2 | GOLDEN CAGE
1415 Words
POV BRIELLE
The ride to Roman’s estate was a blur of rain-slicked pavement and the heavy, suffocating silence of the black SUV. I sat as far away from him as the leather bench seat allowed, my hands tucked into my sleeves to hide the fact that I was vibrating with a mixture of terror and lingering adrenaline. The silver Derringer was gone, of course. Viktor had taken it from my limp fingers with a look of pure pity that stung more than Roman’s coldness.
Roman didn't speak. He stared out the window, his profile etched in the fleeting glow of the streetlights like a statue carved from obsidian. He looked bored again. It was a terrifying kind of boredom—the kind a predator feels when the prey is already caught and there's nothing left to do but decide how to consume it.
We passed through iron gates that looked like they belonged to a fortress rather than a home. The driveway was long, flanked by ancient oaks that reached over the car like skeletal fingers. When the house finally came into view, it wasn't the gaudy, gold-leafed mansion I expected from a man of his status. It was a sprawling, brutalist structure of concrete, glass, and dark wood. It looked expensive, modern, and utterly heartless.
“Out,” Roman commanded as the car came to a halt.
He didn't wait for me. He stepped out into the rain, not even flinching as the cold droplets hit his suit. I hesitated, looking at the door, considering for a split second just running into the woods.
“Don’t,” Viktor whispered from the front seat, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “The dogs are faster than they look, and they haven’t been fed since yesterday.”
I swallowed hard and stepped out.
The air was freezing, biting through my thin sweater. Roman was already halfway to the massive front door. I followed him, my legs feeling like lead. Inside, the house was a cathedral of shadows. The floors were polished grey stone, and the walls were covered in art that looked more like ink blots and blood splatters than paintings.
“This is where you’ll stay,” Roman said, not turning around as he walked up a floating staircase. “My men are everywhere. The perimeter is electrified. The windows are reinforced. If you try to jump, you’ll only succeed in breaking your neck, and I’d rather not have to clean your brains off my patio.”
“Why are you doing this?” I called out, my voice echoing in the hollow space. “If you want the money, call the police. Or call my father’s associates. Keeping me here doesn't get you your forty million.”
Roman stopped at the top of the stairs. He turned slowly, looking down at me from his height. The lighting from above cast his eyes into deep pockets of darkness.
“The police are a bill I pay once a month, Brielle. And your father’s associates are currently being fitted for concrete shoes,” he said casually. “I’m keeping you because you are a variable. I don't like variables. I like constants. And as long as you are in this house, you are a constant reminder to your father that his time is running out.”
He gestured to a door at the end of the hallway. “Your room. There are clothes in the wardrobe. A maid will bring you food. Do not touch the internal phone. Do not try to access the Wi-Fi. It’s monitored.”
I walked up the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I passed him, he didn't move, but the air around him felt heavy, charged with that same electric tension from the study. I reached the door he pointed to and pushed it open.
It was a beautiful room. To anyone else, it would be a luxury suite. A king-sized bed with charcoal linens, a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark forest, and a bathroom that was larger than my entire kitchen back home. But to me, it felt like a coffin lined in silk.
I walked to the window and pressed my forehead against the glass. The rain was coming down harder now. I felt a sudden, sharp wave of grief. Only four hours ago, I was making pasta and wondering if I should binge-watch a new show. Now, I was the property of a man who dealt in death.
A soft click behind me made me spin around.
Roman was standing in the doorway. He had shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. His tie was gone. Without the formal armor of his suit, he looked even more dangerous—rawer, more physical.
“You aren’t eating,” he noted, glancing at a tray of food that a silent maid must have dropped off while I was staring at the rain.
“I’m not hungry. I’m kidnapped. Usually, those two things go together,” I snapped.
He walked into the room, his presence shrinking the space until it felt like we were the only two people left in the world. He stopped at the edge of the bed and picked up a piece of fruit from the tray—a dark, ripe plum. He twirled it between his long, elegant fingers.
“You have a sharp tongue, Brielle. It’s a miracle your father didn't cut it out years ago to keep you quiet.”
“My father loved me,” I lied, my voice trembling.
Roman took a slow bite of the plum, his eyes never leaving mine. The juice was dark, almost like the blood on my lip. “Your father used you. He knew exactly what would happen when he took that money. He knew I would come for you. He left you as a distraction, a way to buy himself a few extra days of life. He didn't love you. He leveraged you.”
“You’re wrong,” I whispered, though the seed of doubt was already blooming in my chest.
“Am I?” Roman stepped closer, the scent of him—that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and cold rain—filling my lungs. “Tell me, Brielle. If he loved you, why isn't he here? Why am I the one standing in your bedroom, and not him?”
I didn't have an answer. I hated him for being right, and I hated myself for the way my body reacted to his proximity. Even in my fear, there was a traitorous pull toward him, a dark curiosity about the man behind the monster.
He reached out, his hand hovering near my face. I didn't flinch this time. I watched him. His fingers brushed a strand of damp hair away from my eyes. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence he represented.
“You’re a tragedy in a red sweater, Brielle,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, hypnotic register. “And the problem with tragedies is that everyone wants to see how they end.”
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could see the flecks of grey in his blue eyes, the slight scar on his temple, the way his lips thinned as he studied me. For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. Part of me—the part that had already given up on surviving—wanted him to. I wanted to feel something other than the cold vacuum of terror.
But he didn't. He straightened up, his expression hardening back into that impenetrable mask.
“Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we start the real work.”
“What work?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He walked to the door, his hand on the handle. He paused, looking back at me over his shoulder. The light from the hallway framed him in a golden glow, making him look like a fallen angel.
“The work of breaking your loyalty,” he said. “Because by the time I’m done with you, Brielle, you won't be praying for your father to save you.”
I took a step toward him, my hands clenched at my sides. “And what will I be praying for, Roman?”
He offered a slow, predatory smile that made my blood run cold.
“You’ll be praying that I never let you go.”
- Writer
