Chapter 1 — The Gilded Cage

Catherine Moore

The champagne flutes caught the fractured light like shards of diamond, their delicate rims brushing together in toasts that rang out like brittle bells. The Moore Estate shimmered under the glow of cascading chandeliers, casting golden light over clusters of society’s elite. Catherine stood at the edge of the room, her hands clasped tightly around a glass of sparkling water she hadn’t yet dared to bring to her lips. The muted hum of conversation wrapped around her like a shroud, blending with the notes of vanilla, polished wood, and faint cigar smoke that lingered in the air.

“Smile, Catherine,” Maxwell murmured, his lips barely moving, the edge in his voice slicing through her nerves like a scalpel. His hand rested on the small of her back, a gesture that to the watching crowd might have seemed loving. To her, it was a vice.

She tilted her head and conjured a soft, demure smile—the kind Maxwell liked best—and carefully avoided meeting his eyes. A smile that didn’t pull too tight or show too much teeth, a smile that said, *I belong to him.*

“Well done, my love,” he praised, his tone as polished as the cufflinks glittering at his wrists. His hand lingered just a moment too long before he stepped away, leaving a chill that crept down her spine. As he moved toward a cluster of suited men by the bar, she allowed herself a brief, invisible exhale. Her skin still prickled where his hand had been, the phantom weight of his control clinging to her.

The room buzzed with conversation, laughter rising and falling like the tide against the distant hum of a string quartet. Women in gowns of muted jewel tones and men in tailored suits glided across the marble floors, their voices carrying the practiced ease of people unburdened by anything but appearances. Catherine stayed rooted to the spot, her throat tightening at the thought of stepping into that sea of smiles and veiled judgments. She scanned the room, observing the way Maxwell charmed his companions with effortless ease. Every laugh he drew, every gesture he made was calculated, a performance honed to perfection. She wondered, not for the first time, if anyone suspected what lay beneath his polished exterior.

A sharp laugh broke through her thoughts. “Catherine, darling!” Evelyn Grayson’s saccharine voice swept over her like an oversweet perfume. Catherine turned just as Evelyn swooped in, her crimson lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her icy blue eyes. “You look absolutely radiant tonight. Doesn’t she look radiant?” Evelyn’s comment was directed toward her husband, though he had already turned away to refill his drink.

“Thank you,” Catherine replied softly, her voice barely carrying over the murmur of the room. She glanced down at her dress, a pale gray satin chosen by Maxwell. It fit perfectly—of course—but the color made her feel like a wisp of smoke, something faint and fading.

Evelyn’s gaze lingered, her eyes appraising Catherine as though she were a piece of art to be critiqued. “How do you manage to keep such a figure? With Maxwell’s schedule, I imagine your days must be so busy.” Her words were wrapped in honey, but the subtle barb beneath them landed all the same. There was an unspoken expectation in women like Evelyn’s world—wives were meant to be perfect, decorative, and endlessly accommodating.

Catherine’s grip on her glass tightened. “I—”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Grayson.” Maxwell’s voice sliced through the exchange like a blade wrapped in velvet. He appeared at Catherine’s side, his arm snaking possessively around her waist. “I’m afraid I’ve kept my wife far too occupied with tonight’s preparations to indulge in idle chatter.”

Evelyn blinked, her expression faltering for just a fraction of a second before she recovered with a tinkling laugh. “Of course. You’re very lucky to have such a devoted partner, Maxwell.”

His smile was dazzling, all white teeth and effortless charm. “Yes,” he said, glancing down at Catherine with an intensity that made her stomach twist. “I am.”

Evelyn excused herself, and Maxwell’s hand tightened ever so slightly on Catherine’s waist. “You’re holding yourself like a frightened mouse,” he hissed under his breath, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “People notice these things, Catherine. Do better.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her pulse quickening.

“Don’t apologize. Fix it.”

He released her abruptly, his attention shifting to another acquaintance who had just arrived. Catherine remained where she was, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Around her, the golden glow of the chandeliers and the low hum of conversation seemed to mock her stillness. She wanted to flee, to retreat to the sanctuary of their bedroom upstairs, but she knew better. The night was far from over, and Maxwell would expect her to stand by his side, silent and compliant, until the last guest had left.

By the time the final toast was raised and the guests began filtering out, Catherine’s exhaustion weighed heavier with each passing second. She followed Maxwell through their parting farewells, her smile stretched thin as her thoughts turned inward. The house, so vibrant during the gala, felt cavernous and hollow as the evening’s laughter faded into the distant hum of departing cars. Maxwell’s hand gripped her elbow as they ascended the grand staircase, his touch firm, inescapable, even now.

The bedroom was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows against the walls. Maxwell loosened his tie and turned to her with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You did well tonight,” he said, the words carrying the same tone one might use to praise a subordinate for completing an ordinary task.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

“You’re welcome.” He leaned down, brushing a kiss against her cheek with lips cool and detached. “Good night, darling.”

She stood frozen as he disappeared into his adjoining study, the door clicking shut behind him. Only then did she allow herself the luxury of a deep breath. Her hands trembled slightly as she crossed the room and closed the bedroom door softly, sealing herself away from the world outside.

At the bedside table, her fingers brushed against the cool metal of a small silver locket hidden in the drawer. She pulled it out and opened it, her gaze falling on the tiny photograph of her and Lucy as children. The faint inscription on the other side—*Find your light*—was worn but still legible, a whisper of warmth that pushed back against the cold silence of the room.

Tucking the locket beneath her nightgown, she moved to the armchair by the window and retrieved the law textbook she kept hidden beneath the cushion. Its spine was cracked, the pages worn from years of furtive reading. Sitting down, she traced the highlighted passages with her fingertip, her vision blurring as unshed tears stung her eyes.

Her thoughts drifted to Lucy—her wild laughter, her defiant spirit, her unshakable belief that life could be something more. Catherine had envied that courage, even as she’d feared it. She could still remember the day Lucy had given her the locket, whispering, “You’re stronger than you think, Cathy. Don’t let anyone dim your light.”

Outside, the faint glow of the estate’s garden lights cast long, distorted shadows across the lawn, their shapes dancing on the walls. Catherine stared at them, her fingers tightening on the locket. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to imagine—just for a moment—what it might feel like to be free. And just as quickly, a creeping thought followed: *What would happen if Maxwell found out?*