THE BILLIONAIRE'S PRISONER

CHAPTER 3: THE GILDED CAGE

Married to a wealthy, successful Billionaire, I was on route to a way of riches and privileged around the globe. But inside me the storm was brewing, emotions battling like storm clouds. Fighting for supremacy had me gasping in gladness and terror.

A stranger in my own life, like a ghost, drifting across the estate.

Every motion rung in the hush of the hallways reminded me precisely how extremely lonely I am in fact.

Covered with work of severe forebears, the walls seemed to be eyeing me judging all of my existence. For what my father argued was safety, I had given up my independence; a decision now looming over me like a shadow set to consume all I was.

As Matthew was often absent either working or caring to the apparently never-ending needs of his realm, the first few nights went in a haze.

Though none of these provided the relief I was constantly in need of, I explored the estate discovering its hidden nooks. Hours were spent gazing from the extensive estate's large windows; outside the park was brilliant bloom. Still, even its beauty seemed stained; it reminded me of my incarceration.

I longed for the life I had left behind: that of carefree abandon and friends' laughter. Rather, I passed a monotonous period of solitude punctuated only by Mathew's torture.

Every time he made it across the space, I felt the mood shift and the unseen panic deepen.

As I battled to fit inside these beautiful walls, constant anxiety began to eat me.

What if he were entirely different from how he presented himself? A picture of his happily gambrusly at family get-togethers, the charmer, successful entrepreneur, contradicts a narrative I had heard from friends who had married into rich families: stories of oppressive marriages and controlling demands.

Shy? He asked one evening.

Looking everywhere nervously, I said, "What do you mean?".

You are somewhat distant from others.

Fires started in my chest, an explosion of rage demanding release. I tried to smile, but it was artificial; how could he get far when I was continually away running his empire as a trophy wife?

I said I was simply still adjusting to something: in effort.

Beyond unsaid emotions and degrees of expectation, I felt suffocatingly constrained not just by these walls but also by his presence—a whisper on the wind turning my life nearly unrecognizable.

Each day, my very controlled, closely observed life becomes a project.

Matthew got home one late evening and I prepared myself, I paid attention to him. His chuckling sent waves down the channels— a deep, reassuring sound that seemed odd to me away from life.

Heart pounding, I rotated the bed door behind. From the spot I had marked as my prison, a weird voice came in warm pronouncements and pleas. Even if I yearned to belong, I did not want to intrude.

Consciously turning away, I shut my eyes against his happiness. Usually conventional.

At last I hurried to the kitchen, got a drink, and attempted to calm the hysteria. I gazed at my reflection; shadows danced in the corners of the shiny countertop. I almost knew the lady staring at me from behind.

Early the following morning, I sat on the terrace and James observed me as the sun passed behind the leaves to highlight the brilliant, pink roses turning the garden. He looked unsettled, the type one has when one is careful but still intrigued. I could have sworn I felt warmth leaking down my cheek, where our eyes connected more than once.

"Are you OK, Sandra?" he asked much more gently than Matthew.

Still, I doubted every point here. I concurred. just alternating.

James figged his eyes sharp.

Normally, adjustment does not translate much distance. In case you want to talk about something, I am here, he said.

Since his presence is inviting and in sharp contrast to what I experienced at home, his offer ties us together. As a hunger for closeness erased the line between friendship and something more aggressive, more deadly, a weight shifted inside me.

Above us, Mathew was just strolling, his exterior that of a fellow extremely calm, his face level. The thousand words that began to rise in my mouth disappeared like fog in sunlight, and I gulped them as the moment passed.

James! Mathew yelled. What is happening here?

Only paying Sandra attention, her worry showed; she was quite convinced she was changing appropriately, James replied coolly.

Mathew's eyes flicked mine, a minute of something—probably possessiveness—before softening into a kind smile. Ultimately she is.

The image he had to maintain annoyed me. "Naturally," I said; my voice was barely even to my own hearing.

I couldn't risk the distraction; I could feel James gaze at me though I knew I had to dismiss it, brush the thought away as one throws off falls leaves.

Then I couldn't stop the shadows sliding under my skin from getting any further. The house seemed like a museum of my life under glass, a sort of prison. As Mathew arranged a dinner gathering for his coworkers, every little thing felt off. Though the material felt like strings on my skin squeezing me more and more, one of my top gowns turned up by accident.

With something of control, Matthew elegantly arranged the evening and wandered around the house ordering the staff. Though I felt bit by bit separated, I tried to fit into the expected role and smiled gratefully every time he turned my way.

Early guests began to arrive, and I started to feel the burden of expectations crushing me providently. I was the perfect ornament; an essay—not a person—turned around.

