Serene hadn't stepped outside her room in days—not since the cage had become a gilded tower high above the ground. Roman had moved her, not with force or orders to the guards, but with his own arms wrapped around her trembling form. He'd whispered sweet nothings to distract from the fact that it was, once again, a relocation without consent.
"Up here," he murmured, like he was leading her to a secret sanctuary. "You'll like it better. More light. More quiet."
There were no guards by her new door. No padlocks. No chains. But Serene wasn't fooled. The absence of bars didn't mean freedom. It meant surveillance. It meant Roman trusted that her fear was enough to keep her still. That her silence was her own prison now.
The new room had tall glass windows overlooking the Ashborne estate. Ivory curtains. A reading chair. A desk where she never sat. A wardrobe full of clothes she never asked for. The mirrors made it worse — reminders of the girl she used to be. Of the woman she was becoming.
Downstairs, preparations for the anniversary swirled like a storm.
Servants rushed back and forth. Chandeliers were polished until they bled gold. Garden lights were tested. Plates aligned like soldiers. Everything had to be perfect. For Roman. For the Ashbornes. For the lie.
She overheard them sometimes.
"The dress for Madame Ashborne has arrived. Custom fit. Italian silk."
"Mr. Ashborne said she'll wear the diamond choker. The one with the initials."
"Will the child speak during the event? Or just pose?"
"Only smile. Never speak."
Serene stood by the window and watched her own life unfold like a stage performance she hadn't auditioned for.
Lelo ran across the garden with her nanny, giggling and spinning like a perfect little doll. She looked happy. But Serene knew better now. Knew that even Lelo, innocent and young, was being taught how to love with shackles and thorns. How to possess. How to cling.
Roman visited Serene each evening before bed.
Sometimes he didn't touch her. Just sat near her and talked. Sometimes he laid his head on her lap, claiming he needed peace. And sometimes, his hands roamed her skin as if it was still his to read.
She flinched less now.
Not because she wanted it.
But because her body was learning how to survive.
"You're getting softer," he said one night, brushing her hair behind her ear.
Serene didn't reply.
"You're becoming who you were meant to be. A wife. A mother. My light."
She watched him through narrowed eyes, wondering how someone could use love like a weapon. How obsession could be painted in lace and silk.
That night, she didn't cry.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because even her tears were tired.
And somewhere in her chest, a quiet voice whispered: Survive now. Scream later.
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