**The Gilded Cage**
I crept into the flat, trying not to wake Mum as I peeled off my shoes, wincing at the fresh blisters.
“You’re back early. Run away? Didn’t fancy the wedding?” Mum peeked out from the hallway, her voice sharp.
“Why aren’t you asleep? Waiting up to interrogate me?” I snapped.
She pursed her lips and retreated. Guilt pricked at me—she’d stayed awake, worried, and I’d bitten her head off. Sighing, I followed her and slumped onto the sofa, wrapping an arm around her.
“Don’t butter me up. If you don’t want to talk, fine. I’ll hear it all from Emily’s mum tomorrow.”
“Sorry, Mum. I’m knackered, and my feet are killing me. The venue was stunning—fifty guests, maybe more. Loud, lively. Em looked gorgeous in white. And the groom—proper fit…”
“So why’d you leave early?” she cut in.
“They were all posh and up themselves, like strutting peacocks. Not my crowd. Plus, I’ve an early start tomorrow.”
“Where? It’s Sunday,” Mum frowned.
“Exactly. We’ll talk in the morning. Right, I’m off to shower.” I pecked her cheek and escaped to my room.
I yanked off my dress, suddenly disgusted by its cheap fabric next to the other guests’ designer gowns. Under the hot water, I scrubbed my back raw where sweaty fingers had dug into me.
Some bloke had dragged me onto the dance floor, ignoring my protests. What was I supposed to do—slug him? He’d crushed me against his belly, his clammy hands creeping down my spine while my heels chewed into my ankles. I’d barely lasted the song.
He’d cornered me at the table after, topping up my wine. No one cared—not even Emily, lost in bridal duties. Only once had I caught a man’s gaze, curious but idle. No rescue came.
I’d bolted for the loo and fled. A cab home. No, I didn’t want a wedding like that—scripted, hollow. Just an extra in someone else’s show.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Music, clinking glasses, laughter—it all echoed. And his face flickered in my mind. “Wish he’d asked me to dance, not that greasy git. Stop it,” I scolded myself, rolling over.
Autumn deepened, rain replacing September’s warmth. Back from honeymoon, Emily invited me over—to gawk at her new life, I guessed. I couldn’t turn up empty-handed. After class, I ducked into a patisserie for her favourite éclairs.
As I left, a man held the door open—him. The one who’d watched me at the wedding.
“It’s you,” he said, surprised. I froze.
“Come on, let’s move—we’re blocking the way.” He laughed, tugging me aside.
“You vanished like Cinderella. I never got your name.” His smile was all perfect teeth.
“Didn’t lose a shoe, though.” I forced a grin.
“Need a lift? I’ve got the car.”
“Thanks, but I’m headed to Emily’s. Changed your mind about shopping?” He’d been entering, not leaving.
“After bumping into you? Worth skipping pastries for.” He nodded at the bakery box and steered me to his Range Rover.
I’d never ridden in anything so plush. He drove smoothly, no need for directions. My stomach lurched.
“I know where Emily lives. Her husband and I are business partners.” His tone soothed my panic.
In the car, he introduced himself—Oliver, divorced, owned a Labrador. Handsome, wealthy, charming. Mum would swoon.
“You’re late,” Mum fretted when I returned.
“Stopped by Em’s. You should see her place—sun-kissed in October!” I painted the scene, feeding her hunger for details.
“How’d you get there? She’s in Oakridge now.” The posh estate locals sneered at as “Snob Hill.”
“A friend drove me.” I braced for the inquisition.
“From the wedding? One of them, I hope? Did you give him your number?”
“Yes, Mum, I shoved it into his hand,” I snapped.
“What’s with the attitude? A proper bloke notices you, and you—”
“I gave him the number. Happy? Inquisition over?”
“What’s got into you?”
“Your prying! D’you want rid of me that badly?”
“Don’t be daft. I want you set for life, not scraping by with some broke student.”
“Since when have we scraped by?” My eyes narrowed.
“Alright, I exaggerated. But honestly—you’re not keen?”
“Drop it, Mum. I’m not ready.”
My phone rang—Oliver. Saved by the bell.
“Didn’t want to wait. Free Sunday? Fancy horseback riding? Never tried? I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
I agreed, too startled to question his sudden “you.”
The ride was magical—nothing like Grandma’s plodding farm nags. Oliver eased me into his world with effortless charm. Flattery, wit, doors opening at his grin. It was intoxicating.
Next weekend, he turned up unannounced—flowers, cake, the lot. I cringed at our shabby flat, the worn rug, faded wallpaper. But he chatted easily, spun tales of his own modest childhood. Mum melted.
“He’s a dream,” she sighed later. “If he proposes, you’ll say yes?”
“Mum! It’s been weeks!”
Yet by New Year’s, a diamond glittered on my finger.
“Thank God. I can die happy,” Mum breathed. I rolled my eyes.
We married in March, sunlight glinting off melting icicles, the air sweet with spring. I’d insisted on small and simple—no objections.
Moving into his mansion felt surreal.
“Finally, someone to talk to,” Emily laughed. “The other wives only yap about spas and shopping. Doubt they’ve read a book.”
But Oliver’s grip tightened. His driver ferried me to uni, collected me after. Once, class ended early—I walked home, relishing the rare freedom, the budding trees.
A classmate, Jack Logan, caught up. Over coffee, I drank in normal chatter. I missed this—since the wedding, my friends had drifted.
“Penny for them?” Jack asked.
“I should go,” I muttered.
“He controlling you?”
“No, just—time to go.”
Oliver was waiting, icy.
“Where were you?”
“Uni.”
“Lie again. Lecture was cancelled. Meeting a lover?”
“He’s in my class!”
His eyes frosted over. “Just coffee? You’re my wife now. Enemies watch my every slip. You’ll not embarrass me.”
“Embarrass you? By having coffee?”
“Clueless.” He lunged, wrenching my arm. “Disobey me again—”
“Or what? Kill me? When I’m a doctor, will every patient be my lover?” I twisted free.
The slap exploded in my skull. Blood filled my mouth. His lips moved—no sound reached me. Another blow. Darkness.
I woke alone, the bedroom locked. My face ballooned; my split lip throbbed. No phone. No escape.
The cleaner freed me at noon. “He’ll kill me for this,” she quavered.
“Say I tricked you.” I fled, hood pulled low, staggering home.
Mum gasped. “Seemed so decent! He’ll come here—the door’s flimsy—”
“Don’t be daft.”
I called Jack—a med student, now. He dressed my wounds, documented the bruises, emailed Oliver: “Touch her again, these go viral.”
Oliver vanished. The divorce was swift.
That summer, post-exams, Jack and I spotted Oliver in a café, draped over a new girl. While he was in the loo, I approached her.
“Run. He beat me. It’ll be you next.”
“Who are you?”
“His ex. Don’t tell him I was here.” I bolted.
“Why risk it?” Jack hissed outside.
“No one warned me. Not even Emily.”
We moved away. Jack became a surgeon; I, a cardiologist. A son, Mitchel, completed us. Mum stopped meddling.
Years later, a salon magazine headline: “Tycoon Oliver Prendergast Murders Wife.”
“Silly girl didn’t listen,” I murmured.
Outside, Jack pushed Mitchel’s pram.
**”GoodAs I watched them through the window, the warmth of the sunlight on my face felt like forgiveness for ever doubting that happiness could be this simple.
