**In a Gilded Cage**
Evelyn stepped into the flat and quietly began undressing, careful not to wake her mum. She stifled a groan as she pulled off her new heels, which had rubbed her feet raw.
“You’re back early. Did you run off? Didn’t like the wedding?”—Mum peeked out from the hallway.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep? Waiting up for me?” snapped Evelyn.
Mum pressed her lips together and vanished into her room. Guilt pricked at Evelyn. Mum had stayed awake, worried, hoping for news, and she’d been sharp with her. Evelyn followed, sinking onto the sofa beside her and wrapping an arm around her.
“Don’t butter me up. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll hear it from Sophie’s mum.”
“Sorry, Mum. I’m exhausted, and my feet are killing me. The venue was posh—fifty guests at least. Loud, fun. Sophie looked stunning in her white dress. And the groom’s handsome…”
“So why’d you leave early?” Mum interrupted.
“They were all so full of themselves, strutting about like peacocks. Not my crowd. Plus, I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“Where? It’s Sunday,” Mum frowned.
“Exactly. I’ll explain in the morning. Right—shower time.” Evelyn pecked her mum’s cheek and slipped into her room.
She peeled off her dress with a grimace—cheap and plain next to the other guests’ outfits. Under the shower, she scrubbed her back where a sweaty man’s hands had clung during their dance.
He’d dragged her onto the floor despite her protests. She couldn’t exactly wrestle free. His grip was suffocating, his belly pressing into her, palms damp against her skin. Her heels dug in painfully. She’d endured until the song ended.
Later, he’d slumped beside her, refilling her wine glass. No one noticed. The only person she knew—Sophie—was busy with guests and her new husband. Just once, she’d caught a man’s intrigued glance, but he hadn’t stepped in.
She’d faked a bathroom break and fled. A taxi took her home. No, she didn’t want a wedding like that—scripted, performative. She’d felt like an extra in someone else’s play.
Sleep wouldn’t come. The echoes of music, clinking glasses, and laughter twisted in her head. She thought of *him*. “Wish *he’d* asked me to dance, not that boor,” she muttered before drifting off.
Warm September gave way to a chilly October. Sophie returned from her honeymoon and invited Evelyn over.
Curious about how the wealthy lived, Evelyn stopped at a bakery for Sophie’s favourite éclairs. As she left, she nearly collided with a man. He stepped back, letting her pass.
“It’s you,” he said suddenly.
Evelyn looked up—the mysterious man from the wedding. Shock rooted her to the spot.
“Come on, we’re blocking the door,” he laughed, tugging her aside.
“You vanished like Cinderella. I didn’t even catch your name.” His smile revealed perfect teeth.
“Didn’t leave a shoe behind,” she quipped.
“Need a lift? I’ve got my car.”
“Thanks, but I’m heading to my friend’s—Sophie, the bride. Changed your mind about shopping?” She eyed his empty hands.
“Meeting you is worth missing every éclair in London.” He nodded at her bakery box, offering his arm. “This way.”
His Range Rover was luxurious—a far cry from her rare bus rides. He drove smoothly, not needing directions. Evelyn tensed.
“I know where Sophie lives. Her husband and I are business partners,” he explained.
As they drove, he introduced himself—Nathan, divorced, owned a Labrador…
*Rich, handsome, successful. And charming. Exactly what Mum wants*, she thought.
“You’re late. I was worried,” Mum scolded when Evelyn returned.
“Went to Sophie’s. You should see her place…” To Mum’s delight, she described the mansion and Sophie’s improbable tan.
“How’d you get there? It’s miles out in *Bishopsgate*.” (The locals’ nickname for the affluent suburb.)
“A friend drove me.” She regretted the slip instantly—Mum’s eyes lit up.
“From the wedding? One of *them*, I hope? Did you give him your number?”
“Yes, Mum, I *thrust* it at him,” Evelyn said drily.
“Why the attitude? A successful man notices you, and you—”
“I *gave* him my number. Enough interrogation?”
“Since when is caring a crime? I want you married well, like Sophie. Not scraping by with some student—”
“When have we *ever* scraped by?” Evelyn narrowed her eyes.
“Fine, I exaggerated. But honestly—you’re not even a little interested?”