Seeking the tranquillity of privacy, I excused myself after several polite conversations. Passing those grand doors headed towards the library, the smell of paper and old leather calmed my nervous soul. As I ran my fingertips over the book spines, I found consolation in the blank pages bearing stories still left to be told.

By contrast, relief came only fleetingly. I turned around from my own exit as Matthew entered the room just in time to hear a fast noise from the hallway.

"Where have you been?" he yelled, forsaking his prior gratitude.

Rising my chin, I stated: , "Just a minute.

Matthew came forward, his mood hostile. Sandra, you're playing the host. You need to behave like one.

The space divides voltage and energy right next to us. Above me, his outstanding profile evolved. The man I had wed was turning into one I would not select.

I screamed, feverishly searching for sentences.

The rattling along the halls shocked me, a sharp thump far off. My sight's instinctual backward step allows an adrenaline rush. That instant showed me the first line in the evening's frontage, how effortlessly everything could slide far off my grasp.

Matthew shifted his head direction as he spun close to the audio. "Straight here," he muttered roughly; the manner justified a force that rattled me.

I dropped behind, head bowling for the cause of the pain. What if this was a harbinger of something worse starting to flower? My pulse pounded in my ears, a constant drum commanding me to act. "What if this was far more than a coincidence?"

Resisting my gut, I followed, and gently made my way around the maze of the structure, feeling like I was now not just an observer but someone entirely entangled in the fabric of this developing anxiety.

As I crept down the hallway, Mathew stood in the grand hall, lips lifted, veins bulging in irritation berating one of the staff—the maid. I missed every phrase despite my view being shaded with horror.

As I saw the girl wince under his stare and her eyes darkened with terror and shame, something inside me snapped. I had to stop this strategy. I had to get somewhere.

"Mathew," I murmured gently but angrily.

Searching still, he turned towards me with half-closed eyes and started to seem upset. Unexpectedly

Stay out of this! His voice was deep with anger.

I felt it, the terrible force of anxiety straining my neck. Words of wildfire-like panic stormed inside me.

The tranquility was broken literally as the door struck sharply. Still seething, Mathew shot me one final frown then marched toward the entrance. As he gently swung the door, I struggled to burst from this life suffocating me and leave only small amounts of humor and suffering behind.

From my own golden prison, however, I realized I was not alone anymore.

James screamed that well-known voice: Matthew.

Relief flare hit me, but so did panic.

Was there a life line in this anarchy or was I grasping onto void?

Matthew's face changed as he looked at James; an unintelligible mix of surprise and annoyance crossed his face.

James, said Mathew irritably, what are you doing here?

James I have to talk to you—away from the visitors, he said, stress definitely fuels his eyes.

I stopped straddling the line between the two fellows. Beyond the simple tension between Mathew and James, I felt a seismic change within me, aware of something changing in the air—a threat bubbling just below the surface. I was really startled, my heart jumped.

Mathew's face grew darker, the hidden fight sharply exposed, and the unspoken words hung heavily in the air.

All of this points to something coming to a final head. Should I fly or stay in this golden prison, another level of complexity surrounded me, a breath trapped in my mouth?

James turned back to me, as if he grasped my inner torment, and our gaze brushed briefly. "Sandra," he said, piercing the anxiety, "you don't have to stay here."

And there it was, my body acting before my mind could catch up.

Breaking free from the wall holding me, my heart raced and propelled me toward the great unknown of my future.

"Mathew," I whispered, flickering free. Please just let me be.

However, Matthew's eyes flared with indignation the split second I opened them, transforming something beautiful into something rather bad.

More than ever before, his eyes' black crossed.

One order made me want to cry; he grumbled, "Step back, Sandra."

My world's foundation seemed to wobble and veer at that instant like the delicate tree limbs outside flapping in a storm. At last I lost consciousness of the pattern I would run from.

James came out of nowhere and stood in front of me guarding me against Matthew's fury. "Tension cracking among them; he cautioned, 'Back off, Matthew.

As Mathew advanced, I had to select; my breathing stopped, a cyclone developed in his eyes, and the lines of our broken reality became one grand reality every second.

Opening Pandora's Box could see me restore my life or collapse into anarchy with only one breath. My next step could be...

Then the planet vanished, and only echoes of my heart as well as the approaching awful reality which gave me more worry—a beast, once encountered, forces you to contend with the results—remained.

As Mathew's rage increased and the shadows lengthened, I felt the weight of my decisions careening toward me and changing to black.

The gilded cage now was a battlefield instead of a refuge at the crossroads of my fate, above the limit of all I had known.

Where could my decision lead me?

A response in the turn of nature.

A loud crash behind us drew my eye back forcefully, it sounded like the first peal of thunder in an incoming storm just as the pressure gave out.

Then everything changed.