THE BRIDAL CAGE

MALIA KILSYTH

Silk should not feel like chainmail, yet every yard of ivory satin draped over my skin felt heavy enough to sink me into the floor.

I stood on the raised circular pedestal in the center of the private fitting suite, my hands resting lightly at my sides while three seamstresses hovered around me like silent, terrified sparrows. The boutique was locked from the inside, shut down completely for the day on my father’s orders. Outside the tinted glass windows, four armed Kilsyth enforcers paced the sidewalk of Collins Street, their jackets bulging over shoulder holsters.

I was a prize horse being groomed for a slaughterhouse, and everyone in the room knew it.

"Hold your breath just a second, Miss Kilsyth," the lead designer whispered, her fingers trembling as she pulled the corset laces tight behind my back.

I obeyed, feeling the internal boning dig viciously into my ribs, restricting my breathing until my lungs could only take in shallow, ragged sips of air. The reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror didn't look like me. The girl staring back had dark amber eyes hollowed out by exhaustion, her sun-bronzed skin pale beneath the harsh overhead spotlights, her heavy dark waves pinned up in a mock trial of wedding elegance.

I looked soft. I looked like a victim.

Good, I thought, suppressing the rage that threatened to burn through my composure. Let them think I’m broken.

"The train is four meters of French lace," the designer babbled, trying to puncture the suffocating silence with professional enthusiasm. "It creates a stunning halo effect as you walk down the aisle at St. Patrick’s. Don Jarrah specifically requested a traditional silhouette, but your father insisted on the reinforced structure..."

"Leave us," I cut in softly.

The designer froze, a pin held between her lips. "Pardon?"

"All of you," I said, my voice dangerously low, my eyes never leaving my own reflection. "Out. I need five minutes alone."

"Miss Kilsyth, we still need to hem the base"

"I said out loud!"

The harsh edge in my command echoed off the mirrored walls. The women scurried out of the fitting room without another word, the heavy double doors clicking shut behind them.

The moment the lock engaged, the fragile, submissive bride vanished.

I reached down to the inner layer of the petticoat, where the thick, structured folds of silk hidden beneath the voluminous ballgown skirt met the boning of the dress. My fingers found the small, razor-thin slit I had carefully cut into the seam late last night in my quarters.

From my wrist sleeve, I slipped out my insurance policy.

It wasn't metal. Metal would set off the magnetometer wands Jarrah’s enforcers would undoubtedly sweep over me before I stepped foot inside the cathedral. It was a five-inch, customized carbon-fiber blade jet black, feather-light, double-edged, and completely invisible to security scanners. It was a quiet, lethal piece of engineering I’d bought off the black market two years ago.

Carefully, with methodical precision, I slid the sheath into the tailored pocket built within the heavy boning beneath my left rib cage. The blade sat flush against my ribs, hidden entirely by the cascading layers of lace and reinforced satin.

If I was being forced to walk into the lion's den, I wasn't going in unarmed. Jarrah Calaby believed he was buying a passive pawn to secure his port revenues. My father believed he was using me as a meat shield to buy his syndicate time.

They were both wrong. The moment Jarrah let his guard down on our wedding night, I would sink five inches of carbon fiber directly into his carotid artery. I would take his life, take my sister, and vanish into the night before either family realized the Warden was dead.

A soft knock at the side entrance of the fitting suite shattered my focus.

My hand snapped to the hidden hilt beneath the silk before I forced my muscles to relax. "I said I needed five minutes."

The door swung open anyway.

It wasn't the designer. And it wasn't one of my father's guards.

Reuben "Rooster" Vance stepped into the ivory-and-gold suite, his lean, tactical frame cutting a stark, dangerous line against the soft luxury of the room. He wore a dark leather jacket over functional urban gear, his dirty blonde hair styled in his signature messy undercut. His sharp dark eyes scanned the room in half a second, taking in every exit, every mirror, and finally settling on me standing atop the pedestal in full bridal silk.

A slow, obnoxious smirk spread across his sharp jawline.

"Well, damn," Reuben drawled, leaning back against the doorframe and crossing his arms. "Look at you, little princess. The Warden is going to have his hands full trying to keep his eyes on the road when you walk down that aisle."

My jaw tightened. Jarrah’s chief enforcer. His right hand. The man who managed the blood on Victoria's docks while Jarrah managed the empire.

"You're in the wrong territory, Rooster," I spat, stepping off the pedestal, the heavy satin dragging behind me like a golden chain. "My father's men are outside. If they catch a Calaby dog inside this boutique, they won't ask questions before they bleed you out."

"Your father's men are currently enjoying iced coffees around the corner, courtesy of a brief line-of-sight distraction," Reuben replied smoothly, his smirk fading into something far more calculating. He pushed off the doorframe and took two slow steps into the room. "And don't call me a dog, Malia. It hurts my tender feelings."

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, keeping three feet of space between us, my left hand resting casually near my waist right over the hidden blade.

"Delivering a message," Reuben said, reaching inside his leather jacket.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I tensed, ready to draw the blade and throat-strike him if he pulled a weapon.

Instead, he pulled out a heavy, velvet-lined mahogany box and tossed it carelessly onto the velvet sofa beside me.

"The boss sent it," Reuben said, watching my reaction with hawk-like precision. "A wedding gift. He insisted you wear it for the fitting to make sure the neckline matches."

I stared at the box as if it contained a venomous viper. "I don't want anything from him."

"Yeah, well, the boss isn't big on taking returns," Reuben replied, his voice dropping its sarcastic edge, becoming low and deadly serious. "Listen to me, Malia. I know what you think is happening here. You think you're the tragic sacrifice being dragged to the altar. You think you're surrounded by enemies."

He took another step closer, his eyes narrowing. "But if you try anything stupid.if you even think about putting a scratch on Jarrah I will personally end you before your dress touches the floor. Contract or no contract."

"Is that a threat?" I whispered, leaning in, my amber eyes burning into his.

"It's a promise from a man who cares about his Don," Reuben said softly. "Open the box."

With a trembling hand, I reached down and flipped open the brass latch of the mahogany casing.

Inside, resting on black velvet, was an antique choker made of solid, blackened white gold, encrusted with brilliant, blood-red rubies. But it wasn't the jewels that made the blood freeze in my veins.

Engraved directly onto the metal plate resting at the center of the choker was a date.

October 14th.

The exact night my brother Callan was murdered. And beneath the date, carved in microscopic script, was a set of GPS coordinates pointing to a private warehouse down at the docks, a location that had never been listed in any police report or syndicate file.

My breath hitched. My head snapped up to look at Reuben, horror and confusion tearing through my chest. "Where did he get this? What does this date mean to Jarrah?!"

Reuben’s smirk was entirely gone, replaced by a dark, unreadable expression.

"Ask him on your wedding night," Reuben whispered, turning back toward the side exit. He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder one last time. "Oh, and Malia?"

I couldn't speak; my throat was choked with panic.

"Jarrah knows about the blade in your lining," Reuben added coolly. "He chose the carbon-fiber vendor you bought it from."

Before I could scream or draw the weapon, Reuben slipped out the door, vanishing into the shadows of the alleyway, leaving me alone in the silent, suffocating room with a choker that held the key to my brother's death and the terrifying realization that my husband-to-be was already ten steps ahead of me.