Gilded Cage

The days in the Smith mansion bled together, each one as polished and sterile as the marble floors that stretched through its endless halls. To outsiders, Mya’s life must have looked like a dream — a husband who was a billionaire CEO, a wardrobe filled with couture, and the kind of address whispered with awe. But to Mya, every day was another exercise in endurance.

She woke each morning to find Damon’s side of the bed cold. If he had come home at all during the night, he had slipped in without disturbing her, only to rise before dawn and vanish again. His scent lingered faintly on the pillows — crisp cologne and leather — but the man himself was absent. She had stopped waiting up for him after too many nights spent in silence, staring at the door, only to watch the clock tick past two, three, sometimes four in the morning.

Breakfast was always the same. She sat at the long dining table while staff laid out an immaculate spread: fresh croissants, smoked salmon, exotic fruit. Lorraine appeared like a queen presiding over her court, already dressed for her charity luncheons, pearls gleaming against her throat. Caroline drifted in late, usually still scrolling through her phone, yawning as if the world itself was tedious.

“You should fix your hair differently, Mya,” Lorraine said one morning, sipping her tea with surgical precision. “Parted in the middle makes your face look… long.”

Caroline snorted, nearly spilling her coffee. “Or maybe it’s just her face.”

Mya folded her hands in her lap, the smile she wore brittle but steady. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Lorraine’s lips curved in satisfaction. Caroline grinned. It was always the same: subtle daggers wrapped in silk.

When Damon finally joined them, it was only to grab a piece of toast before leaving. “I’ve got a meeting,” he muttered, not even glancing in Mya’s direction. She could have been invisible.

Afternoons were worse. Lorraine often insisted that Mya accompany her to luncheons and charity events, where she paraded her as the “lovely wife” of her successful son. The other women smiled politely, their eyes scanning Mya from head to toe, assessing her jewelry, her dress, her every word.

“So young to have no children yet,” one remarked delicately, her gaze flicking to Lorraine.

Lorraine sighed with theatrical weight. “Yes, well, some women simply aren’t… maternal. Damon deserves a legacy, of course. I do hope time isn’t wasted.”

Mya’s cheeks burned, but she said nothing. It wasn’t her place to argue, not here, not in front of an audience. She had learned that lesson early.

Caroline thrived in these gatherings, whispering loudly enough for others to hear. “Damon never wanted kids anyway. Can you imagine him tied down? He’d be bored stiff in a week.” Laughter followed, sharp and stinging, and Mya sat with her hands curled tightly in her lap.

Evenings offered no relief. Dinner was a ritual she dreaded, the table long enough to keep her isolated from Damon even when he was present. Lorraine filled the air with conversation about politics, investments, and other society families, always managing to slide in comparisons that highlighted Mya’s shortcomings.

“Mrs. Aldridge’s daughter was featured in Forbes yesterday,” Lorraine said, cutting into her steak. “Brilliant girl — Harvard, then Wharton. Already making waves in venture capital. You must have seen the article, Damon.”

Damon nodded absently, scrolling through his phone. “Yeah. Impressive.”

Lorraine’s eyes slid to Mya. “Of course, not everyone is cut out for such ambition. Some women are better suited to quieter… roles.”

Caroline smirked. “Like table decoration.”

Mya pressed her knife harder into her food than she meant to, the porcelain plate screeching faintly. The sound drew a look from Lorraine, one eyebrow raised, as if to say even your manners betray you.

Later that night, Mya wandered the halls alone. The mansion was a cavern, filled with luxury but devoid of warmth. She passed portraits of the Smith family — Damon in his youth, Caroline as a child, Lorraine regal as ever. Nowhere was she present. She didn’t belong to this house, not truly. She was a ghost haunting her own life.

She stopped at the window of Damon’s office. The door was cracked, and she could hear his voice, low and warm — a tone he never used with her.

“Sloane,” he said, chuckling softly. “You’ve always understood me better than anyone.”

The words twisted in her gut. She pressed a hand to the wall to steady herself, breath shallow. Sloane Monroe. Always in the background, always the name whispered at society events, always the shadow looming over their marriage.

“You should stay here,” Damon continued. “It’ll be easier with the projects we’re working on. The house has more than enough space.”

Lorraine’s voice joined his, amused. “Of course she should. Sloane has always been like family.”

Mya backed away from the door, her vision blurring. The truth hit harder than any insult: she wasn’t Damon’s partner. She was a placeholder, tolerated until the woman he truly wanted could return.

The next morning, Mya dressed in silence, choosing a pale blue dress that fell elegantly against her frame. She studied her reflection in the mirror, searching for the woman she once was — hopeful, romantic, filled with belief in love. That woman was gone. What remained was someone harder, quieter, forged in humiliation.

Caroline barged into her room without knocking, phone in hand. “Sloane’s arriving today. Try not to embarrass yourself, will you? She’s stunning, and you…” Her gaze swept over Mya with disdain. “Well. You do your best.”

Mya didn’t respond. Caroline tilted her head, expecting a reaction, but when none came, she smirked. “Silent as always. No wonder Damon prefers her.” With that, she sauntered out, perfume lingering behind.

Mya turned back to the mirror. For the first time, she didn’t see defeat staring back at her. She saw quiet fury.

That evening, the mansion doors opened, and Sloane Monroe swept in. Every inch of her was calculated perfection: red lips, glossy waves of dark hair, a gown that clung to her like liquid silk. She embraced Lorraine warmly, kissed Caroline on the cheek, and finally turned to Damon.

He smiled — a real smile, the kind Mya hadn’t seen in years.

Mya stood at the edge of the foyer, her hands folded together to hide their tremor. She watched as Sloane slipped into Damon’s orbit with ease, laughter spilling between them.

Lorraine turned, her gaze sharp. “Mya, darling, don’t just stand there. Show Sloane to her room. Make sure she’s comfortable.”

The words rang with cruel familiarity, a command that stripped Mya of what little dignity she had left.

She nodded once, her voice even. “Of course.”

Inside, though, something cracked wide open.

That night, alone in her room, Mya sat in the dark, listening to the distant murmur of voices down the hall — Damon’s, Sloane’s, Caroline’s laughter. Lorraine’s approval wrapping around them like silk.

Her hands curled into fists. Every insult, every dismissal, every mocking laugh layered atop one another like kindling. And now, Damon had lit the match by bringing his first love into her home.

Tears threatened, but she blinked them back, lifting her chin.

For years, she had endured. But the thread was fraying, and soon, it would snap.