A Cage In Ivory and Gold.

His hand presses into the small of my back, cold and commanding. The other clamps around mine with a possessive precision that leaves no room for choice. We move in a slow circle, gliding like puppets on invisible strings. He doesn't look at me. He looks through me. Like I’m not his wife, but a trophy he’s won. I try not to shudder under his touch, try not to let the crowd see how my smile doesn't reach my eyes. There’s no whispered promise, no playful spin. Just measured steps, practiced movements. The illusion of romance for everyone else to consume. The cameras flash, champagne glasses clink, and people smile as if they’re witnessing love. But all I feel is the steel cage of expectation tightening around my chest. When the music ends, he steps back, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on me like a command.

“Time to go,” he says, voice flat and final. Not a request. A declaration.

I turn my head instinctively, trying to find my parents, my mother’s teary eyes, my father’s stoic nod, but I’m not given the chance to say goodbye. There is no farewell, no warmth. Only the cold grip of Nico’s world closing in around me as I’m ushered out the door. Thankfully, he doesn't climb into the same car this time. I slide into the backseat of a different black vehicle, alone for the first time since I said I do. I press my head against the window, watching the city lights blur past, the veil of my new life falling heavier by the second. My chest rises and falls with shaky breaths, trying to steady the storm that’s already started inside me. But the drive is short. The silence I craved is gone far too quickly. We pull up to a mansion that could belong to royalty, or villains. Dark stone bricks loom like a fortress, ivy climbing like claws up its walls. Grand wooden accents line the arched windows, and a sprawling garden blooms unnaturally perfect under artificial lighting. The twin fountains flanking the entrance gush crystal-clear water, needlessly decadent, each one worth more than entire families make in a year. It’s as grand as the estate I grew up in. But where my childhood home was gilded in warmth, this place is carved from ice. There’s no soul here. Just walls, wealth, and warning.

Hayden walks quietly beside me, a steady presence amid the echoing cold of the mansion. His steps are purposeful but never rushed, his posture relaxed but always alert, as if he's used to danger hiding in beautiful places. We climb the stone steps leading to the double doors, carved intricately with Moretti family crests and gilded accents that scream wealth more than welcome. The doors open into a grand foyer, and the sheer scale of the place steals my breath, not out of awe, but out of disconnection. The floor is a deep, polished wood, so pristine I can see our reflections in it. The ceilings stretch high above us, vaulted and ornate, like a cathedral built to worship money. Everything around us, marble columns, gold fixtures, priceless art is carefully curated, expensive, and utterly soulless. There’s no warmth. No laughter lingering in the walls. No sign that this place was ever lived in. Just a museum of power.

“Mr. Moretti won’t be home until later tonight,” Hayden says gently, breaking the silence as we move through the echoing hall. His voice is low, respectful, but not emotionless. He says it like he knows what that means. What it feels like. Of course he won’t be home. Of course the groom disappears on the night of his own wedding. Why wouldn’t he?

“Let me show you to your room,” he adds, leading me toward a sweeping staircase that curves up along the side of the foyer like something out of a palace. My heels click softly with each step, the sound too loud in the stillness. I trail one hand along the polished banister just to ground myself, but it’s cold, like everything else in this place. The higher we climb, the heavier my chest feels. Separate rooms. Naturally. We didn’t even pretend to be in love, so why start now?

This is totally the start of a healthy marriage, I think bitterly. Nothing screams wedded bliss like separate quarters and a vanishing husband on night one.

I almost laugh at the absurdity, but it sticks in my throat like glass. Instead, I just nod mutely, letting Hayden lead me down a long hallway lined with closed doors and dim sconces. Every detail here is deliberate and perfect. And it all feels so wrong. When we stop in front of a wide wooden door, Hayden offers me a small, apologetic smile.

“This is your room,” he says. “If you need anything tonight...anything at all, you can call me.”

I turn to him, meeting his eyes. They’re kinder than I expect. Steady. Human.

“Thank you, Hayden,” I whisper.

He gives a tight nod, almost like he’s resisting the urge to say more. Then he steps back and disappears down the hall, leaving me standing in front of a door that feels more like a prison than a refuge. I reach for the handle and brace myself. Behind it lies my new life.

The door clicks shut behind me, muffling the echo of Hayden’s retreating footsteps. For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at the room like it might lash out. It’s beautiful, of course. Immaculate. The walls are a soft ivory with delicate gold trim, the kind that tries to look timeless but ends up feeling sterile. A massive four-poster bed sits in the center, draped in sheer fabric like something out of a bridal catalogue. There’s a matching chaise in the corner, a gleaming vanity, and a closet that probably rivals my childhood bedroom in size. It’s all very elegant. Luxurious. Perfect and none of it feels like mine. I take a slow step forward, my heels muffled by the thick cream carpet, and then another until I’m at the bed. I sit on the edge, not daring to disturb the perfect line of pillows. My dress crinkles beneath me, the fabric stiff now after a long day of being paraded around like a prized possession.

I don’t even know where my luggage is. If I even had any to begin with. Everything today happened so fast I feel like I’m still floating outside of my body, watching someone else’s life unravel. I sigh and finally lie back, not bothering to take off the dress. It’s corseted and tight, the fabric scratchy where it rubs my skin, but I don’t care. I’m too tired to peel it off. Too exhausted to pretend.I stare up at the ceiling, wondering how many other women have laid in this room, wearing a ring that felt more like a shackle than a promise.