CHAPTER 8: The Golden Cage

I sat on the cold marble floor until my legs went numb.

The photograph lay on my lap. Target: Eleanor Hayes.

My mother wasn't just a victim of a random car accident. She was a target. And the man I had married, the man whose bed I had slept in, had her file in his pocket.

A wave of nausea hit me, violent and sudden. I scrambled to the guest bathroom and emptied the meager contents of my stomach. I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection.

The fear in my eyes was being replaced by something else. Adrenaline. Survival instinct.

I couldn't stay here. I had to get out. I had to take this photo to the police, or a private investigator—anyone who wasn't on Julian Thorne’s payroll.

I ran back to the bedroom. I needed to hide the evidence first. If Julian found it on me, I wouldn't just be "grounded." I feared I might disappear entirely.

I grabbed my ruined wedding dress from the heap on the floor. I found a small tear in the lining of the bodice. With shaking fingers, I folded the photograph and slid it deep inside the silk layers, praying it wouldn't crinkle. I shoved the dress to the back of the massive walk-in closet, hidden behind rows of Julian’s expensive Italian suits.

Now, to escape.

I still had the credit card Julian had left on the counter. Buy whatever you need.

I needed a taxi to the nearest police precinct.

I quickly dressed in the jeans and oversized t-shirt I had worn yesterday under my wedding gown. I grabbed the credit card and walked to the private elevator that opened directly into the penthouse foyer.

I pressed the 'Lobby' button.

Nothing happened.

I pressed it again, harder. The button remained dark.

I looked at the panel. There was a small, sleek scanner above the buttons. A biometric scanner.

"No," I whispered.

I frantically hit the 'Garage' button. The 'G' button. Nothing.

The elevator wouldn't move without a fingerprint. Julian’s fingerprint.

Panic clawed at my throat. I turned and ran to the emergency stairwell door located near the kitchen. It was heavy steel, meant for fire safety.

I pushed the crash bar. It didn't budge. I threw my shoulder against it. It was solid as rock. Locked from the inside.

I was trapped.

"Can I help you, Mrs. Thorne?"

I spun around with a gasp.

A woman was standing in the archway of the kitchen. She was in her fifties, wearing a severe gray housekeeper's uniform. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked painful. I hadn't heard her arrive.

"Who are you?" I backed away until my spine hit the locked stairwell door.

"I am Mrs. Davis, Mr. Thorne’s head housekeeper," she said. Her voice was devoid of any emotion. "Mr. Thorne informed me you might try to use the exits."

"I need to go out," I said, trying to sound authoritative. "I need to buy clothes. Julian gave me his card."

Mrs. Davis didn't blink. "Mr. Thorne has already ordered a wardrobe for you. It will be delivered this afternoon. There is no need for you to leave the premises."

"You can't keep me here," I said, my voice rising. "This is false imprisonment! I am his wife, not his prisoner!"

"Mr. Thorne is very protective of his assets," Mrs. Davis said calmly. She walked over to the elevator and placed her hand on the scanner. It beeped green. The doors opened for her.

"He is worried about the press," she added as she stepped inside. "Until the media frenzy dies down, the penthouse is on lockdown. For your own safety, of course."

The doors began to close.

"Wait!" I lunged forward.

The doors shut smoothly in my face.

I was alone again in the silent, luxurious glass box.

I ran to the living room and grabbed the landline phone on the desk. I needed to call my best friend, Mia. She would know what to do.

I lifted the receiver.

There was no dial tone.

I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city below. Cars looked like ants crawling on the pavement. People were walking freely, living their lives.

It wasn't a penthouse. It was a prison built of marble and glass, thousands of feet in the sky.

And I had just signed a one-year lease with the warden.