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A Cage With Velvet Walls.
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2025-07-19 01:45:03
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TOO RICH TO BE MINE. A Cage With Velvet Walls.
Catherine didn’t leave the loft the entire day.She couldn’t.Not because she was afraid — but because the city no longer felt like a place she could move freely in. Every whisper felt like a headline. Every parked car looked like a planted story.She stayed curled on the couch, hair in a low bun, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. Her laptop was open, the screen filled with tabs—some defending her, most dragging her. People from her past had found ways to profit off her present. Teachers. Ex-friends. A former driver, even.Everyone had something to say about her.And still, Elijah said nothing.She clicked through old pictures, wondering if any of them were real. The beach trip. The blurred selfies. The ones where he looked at her like she was magic.Had she really been that stupid?Had he ever planned to choose her?A sharp knock shattered her thoughts.Not the usual three polite taps her friends used. This was hard. Angry. Purposeful.Her chest pulled tight.The second round of
TOO RICH TO BE MINE. The Cost of a Choice.
There were six missed calls when Catherine woke up.All from her father.Three from her mother.And one, unlabelled — but she knew the number.James.She didn’t listen to any of the voicemails. She didn’t need to. The silence following her post had cracked something open, and the noise now flooding her phone only proved one thing:She had touched a nerve so deep they couldn’t hide it anymore.The news was still running her words on the screen like a looped confession. Analysts debated whether she was brave or spoiled. Talk shows speculated about Elijah’s real identity. Her old classmates posted photos of her from boarding school, trying to cash in on the storm.Even her charity work had become a topic of public dissection.Catherine didn’t flinch.She just stood by the window of the loft, tea in her hand, watching the city below move like it had somewhere to be. Fast. Unbothered. Loud.Her phone buzzed again.A message from an unknown number:You’ve made enough of a fool of yourself.
TOO RICH TO BE MINE. Her Voice, Her War.
The cursor blinked like a dare.Catherine sat on the edge of the vintage velvet couch in her aunt’s apartment — barefaced, barefoot, and furious. The laptop balanced on her knees felt heavier than her thoughts, but her fingers didn’t tremble.Not anymore.She had been crying for days. Quietly. Invisibly.Now, she wasn’t crying.She was writing.The words came slow at first, like peeling back something raw. But with every keystroke, she took something back — her name, her version, her right to feel.To those who think they know my story:You don’t.You know the dresses. The dinners. The diamonds.You know the photos you’re allowed to see.But you don’t know the man who loved me when I wasn’t polished.The one who saw me — not as an asset, or a daughter, or a pawn — but as a woman. A person. A choice.Yes, I loved him. Still do.Yes, I lied to protect him. And yes, I regret not choosing him when I had the chance.But I’m done being managed. I’m done being branded. I’m done being silence
TOO RICH TO BE MINE. Scandals Don’t Sleep.
The bags weren’t many.Just two — the black duffel she used during college summers and a small Louis Vuitton she hadn’t touched in months. Catherine didn’t even pack makeup.She didn’t care.Not anymore.She tossed her phone into the side pocket and slipped into the back of a waiting black car she had ordered herself. No security. No chauffeur. No James.The driver asked for the destination, and she answered softly:“Anywhere no one will find me.”⸻The apartment she ended up in was small — by her family’s standards. A penthouse in a less flashy part of town, high enough to keep the noise low and private enough to keep questions out.It had once belonged to her late aunt — the only person in her family who ever understood softness wasn’t a weakness.There were still paintings on the walls and a faint scent of lavender that hadn’t faded over the years.She breathed in.Home.Not the one she was born into, but the one she was finally choosing.She dropped her bags, collapsed onto the co
TOO RICH TO BE MINE. The Sound of Something Breaking.
Catherine didn’t go home that night.She didn’t say goodbye.Didn’t answer her mother’s texts.Didn’t let James escort her anywhere.She simply… left.Walked out the back of the garden brunch like a ghost with no name.The city air was warm and fast, rushing past her like it had somewhere better to be. But she moved slowly, like her body was finally carrying the weight of everything her heart refused to say.Her heels clicked against the pavement until she couldn’t take the noise anymore.She stopped. Pulled them off.Then she walked barefoot down the street.A woman in silk, diamonds, and heartbreak — invisible in a city obsessed with image.⸻She ended up at the pier.The same one Elijah had taken her to on their fourth unofficial date. When he still smelled like engine grease and told her that the stars only looked like that when she was around.She sat there now, curled up on the edge of a bench, eyes fixed on the dark water.She didn’t cry.She didn’t need to.Because the crying
TOO RICH TO BE MINE. The Quiet That Shattered.
Catherine hadn’t wanted to come.She’d begged, fought, even locked her door.But her mother’s voice was sharp and final.“You’ll attend the Brenton Foundation brunch. You’ll wear the dress. And you’ll be seen with James. Do you understand me, Catherine?”She didn’t answer. She just nodded, dead behind the eyes.So here she was — on the sun-drenched terrace of a glass garden, surrounded by the city’s most powerful names, wearing a pastel gown that hugged her waist too perfectly and heels she didn’t remember putting on.The champagne was warm. The air smelled like roses and rich people pretending to care about the world.She smiled at strangers. Posed when cameras clicked. Laughed when her mother gave her that warning look across the lawn.But inside?She was a cracked porcelain doll trying not to fall apart in public.⸻Then she saw him.It was like a punch to the chest.Elijah.Standing near the white fountain at the far end of the terrace, wearing a charcoal suit that looked carved t
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