Chapter Fourteen: The Golden Cage

The elevator opened with a soft chime, and Jules stepped in like she owned the place.

Black boots. Dark denim. A cropped leather jacket that screamed danger even without the twin blades strapped across her back like attitude. Her short hair was tousled, messy in the way that said she either didn’t care or just got back from doing something illegal.

I stood barefoot in the center of the living room, robe belted tight, still reeling from the morning.

Jules looked me up and down. “You look like you just tried to strangle a man with a champagne flute.”

I blinked. “I threw water at Dominic.”

Her grin was instant. “God, I love you.”

She strolled past me like we weren’t in the middle of a luxury panic attack and dropped onto the cream velvet couch like it owed her money.

We walked together through the east wing of the mansion—hall after hall of polished floors, gold inlays, and floor-length windows. It was the kind of house that swallowed people whole. Too beautiful to feel real. Too big to feel safe.

Jules strolled like she’d been here a thousand times. I walked like a guest in someone else’s nightmare.

“This place is too quiet, man, makes the voices in my head even more real.” She mumbled.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “It’s like living inside a magazine spread.”

“Correction,” Jules said, kicking her boots up. “It’s like living in a surveillance brochure.”

I turned to her. “What do you mean?”

She pointed at the mirror across from us. “That’s a camera.”

My stomach dropped. “No, it’s not.”

She rolled her eyes. “Scarlett. Babe. That’s a biometric lens. Zoomed for facial tracking. There’s another in the hallway painting.

She stopped near a grand staircase and tilted her head toward a wall-mounted sculpture.

“See that?”

I squinted. It was a delicate swirl of glass and steel, abstract and modern. “What about it?”

“There’s a camera inside.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “And one in the hallway mirror. One by the front door. Two near the grand piano.”

“Why?”

She turned to me. “You married a man who owns half the city. He has enemies. Cameras in public spaces? That's not weird. That’s survival.”

My shoulders sagged with the smallest hint of relief.

“But,” she added, eyes sharp, “these aren’t just for security. These are curated angles. Strategically placed. Everything you do outside this room—every walk to the dining hall, every greeting to a guest—is part of the narrative now.”

I frowned. “Narrative?”

“You’re an asset, babe. A walking press release in heels. Everything you wear, say, even drink—it’s part of a larger story being sold to the world.”

I didn’t answer.

Because deep down… I already knew.

We walked past the grand ballroom, where two staff members were adjusting fresh orchids for some investor brunch I hadn’t even known was scheduled. I spotted another camera near the crystal chandelier—subtle, elegant, pointed straight at the marble staircase.

“This place,” I muttered, “feels less like a home and more like a… glass museum.”

Jules gave a low whistle. “Exactly. You’re not living here, you’re being displayed.”

I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“You don’t even get to exist quietly anymore,” she said. “You’re the wife of Dominic Blackwood. The city’s most wanted headline.”

I paused near a set of tall French doors leading to the back terrace. The garden view was breathtaking—roses, marble fountains, a koi pond that probably cost more than my entire old apartment.

But I couldn’t see the beauty anymore.

Just the bars.

The invisible ones.

I pressed a palm against my stomach, nausea creeping up like ivy. “This is insane.”

She shrugged. “It’s the game.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip every damn camera out of every wall and set fire to the contract I’d signed with blood and desperation.

Instead, I whispered, “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You agreed to him,” Jules said. “This is part of the package.”

I wrapped my arms around myself. “I feel like a prisoner in a palace.”

“Well,” she said, plopping back on the couch, “at least the food’s good.”

I forced a dry laugh, just as my phone vibrated on the coffee table.

I picked it up.

And froze.

Three missed calls from a blocked number.

A new headline flashing on my screen:

“BLACKWOOD BRIDE PREGNANT? SHOTGUN MARRIAGE OR BUSINESS DEAL?”

My vision blurred as I scrolled. Every news outlet had picked it up. Speculation. Gossip. Zoomed-in photos of my slightly curved belly. A clip of Blake’s outburst at the wedding. The articles dissected everything. My dress. My hospital records. My body.

They called me fragile. A social climber. A mystery.

I felt sick.

“Jesus,” I breathed.

“Let me guess,” Jules said, watching me carefully. “The wolves smell blood.”

I dropped onto the couch beside her, throat burning. “This is a circus.”

“They’re just getting started.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s effective,” she said. “The more they talk, the more Dominic wins.”

I turned sharply. “You sound like him.”

She raised a brow. “I work for him, remember?”

My hands trembled. I didn’t even realize I was clutching my phone like a lifeline until another message popped up.

This time, a message.

From Reynolds Enterprises.

Just one line:

We’re selling your marital shares. You’re a disgrace.

The words hit like a blade to the gut.

I stared at the screen. Read it again. Then again.

“They can’t,” I said.

Jules leaned over. “They did.”

I felt hollow. Like something had been scooped out of me without anesthesia.

“They gave me those shares as a wedding gift,” I whispered. “Tied to the family trust.”

“They’re claiming moral breach. Public scandal. It’s a loophole.”

“They’re erasing me.”

“Scarlett.”

I looked at her. Eyes glassy. Pulse wrecked.

“They never saw you as family,” she said. “They saw you as a pawn. And now you’re not theirs to play with anymore, so they’re tossing you.”

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall.

Not again.

I stood slowly, walked to the window.

The city stretched out below us like a promise I couldn’t touch.

And in that moment, I hated everything.

The gold. The cameras. The headlines.

The silence after betrayal.

I hated how alone I felt, even in this beautiful, hollow tower.

I hated Dominic for making me feel things I couldn’t name.

And I hated myself for caring.

A familiar voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

“Who the hell leaked the drone footage?”

I turned.

Dominic walked in like a storm in human form—jaw tight, sleeves rolled, phone pressed to his ear as he snapped orders like gunfire.

His eyes locked onto me. Then Jules.

He hung up.

“What have they done??” he asked.

I lifted the phone. Showed him the message.

His expression darkened.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You already are,” I said, voice flat. “Cameras. Headlines. Lies. You’re handling everything just fine.”

He looked at me for a long beat. “You said you wanted revenge.”

“Not this,” I whispered.

“This is war,” he said. “It was never going to be clean.”

The air between us crackled.

Jules stood slowly, tossing a glance between us. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

She walked out, but not before squeezing my shoulder. Just once.

I watched the door close behind her.

Then looked at Dominic.

“What are we going to do now?”