Try to make me cry

The digital glow of the dashboard clock bled into the weary darkness of the car's interior. One of those nights. My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the hum of the engine a dull throb against my skull. Veritas City, a sprawling lie wrapped in glass and steel, blurred past my window. Towers clawed at the bruised velvet sky, each window a distant, indifferent eye. Home. Finally, The thought was a dry taste on my tongue.

The mansion, a hulking shadow against the artificial constellations of Veritas Heights, loomed. The Citadel, they called this ancient enclave. Compounds, not houses. A gilded cage, crafted for the Graysons, for families like mine. I killed the engine, the sudden silence deafening. A sigh hitched in my throat, but I swallowed it down. No time for weakness.

Another night, another victory. Another night, another ghost house

The main house was silent, which was normal. The staff had likely retired to the annex. I walked across the polished marble foyer. The vast space was always cold; it never absorbed heat or noise, ensuring every step was an echo, every shadow profound. I peeled off my suit jacket, tossing it over the back of an antique chaise lounge, and dropped my briefcase by the staircase.

The heavy oak door groaned open, swallowing me whole. Cold air brushed my skin, carrying with it a scent—not the usual sterile polish and old money, but something cloying, sweet, and distinctly human. A woman's voice, light and breathless, floated from the living room.

“Ah-ah. A sound that snagged on my frayed nerves, pulling me forward.

My breath caught in my chest, a sudden, icy fist. The living room, usually a tableau of muted wealth, was a disarray of silk cushions and discarded clothing. And there, on the plush velvet sofa, was my husband, Eddie. And a woman. Young. Her legs, long and pale, were wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back, a gasp tearing from her throat. My husband, Eddie Grayson, successful CEO, paragon of Veritas City's elite, my contract husband of three years, was impaling her.

I froze. A statue carved from disbelief and a strange, cold recognition. I knew he usually cheats. low-frequency hum I usually filtered out. But bringing a woman here? To our home? That was a new transgression, a brazen slap across the face of our carefully constructed indifference.

I took in the details, clinically: Eddie’s socks were still on, the ugly patterned ones he wore only in private. The girl’s designer blouse was crumpled on the floor by a rare Ming vase.

I didn't move. I didn't speak. I just watched the final, shuddering release.

Her eyes snapped open first. She saw me, frozen in the doorway, and the breath caught in her throat in a strangled choke. The movement broke Eddie’s focus. He slowly turned his head, his face still flushed, the green of his eyes dark and hard.

It was Bella Levert. The daughter of Jamie Levert. I recognized the expensive highlights and the fear already etched into her features. She is perhaps the same age as me, with big, tear-filled eyes.

The moment stretched, thick and suffocating.

Bella scrambled. She yanked the silk throw blanket over her chest, trying desperately to cover herself. “Oh no… why didn't you tell me your wife would be coming home…” The girl's voice, thin with panic, sliced through the haze. Her eyes, wide and terrified, darted to me, then to Eddie. She must have heard the stories. The tyrant wife. Maggie Grayson, who didn't take nonsense.

"I'm very sorry, this won't happen again," she stammered, scrambling, her movements jerky as she fumbled with her clothes, pulling a silk slip over her exposed flesh.

“Where did you think you're going,” my husband said, his voice flat, husky, and possessing the same low authority he used to close multi-million dollar deals.

Bella looked at him, horror-struck. “What!? Are you crazy? She could kill me!”

As she swung her legs off the sofa, preparing to bolt, I finally moved. Two quick, decisive steps brought me to her side. I reached out and grabbed her wrist. My fingers clamped around the fragile bone with the practiced strength of someone who crushes obstacles daily.

“Where are you going?” I asked. My voice was low, flat, and devoid of the corporate warmth I used for clients.

She flinched violently, sucking in air. “What! Ah, my apologies, Mrs. Grayson,” she stammered, trying to bow even while half-naked.

“Why are you leaving in a hurry…” I pulled her closer to me, effortlessly. She felt feather-light beneath my grip. “You should finish what you started,” I added, my mouth close to her ear.

“What?” The word was pure panic. I saw the fear in her eyes. I really didn't know why she was so scared of me. We were the same age. But I knew exactly why: people saw what they wanted to see, and they saw a tyrant.

My mouth hovered near her ear, a whisper of a promise, or a threat. "You are not done yet… You see, my husband is still hard." My gaze flickered to Eddie, who remained half-naked, his cock, still engorged, twitching against his thigh. He hadn't said a word, his face a mask of unreadable intensity

Then, with a final tug, I shoved Bella back into Eddie’s waiting arms. He caught her, his movements suddenly fluid again, his hands closing around her waist.

“Are you crazy?” Bella hissed, before immediately covering her mouth with her hand, stifling the sound, as if I might strike her for daring to question me. That I might kill her for the insult.

“You’re the one sleeping with a married man. Who’s the crazy one?” I said calmly, stepping back and brushing nonexistent dust from my suit jacket.

“I’m sorry for saying that,” she choked out.

Eddie finally spoke, his voice regaining its usual low, authoritative register. “You don't have to apologize over and over again, Bella.”

“What do you mean, this is all your fault?” she muttered, low enough that she thought only he could hear.

I rolled my eyes—a tiny, internal gesture of disdain. They were pathetic.

“Carrying on… it doesn't bother me,” I announced, directing the statement straight at Eddie’s unwavering green eyes. “It's not like you're the only girl he's doing it with.” I didn't wait for his reply. I simply turned and walked away.

As I walked away, toward the grand staircase, I heard Bella’s whimper, then Eddie’s low command, and the distinct, rapid return of the thudding friction. They were already at it again.

Inside my room, I closed the heavy mahogany door and locked it. It wasn't like we shared the same room; that had been the first, non-negotiable term of our contract. Who would willingly share a bed with that arrogant fool?

I walked into my dressing room and began unzipping my suit jacket. The steel zipper was cold against my skin. I stopped, mid-motion.

In that moment of raw, uncomfortable silence, the memory flashed back: his body, powerful and exposed, frozen in the living room.

I realized with a sudden, unsettling shiver that despite being married for three years, that was the first time I had ever seen my husband naked. And I couldn’t understand why that singular, ugly intimacy bothered me more than the fact that he was cheating in the house.

The Gilded Cage Rattles