CHAPTER THREE A GILDED CAGE
832 Words
Omatovia's pov
The Queen Mother’s voice rose in anger towards the lady who hit me.
“Modeca, why did you do that?”
Modeca’s reply dripped with venom.
“How dare she call the Alpha hers?”
She glared at me, hostility flashing in her eyes.
“You’re lying. He is not your Aryan.”
I bowed, trembling.
“I’m not lying,” I whispered. “He’s my Aryan. I don’t know why he won’t say it.”
Modeca’s face twisted in disgust.
“What makes you think the Alpha would know someone so disgusting and useless—”
“Enough.”
Lucian’s voice cut sharply through the room, plunging everything into silence.
“Alpha,” the Queen Mother called softly, but he raised a hand to stop her.
“Do as I said, Queen Mother.”
I understood. He wanted me gone.
I quickly humbled myself before the Queen Mother.
“Please… I want to stay. I no longer want to go back home.”
Her expression turned skeptical.
“Earlier, you wanted to go home. Now you want to live with us. What exactly is going on?”
Lucian’s eyes never left me, his gaze intense and piercing. His fingers rested lightly against his lips—a subtle gesture filled with unspoken meaning.
The Queen Mother added,
“So you want to stay here to cause more drama, right?”
I shook my head quickly, clasping my hands together in desperate pleading.
“No, please don’t send me back home, Queen Mother. My parents will sell me again. Please… I want to live here.”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me.
“To be with my son… the one you claim is your Aryan?”
I hesitated, forcing myself to tread carefully. I couldn’t risk angering Lucian further. I hid my desperation behind submission, determined to remain in the palace—close enough to force him to face the truth of his betrayal.
“No… no,” I said quickly. “I meant Aryan—sorry, Alpha. I mistook him for someone else.”
Modeca smirked, amusement flashing in her eyes.
“You mistook the Alpha for someone else?” she repeated sarcastically. "How convenient"
“Please… I want to stay,” I begged.
The Queen Mother sighed heavily, resignation settling on her face.
“Take her to the maidens’ quarters,” she ordered.
But Lucian’s cold voice cut through the air again.
“I thought I gave a command.”
Fear flickered across the Queen Mother’s face as her eyes darted toward him. She gave a subtle nod to the guard, who began leading me out.
“Queen.”
Lucian’s voice stopped us mid-step—low and deadly.
The wall cracked beneath the force of his shout, and chaos erupted. Maidens and guards dropped to their knees, faces pale with fear. The guard dragged me from the room in haste, his grip tight around my arm.
As we exited, I caught one last glimpse of Lucian—his eyes blazing with fury.
Modeca’s voice tried to soothe him, but his expression remained merciless.
“Make sure she never crosses my path while she lives here,” he growled.
Then he rose angrily and stormed out of the hall, Modeca hurrying after him like a loyal shadow.
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I stepped into the maidens’ quarters with the guard’s heavy hand still warm on my arm, and for a moment, the world fell away. The air was scented with jasmine and the faint, comforting aroma of fresh-baked bread—a stark contrast to the cold stone of the palace halls.
My eyes widened at the sight before me: walls brushed with delicate gold-leaf vines, a plush rose-colored carpet that swallowed my footsteps, and low-hung lanterns casting a honeyed glow over everything.
It was beautiful—far more elegant than any hut I had ever known in Madara. Yet the beauty felt oddly confining, as if the very walls were listening.
The room was modest, barely larger than a small sitting room, and the walls seemed to close in as I took in the rows of narrow beds lining the far side. My heart sank a little when the guard, his voice low and hurried, explained the arrangement.
“Four of you will share this room,” he said, gesturing to the cramped space. “The maidens’ quarters are built a mile from the palace, but you’ll be safe here.”
Safe.
The word rang hollow as the guard turned and left, his boots echoing down the stone corridor. The door thudded shut behind him, and a sudden silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft rustle of curtains.
A woman in her late forties entered, her hair pulled back into an immaculate bun, a long polished cane tucked under her arm. She surveyed me with sharp, assessing eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, I felt like a stray animal caught in a hunter’s gaze.
- Writer
