Chapter 2 — The Gilded Cage

Ella

The Romano Estate looms before me as the car glides through the wrought-iron gates, their spiked tips rising like jagged teeth against the gray sky. The gates creak slightly as they close behind us, the sound sharp and final, like the echo of a slammed prison door. The gravel driveway crunches under the tires, the noise magnified in the heavy silence of the car. My hands rest stiffly in my lap, the faint sting of torn skin a lingering reminder of the roses I gripped too tightly at the cathedral. The scent of crushed petals and faint traces of blood clings to me, mingling with an oppressive weight I can’t shake.

From the window, the estate sprawls out like some slumbering predator, its grandeur dazzling yet suffocating. The main mansion rises at the center, a dark heart amidst manicured gardens. Its façade is an unforgiving blend of weathered stone and sleek marble, every line and angle whispering power and menace. The gardens that flank the driveway are a study in calculated beauty—vibrant blooms and perfectly trimmed hedges meant to dazzle, their perfection mocking me. They remind me of my grandmother’s garden, where wildflowers grew untamed by design, a memory so vivid it stings. The ache in my chest feels distant yet deep, as though it belongs to a life I left behind long ago.

The car halts in front of the grand entrance, and a man in a crisp black suit opens my door. Cold air bites at my skin as I step out, my heels sinking slightly into the gravel. I hesitate, my gaze climbing the steps that lead to the mansion. It’s too perfect, too polished. A gilded cage, dressed in opulence, designed to conceal the bars.

Zane steps out behind me, his presence immediate and overwhelming. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look at me, but I feel him there, steady and unyielding, like a shadow that refuses to fade. His strides are confident, deliberate, as though he carries the weight of this place without effort. He knows exactly where he belongs. For a fleeting moment, I consider staying where I am, letting my defiance take root in the gravel beneath my feet. But the cold, watchful gazes of the guards scattered around the entrance remind me—freedom is no longer mine to claim.

My legs move of their own accord, carrying me up the steps and through the open double doors. The moment I step inside, the estate seems to swallow me whole.

The air is thick with polished wood and faint cigar smoke, an artificial floral undertone barely masking the sterility beneath. The marble floor gleams, so smooth and reflective it almost seems liquid beneath the glow of the chandeliers. Their gilded forms scatter fractured light across the vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows. The walls are lined with carved wood, so intricate and perfect they seem alive. Everything about this space is immaculate, curated to the point of suffocation. The beauty here feels oppressive, like the house itself is daring me to find comfort within its walls.

Dante emerges from a side room, his presence cutting through the tension like a knife through silk. His icy blue eyes sweep over me, assessing, dissecting, stripping me down to nothing. His lips curl into a smile, but it’s a thin, brittle thing, sharp around the edges.

“Ella,” he says smoothly, his voice polished and deliberate, each word chosen with precision. “Welcome to your new home.”

The word “home” grates against my nerves, bitter and untrue. This isn’t a home. This is a prison, built of stone and legacy, designed to crush anything fragile enough to hope.

I glance toward Zane, searching for something—reassurance, acknowledgment, anything—but his face is a mask of quiet detachment. He stands a few paces away, his hands tucked into his pockets, his dark eyes fixed on some distant, invisible point. Even now, after everything, he’s a fortress I cannot breach. And I hate how a small, traitorous part of me still wants to try.

Dante surveys me for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before continuing. “I’ll have someone show you to your room. Dinner will be served at eight. Don’t be late.” His lips curl into something sharper, a wolf baring its teeth. “Punctuality is a virtue in this family.”

His words are heavy with an unspoken warning. Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides down the hall, his polished shoes clicking against the marble in precise, deliberate steps. The air feels heavier in his absence, as though the house itself remembers his weight.

A maid appears at my side, her footsteps soft and careful. “This way, signora,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. She keeps her gaze lowered, her movements quick but measured, like someone accustomed to navigating danger.

I follow her through the estate, each turn revealing more of its grandeur. Paintings of stoic men and women line the walls—Romano ancestors, their expressions cold and severe. Their eyes seem to follow me, and though I know it’s impossible, the sensation of their judgment seeps into my skin. Chandeliers above cast fractured light across the ornate patterns etched into the walls and floor, creating an illusion of movement, as though the house itself is alive and watching.

When we reach my room, the maid opens the door and steps aside. I pause on the threshold, gripping the frame as I take in the space. It’s beautiful, of course. Everything here is. But it’s hollow too, like all this beauty belongs to someone else.

The room is vast, almost too vast, with ceilings that seem to stretch forever. Tall windows draped in heavy velvet curtains block any light from creeping in. A king-sized bed dominates the room, its dark wooden frame carved with intricate designs that seem to tell a story I can’t understand. An antique vanity sits in the corner, and a plush armchair rests by the window. A wardrobe large enough to hold a hundred lives stands against one wall. Everything is perfect, and that perfection only makes it colder.

The maid sets my suitcase beside the wardrobe and murmurs something about calling if I need anything before retreating quickly. The moment she shuts the door, silence descends like a weight, pressing in on all sides.

I exhale slowly, my chest constricting against the quiet. I move to the window, pulling the curtains aside. The garden stretches out below, its bursts of color vivid against the gray sky. It’s breathtaking, but my eyes go straight to the walls encircling it—high, unyielding brick crowned with wrought-iron spikes. No matter how lovely this place is, it’s still a cage.

Turning away, my gaze falls on the suitcase. The sight of it makes my throat tighten. I unzip it slowly, revealing folded clothes—simple, practical, remnants of the life I’ve been torn from. Beneath them lies my sketchbook, its worn leather cover familiar and reassuring. It’s the only thing in this house that feels like mine.

I pick it up, tracing the faint scratches on its surface. Crossing to the armchair by the window, I sit and open it to a sketch I started weeks ago—a field of wildflowers, their petals bending under the sun’s soft warmth. My pencil hovers over the page, but the lines that emerge are darker, harsher than I intended. Thorns creep through the stems, twisting and curling into the delicate blooms. Clouds gather in the background, their edges sharp and heavy. The peaceful scene slips from my grasp, corrupted by something I can’t control.

A knock at the door startles me, and I slam the sketchbook shut, placing it on the windowsill.

“Come in,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

The door opens, and Zane steps inside. His presence shifts the air, making it heavier. He closes the door behind him, his movements measured and deliberate. For a moment, he simply stands there, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on me.

“You’ll want to be ready for dinner,” he says, his tone low and even, though there’s an edge beneath the calm—a quiet command that leaves no room for disobedience.

I nod, though my throat feels tight. His eyes flick to the windowsill, to the sketchbook lying there. For a moment, his expression changes—just a flicker, so brief I almost miss it. Curiosity, perhaps. Or something quieter.

“Is that yours?” he asks.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

His brow furrows slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t press further. Instead, he turns to leave, his hand lingering on the door handle.

“This isn’t a game, Ella,” he says softly, his voice tinged with something I can’t name. “Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

For a moment, he hesitates, as though he wants to say more. Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stare at the door, his words echoing in my mind. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.

My gaze drifts to the sketchbook. Picking it up, I flip back to the thorn-covered flowers. My fingers tighten around the pencil as I begin to erase the thorns, smoothing the lines, reclaiming the image. The flowers remain bent but unbroken.

Even in a gilded cage, there must be a way to fight.