Then: “Long enough to know what you need.”

“I didn't ask you to know anything about me.”

“You didn't have to.” He walked past me toward the bedroom. “Come.”

It wasn't a request. I followed anyway, my irritation burning hot in my chest.

He opened a different door than the one we'd used last night. This room was smaller, softer somehow. A bedroom done in cream and grey, with a four-poster bed and an actual view of the city instead of blackout curtains. There was a balcony. French doors that actually led somewhere.

“Your bedroom,” he said. “Connected to mine. You wanted separation. You have it.”

I looked around, trying to process. “Why would you do this?”

“Because you're my wife, and you deserve a space that's yours.” His voice was quieter now. “Even if it's not real.”

Something in his tone made me look at him. His expression hadn't changed. He was still made of ice. But something in his eyes was different. Deeper. Like he'd just revealed something without meaning to.

“Is this supposed to change how I see you?” I said.

“I didn't expect it to.”

He turned to leave, and I did something stupid. I grabbed his wrist. “The clothes. How did you know my size? My style?”

He glanced down at where my fingers met his skin, then back at me. “I know a lot of things about you, Ava. That's what happens when you pay attention to someone for long enough.”

“You've been watching me.”

“Yes.”

Just like that. No apology. No explanation. Just yes, as if I'd asked him something simple, like whether he took coffee or tea.

My hand dropped. “That's—”

“Creepy?” He finished the sentence. “Obsessive? Yes. I'm aware of what it is.” He moved toward the balcony, opening the French doors. The city air rushed in, loud and alive. So different from the silence inside. “You can stay out there as much as you want. Just don't try to leave.”

“And if I do?”

He didn't turn around. “Then I'll find you. That's what the contract guarantees.”

I wanted to throw something at him. Instead, I watched him walk back into his own bedroom and close the connecting door with a soft click.

I was alone in a room decorated for me by a man who'd studied me like a predator studies prey.

I spent the afternoon on the balcony, watching the city below. The air was cold. The view was good. I could see people down there living their lives, unaware that some of us were locked in beautiful cages forty stories above them.

My phone buzzed around three o'clock. A new text from an unknown number.

‘Need anything?’

Just those four words. Just his number, now in my contacts as “Dominic.” Not saved with a heart or anything stupid like that. Just his name.

I didn't respond.

He texted again twenty minutes later.

‘Dinner at seven. We have an event tonight.’

I typed back: ‘What kind of event?’

The response was immediate: ‘The kind where you need to look like you love me.’

I threw the phone on the bed.

At six, I found a dress laid out on my new bed—midnight blue, the color of his eyes. No note. No explanation. Just proof that he'd been in here while I was outside, touching my things, deciding what I should wear.

I put it on anyway.

When I came out at 6:55, Dominic was already dressed in a tuxedo, looking like he'd been carved from obsidian. His eyes moved down my body slowly, taking in the dress, the way it fit, the way I'd done my hair.

“Perfect,” he said.

I didn't know if he meant the dress or me.

“Before we leave,” he said, walking over to me, “I need you to understand something.”

“What's that?”

He pulled out a phone—sleek, new, expensive—and handed it to it to me. “You belong to me for the next one hundred and nine days. This ensures I can always find you.”

I stared at it. “That's not romantic. That's controlling.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”

He didn't offer any excuse or justification. Just stated it like a fact. Like the sky was blue and he was ruthless and we were bound together in a contract that was already starting to feel less like a business arrangement and more like a trap made of silk and expensive cologne.

“I'm not going to run,” I said.

“You say that now.”

He offered his arm, and I took it because the night was waiting, and I was beginning to understand that with Dominic, there were only two choices: surrender to the cage or spend all my time fighting against its bars.

Either way, I wasn't getting out.