Chapter 3 – The Gilded Cage

The black Maybach glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Voss Estate like a phantom cutting through the midnight fog.

Outside the tinted windows, towering oak trees stretched toward the storm-choked sky, their twisted branches clawing at the rain. At the end of the winding, private driveway sat the manor—a sprawling, gothic-revival fortress made of dark granite and sharp architectural edges. It was breathtaking, majestic, and completely devoid of warmth. It didn't look like a home; it looked like a maximum-security prison disguised in billionaire opulence.

The car came to a smooth stop under the portico.

The chauffeur stepped out, opened my door, and held a large black umbrella overhead. “Welcome to your new residence, Miss Kane. Mr. Voss has instructed that you be taken directly to the West Wing.”

My wet sneakers squeaked against the pristine black marble of the grand foyer. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting sharp, prismatic reflections over minimalist art pieces. A stern woman in her late fifties, dressed in an immaculate charcoal uniform with her hair pulled back in an unforgiving bun, stood waiting at the foot of the sweeping staircase.

“I am Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper,” she said, her voice crisp and entirely devoid of emotion. “Follow me. We have very little time.”

She turned on her heel without waiting for a reply. I hurried behind her, clutching my worn coat closer as the icy drafts of the massive hallways raised goosebumps on my skin.

“Has there been any word from St. Jude’s?” I asked breathlessly, trying to keep up. “My mother’s transplant was scheduled for midnight. Did the surgical team begin?”

Mrs. Gable didn’t even glance back. “Mr. Voss’s orders are absolute, Miss Kane. You are to have zero communication regarding external affairs until the marriage certificate is signed and filed tomorrow morning.”

My chest tightened with helpless fury, but I swallowed it down. I had traded my voice the second I signed that contract.

She pushed open a pair of heavy mahogany double doors on the third floor. “Inside.”

The room was vast, but instead of the quiet bedroom I expected, it was a battleground of high fashion and cold efficiency. Rolling racks filled with bridal gowns, silk evening wear, and diamond-encrusted jewelry cases lined the walls. A team of four stylists, a tailor, and a makeup artist stood at attention, waiting.

“Strip her down,” Mrs. Gable instructed the team coldly. “The grime of the city is ruining the carpet.”

Before I could protest, the stylists moved in with practiced, mechanical precision. My soaking wet, frayed coat was peeled away, followed by my faded jeans and worn-out sweater. I stood shivering in my cheap cotton undergarments, feeling entirely exposed under the harsh vanity lights.

A stylist took my ruined clothes with two fingers and dropped them straight into a heavy black trash bag.

“Wait! My locket was in that coat pocket!” I gasped, lunging forward. “It has a picture of my parents—please!”

Mrs. Gable stepped between me and the bag, her face an unreadable wall of stone. “Nothing from the Kane estate crosses into this house. Mr. Voss was very clear. Your past is dead, Miss Kane. Burn the bag,” she ordered a servant standing nearby.

Tears of humiliation burned behind my eyelids, but I forced my chin up, refusing to let them fall. If Alexander wanted to break me, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble before the sun even rose.

For the next four hours, they treated me like a lifeless mannequin.

Warm oils were rubbed into my skin to erase the scent of rain and despair. My tangled, wet hair was washed, blown dry, and styled into intricate, elegant waves that cascaded over my shoulders. Sharp needles flew as the tailor pinned and adjusted an exquisite, custom-tailored ivory gown—a high-necked, long-sleeved silk creation that was the epitome of refined aristocracy, yet felt like a tailored straightjacket against my ribs.

By five in the morning, the stylists finally stepped back.

“Look at yourself, Miss Kane,” the lead makeup artist whispered, sounding almost unnerved by her own creation.

I turned slowly toward the full-length mirror.

The reflection staring back was unrecognizable. The exhausted, broken girl who had walked into Voss Enterprises hours ago had vanished. In her place stood a striking, untouchable queen. The ivory silk clung perfectly to my waist, the subtle makeup hid every trace of sleepless nights and weeping, and a single teardrop diamond necklace rested cold against the hollow of my throat.

I looked like a billionaire’s prized possession.

A sharp knock broke the silence.

The heavy doors clicked open, and the air in the room instantly turned sub-zero.

Alexander stepped inside.

He had changed into a sharp charcoal suit, his jet-black hair styled with razor precision, not a single hair out of place. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets as his predatory steel-grey eyes raked over me from head to toe.

The room held its breath. The stylists immediately bowed their heads and backed toward the walls, terrified of his imposing presence.

Alexander walked slowly toward me, his heavy leather shoes echoing against the hardwood. He stopped barely a breath away, towering over me so entirely that his broad shoulders blocked out the light from the chandeliers.

He reached out, his long, calloused fingers gripping my jawline. His touch was burning hot against my cool skin, firm enough to command obedience, yet precise enough not to bruise.

He tilted my head up, forcing me to meet his frigid gaze.

“Remarkable,” Alexander murmured, his velvet baritone vibrating through the tense air. “You almost look innocent in white.”

“Is my mother alive?” I choked out, refusing to flinch from his piercing eyes.

Alexander’s thumb brushed roughly against my lower lip. “She survived the first phase of surgery. The new kidney is taking. But her survival remains entirely conditional, Aria.”

He reached into his inner pocket with his free hand and pulled out a velvet box. He snapped it open with a flick of his thumb, revealing a massive, five-carat emerald-cut diamond ring flanked by platinum bands engraved with the Voss family crest.

He didn't gently slide it onto my finger. He seized my left hand and forced the heavy, freezing ring onto my fourth finger like a shackle snapping shut.

“City Hall opens in forty minutes,” Alexander whispered, leaning down until his lips hovered a fraction of an inch from my ear, sending a dark, dangerous shiver down my spine. “Smile for the cameras, my lovely bride. Because the moment you walk down that aisle, your life belongs to the devil.”