love is a voice

chapter 2. The Golden Cage

The Golden Cage

The evening began with a sound I had learned to tolerate but could never truly feel: the high-pitched, practiced harmony of fifty hired voices singing "Happy Birthday" to me.

“Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you…”

I stood at the top of the grand staircase, my hand resting on the cold marble balustrade. Below me, the foyer was a dizzying mosaic of wealth. It was a sea of designer gowns—sequined silks that caught the light like spilled oil—and charcoal tuxedos that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. I saw the flash of gold teeth as men laughed over tumblers of thirty-year-old scotch, and through the tall windows, I could see the rhythmic, aggressive pop of paparazzi flashes at the edge of the estate gates.

I glided down the stairs, my floor-length gown whispering against the stone. Sarah, my translator, walked two steps behind me, her eyes scanning the crowd.

I stopped before a group of investors and caught the eye of the head steward. My fingers moved with sharp, regal precision.

"The lady says to serve the gentleman in the blue suit the red velvet cake," Sarah translated instantly, her voice cutting through the chatter. "And pair it with the 1945 reserve cognac. Ensure the glass is chilled."

The steward bowed low and hurried away.

I turned and felt a soft touch on my arm. It was Alexa. Like me, Alexa lived in a world of silence, but unlike me, she had been born into it. We had attended the same elite workshops as children. She looked stunning in a deep emerald dress that complemented the sharp lines of her signing.

“You look like a queen tonight, Elfrida,” she signed, her movements fluid and warm. “But your eyes look like they are already at the exit.”

I offered her a small, genuine smile—the only one I had given all night. *“It is a lot of noise for someone who can’t join the song,” I signed back. “Thank you for coming, Alexa.”

She squeezed my hand before being pulled away by her mother toward a group of diplomats.

I moved through the crowd, nodding at faces I recognized from business journals, until I spotted the daughter of the President’s brother. She was draped in a gown of white lace that looked like spun sugar, surrounded by a circle of admirers. I approached her, Sarah at my side.

I signed a greeting, and Sarah provided the voice. "It’s wonderful to see you. Thank you for making the time to celebrate with us."

The girl offered a practiced, sugary smile. "Elfrida, happy birthday! You look divine. I’m so sorry—the President’s daughter wanted to be here herself, but she had a state engagement she simply couldn't break. She sends her deepest regrets and a gift you'll find in the study."

I nodded, the polite mask firmly in place. It was always "state engagements" or "mergers." No one was here for me; they were here for the man who signed the checks.

As the clock struck eleven and the guests began to filter out toward their waiting limousines, the heavy oak doors at the back of the hall swung open. My father walked in. He didn't look like a man coming from a party; he looked like a man coming from a war room. His tie was loosened, and he was staring at his watch.

"Oh, my daughter," he said, his voice booming in the now-quiet room. "I was so caught up with work, I almost forgot the time."

I looked at him, the old sting of disappointment rising in my throat. I didn't reach for him. Instead, my fingers flew in sharp, bitter lines.

“You are always busy with work,” I signed.

Sarah translated the words, but she couldn't translate the heat behind them.

"Yes, well," he said, stepping forward to pull me into a brief, stiff hug. He smelled of cold air and boardroom coffee. "Pardon me for today, my love. I got you a gift worthy of a big girl."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key fob. The logo of a Bugatti Mistral—a masterpiece of silver and speed—glinted under the chandeliers.

My anger vanished in a heartbeat. The Mistral was my obsession, a car that looked more like a jet than a vehicle. I seized the keys, my eyes wide with a rare spark of joy.

“Thank you so much, Daddy!” I signed frantically.

I didn't wait for his reply. I hiked up my skirts and ran toward the grand entrance, my heels clicking a frantic, rhythmic beat against the floor.

There it was. Sitting on the gravel driveway like a silver predator was the Mistral. It was breathtaking. But as I moved to touch the door handle, I noticed a shadow.

A man was standing by the car. He was tall, with skin the color of polished mahogany and a frame that suggested strength hidden under a suit that had seen better days. He looked rugged, almost poor, completely out of place against the backdrop of my silver Bugatti.

Annoyed that he was marring the view of my birthday prize, I snapped my hand up and signed a single, sharp command: MOVE.

The man didn't blink. He didn't look at Sarah for help. He simply nodded, his dark eyes locking onto mine for a fraction of a second, and stepped back with a silent, disciplined grace.

He understood sign language.

"That’s Jeffrey, your new chauffeur, darling," my father spoke from the doorway, leaning against the frame.

Chauffeur? I thought, my heart sinking.

My father had no idea I had spent the last three years secretly mastering high-speed driving. I knew how to handle a thousand horsepower better than any hired help. But as I looked at Jeffrey—tall, dark, and far too observant—I realized my new freedom came with a guard I hadn't asked for.

I pressed the sensor on the door, and the Bugatti’s wing-door rose like the limb of a silver insect. The interior was a masterpiece of black carbon fiber and hand-stitched leather that smelled like wealth and new beginnings. I slid into the driver’s seat, the cockpit wrapping around me. For a moment, I forgot Jeffrey was even there. I forgot the party, the silent house, and the father who bought my affection with checkbooks.

I pressed the ignition.

The W16 engine didn't just start; it barked to life, a low-frequency growl that vibrated through the seat and up my spine. I blipped the throttle, and the engine let out a sharp, mechanical roar that echoed off the limestone walls of the mansion. It was the only voice I had that could truly scream.

I shifted into gear and let the car roll forward. I didn't floor it—I wasn't ready to let the beast off the leash yet—but I cruised gently down the winding, private roads of the estate.

Even at a crawl, the sheer scale of my father’s world was staggering. The main house sat atop the hill like a fortress of glass and white stone, its floor-to-ceiling windows glowing like lanterns. I passed the Olympic-sized infinity pool, its turquoise water perfectly still, reflecting the moon. Beyond that lay the private sports field and the high-tech horse sheds where the Arabians lived in more luxury than most people in the city.

I drove past the "Maxi Garden," a five-acre sprawl of exotic flora and manicured hedges that required a small army of landscapers to maintain. Further down the slope, tucked behind a thicket of ancient trees, were the staff quarters—a miniature village where people like Maria and Sarah lived their lives in the shadow of ours.

Finally, the pavement turned to crushed gravel, and the car hummed as I approached the boundary of the property. A clear, wide stream cut through the land, its bubbling water acting as a natural demarcation between our estate and the neighboring forest.

I brought the Bugatti to a smooth halt and climbed out. Jeffrey’s car—a black SUV that followed me like a silent shadow—stopped twenty yards back. He stepped out but stayed by his door, watching me with that same unreadable expression.

I ignored him. I walked to the edge of the water and sat on a smooth, flat stone seat my mother had commissioned years ago. The air here was cooler, smelling of moss and damp earth. This was the only place where the "Elfrida" didn't have to put on a show.

I leaned my head back, looking up at the stars that were too far away to hear me. I made sure Jeffrey was out of earshot, though it didn't really matter. I took a trembling breath, pushing the air past my vocal cords with an effort that made my throat ache.

"Mum," I whispered, the sound a ragged, broken ghost of a word. "I miss you."

The stream continued to bubble, and the wind hissed through the trees, but the silence remained. I sat there in my million-dollar gown on a cold stone chair, the richest girl in the world, and the loneliest.