“You did everything,” he hisses, taking a step closer. The chill radiating from him is a physical force. “This was never about a spoiled girl’s feelings. This was about an alliance. A union between two influential families. Trent Moreland was your future, and you spat in his face in front of the entire town, with that... that filth from the motorcycle club.”
“East was protecting me.” The words are out before I can stop them, a weak defense against a man who doesn’t deal in sentiment, only in leverage. A surge of defiance rises in me, hot and sharp, and I want to defend him. To shout that he is more of a man than Trent will ever be. I swallow it down, the words a bitter pill.
“Protecting you?” He lets out a cold, humorless laugh that scrapes down my spine like a rusty blade. “That animal was marking his territory. In doing so, he made you—and by extension, me—look weak. Uncontrollable. That is a liability I will not tolerate.”
He is so close now I can smell the expensive, sterile scent of his cologne, a smell I associate with every silent, tense dinner of my childhood. “You are my daughter. You will conduct yourself accordingly. Your little acts of rebellion are over.” He holds out his hand, palm up. The gesture is simple. Absolute. “Your phone.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as my breath catches. My phone is my only line to Frankie. To East. It is the only door out of this prison that he doesn’t control. I stare at his open hand, my mind racing. What if I say no? What happens then? I know the answer. The cold quiet will become something else entirely. He takes another step, his shadow swallowing me whole.
“Do not make me ask again, Darla.” The threat is a whisper, a promise of consequences far worse than shouting.
My fingers tremble as I pull the phone from my purse. The cool, smooth glass feels like a lifeline. I place it in his palm. The weight of it leaves my hand, and a profound, suffocating sense of isolation washes over me. He slips it into his pocket without a glance, as if dismissing a piece of trash.
“You will go to your room, and you will stay there,” he commands. “This weekend, you and I will attend a private gala. It’s a very exclusive event, and the Morelands will be in attendance. You will wear the dress I have laid out for you. You will smile. And you will spend the entire evening making amends to Trent for your embarrassing and childish behavior.” I nod because snakes don’t hiss before they strike.
A cold dread, sharp and absolute, pierces through the anger. This isn’t just a punishment. It is a tightening of the leash, a deliberate severing of my ties to the outside world.
“You will fix the damage you have caused,” he finishes, his voice dropping to a near-silent threat. “And you will learn your place. Is that clear?”
I can’t speak. The words are trapped behind a wall of ice in my throat. I just nod, the motion stiff and brittle.
“Good,” he says, turning his back on me as if I am a mess that has already been cleaned up. “Go.”
I walk up the grand, curving staircase on legs that feel like they belong to a stranger. Each step is a lifetime. When I reach my bedroom, the door is ajar. Inside, laid out on my perfectly made bed, is a shimmering, backless gown of silk and sequins. It looks like a beautiful, glittering cage.
I step inside and close the door, the soft click echoing the finality of the lock on my life.
The air in here is too clean, too perfumed with the faint trace of roses my mother once insisted on. It makes me want to clawat my skin. My room gleams like a showroom—pristine white carpet, gleaming vanity, glass shelves lined with trinkets I never asked for. The gown on the bed glitters under the chandelier, sequins catching light like a thousand tiny knives. It isn’t a dress. It’s a death sentence.
My throat aches, my chest burns with a rage I can’t release. I want to scream, to smash something, to shatter the perfect, silent order of this room. But the walls are too thick, the house too cavernous. My father would hear, and worse, he would smile.
I press my palms to the cool surface of the vanity, watching my reflection tremble in the mirror. My lips are pale, my eyes hollow, but beneath the exhaustion, there’s something else. Something sharp that refuses to die. Fury coils low in my gut, bitter and bright. He can lock me in, strip me down to sequins and silence, but he cannot erase that tiny spark.
East’s face flashes in my mind. The warmth of his body when he stepped between me and Trent, the steadiness of his shoulders, the cold fire in his eyes that was meant for my protection. That moment is the only heat I have tonight. A candle flame in the mausoleum.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, the silk of the gown pooling around me like liquid chains. For a moment, despair is a physical weight, pressing me down. He’s won. He’s cut me off. I am utterly and completely alone, a doll back in her box. My hands curl into fists against the glittering fabric, the rough sequins digging into my palms.
He thinks this is my cage. He’s right.
But the pain in my palms is a reminder. A spark ignites, bringing forth a memory of a different pain. The bite of gravel beneath my knees, the metallic tang of blood, and a whispered promise in a shadowy alley. A vow not of salvation, but of sheer survival. My father has never seen me survive. He has only ever seen me obey.
The gown glitters like a snare, but beneath my ribs, my heart pounds—trapped, furious, alive. He's unwittingly revealed that I don't belong here, providing a clear target for my defiance and igniting my resolve.
Even in cages, things bite.
Chapter 13
Darla
Thecarglidesthroughwrought-iron gates taller than our house, tires whispering over a drive lit like a runway. Lanterns blaze in perfect intervals, washing the manicured hedges in warm gold. Ahead, the estate rises out of the night—columns and balconies, marble steps spilling down like a wedding train. Every window glows. Music drifts on the air, water-silky and expensive.
The car comes to a smooth stop at the base of the steps. A valet in a crisp uniform and a simple blue mask opens my door before the engine is even silent. I note the color as I step out onto the cool flagstones as my father emerges from the other side, handing the keys over without a word.
His hand settles at the small of my back as we approach the steps. A courteous weight to any onlooker. A warning to me.
“Smile,” he says without moving his mouth. His own mask is stark white, porcelain and blank, a jarring contrast to the dark tuxedos around him. It makes his face look like a skull.
I arrange my face. The mask helps. A Venetian crimson, edged in delicate gold leaf, hides my eyes. My father chose it himself, insisting the bold color was ‘festive.’ It feels less like a celebration and more like a warning. My gown is liquid silver that clings like a well-behaved secret. I am an ornament hung for inspection.
