Chapter 2: Gilded Cage
1566words
Sleep came in fitful bursts, each dream more disorienting than the last. Fragments flashed behind my closed eyelids: headlights cutting through rain, the screech of tires, a silver blade catching moonlight. And eyes—amber eyes watching from the darkness, predatory and hungry.
I woke with a gasp, my nightgown clinging to my skin with cold sweat. Nightgown. I frowned. Someone had changed me out of the bloodied wedding dress while I slept. The thought of unknown hands on my unconscious body sent a wave of violation through me.
Sunlight streamed through a gap in the heavy curtains. I pushed myself up, wincing at the pull of stitches but finding the pain more manageable than yesterday—if yesterday was even real and not just another fragment of my fractured memory.
Testing my strength, I stood. The room swayed only slightly before steadying. Progress.
The bedroom was even more imposing in daylight—clearly designed to impress rather than comfort. Everything spoke of old money: antique furniture, oil paintings in gilded frames, crystal decanters on a mahogany sideboard. A stranger's taste. My husband's taste.
My husband. The words still felt wrong, like clothes that didn't fit.
I made my way to the windows and pulled back the drapes. The view stole what little breath I had. Rolling lawns stretched toward a dense forest, morning mist still clinging to the trees. In the distance, mountains rose against a clear blue sky. Beautiful, isolated, and completely unfamiliar.
The door opened behind me, and I spun around, instinctively backing against the window.
An older woman entered, carrying a silver tray. She was perhaps in her sixties, with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun and a face that might have been pretty once, before time had etched permanent lines around her mouth and eyes.
"Good morning, Mrs. Thorne," she said, her voice carrying a slight accent. "I've brought your breakfast and medication."
"You must be Martha," I said, remembering Damian's words.
She nodded, setting the tray on a small table. "Mr. Thorne said you might be... disoriented. The doctor warned us about memory issues after your accident."
I moved cautiously toward her, studying her face for any hint of familiarity. "Have we met before? Before the... wedding?"
Martha's hands stilled momentarily. "Several times, yes. You visited the estate during your courtship with Mr. Thorne."
"And what did you think of me?" I asked, watching her closely.
Her eyes flickered up to meet mine, then quickly away. "It's not my place to have opinions about Mr. Thorne's personal affairs."
"That's not an answer."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "No, it isn't." She gestured to the tray. "You should eat while it's hot. The medication works better with food."
I approached the table, eyeing the spread—poached eggs, toast, sliced fruit, and tea. Next to the plate sat two small pills.
"What are these for?" I asked.
"Pain management and anti-inflammatories, according to Dr. Mercer. He'll be by this afternoon to check your stitches."
I set the pills aside. "I'd rather have a clear head."
Martha's expression remained neutral, but I sensed disapproval. "Very well, Mrs. Thorne. Mr. Thorne has instructed me to assist with your bath after breakfast, if you're feeling up to it."
The thought of being so vulnerable made my skin crawl. "I can manage on my own."
"Your injuries—"
"I said I can manage." My tone was sharper than intended, but the need for some small measure of control felt desperate, vital.
Martha nodded once. "Very well. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe. Mr. Thorne had your things moved from your apartment in the city."
"My apartment," I repeated, latching onto this scrap of information. "Where in the city?"
"Westside, I believe. A building called The Archer."
I closed my eyes, trying to conjure an image of this place, but nothing came. Just another blank space where memories should be.
"When can I see Damian?" I asked.
"Mr. Thorne had business in the city this morning. He should return by dinner." Martha moved toward the door, then hesitated. "He's arranged for security to remain on the grounds while he's away. For your protection."
"Protection from what?"
Martha's eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw fear flicker across her face. "The accident made the papers. Mr. Thorne values his privacy. The media can be... persistent."
Before I could press further, she slipped out, the lock clicking into place behind her.
I stared at the door, frustration building. Locked in again, like a prisoner.
After picking at the breakfast, I explored the room more thoroughly. The wardrobe was filled with clothes in my size, but none triggered any recognition. Expensive pieces, many still with tags attached. Had these really been mine, or were they Damian's idea of what his wife should wear?
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The stranger stared back at me, brown eyes searching. Slowly, I lifted my nightgown, revealing a bandage on my left side. With trembling fingers, I peeled back the edge.
The stitches were neat and professional, closing what must have been a significant wound. But something felt wrong. The placement, the angle—it didn't match what I'd expect from a car accident. It looked more deliberate, more... precise.
A knock at the bedroom door startled me. I quickly lowered my nightgown and moved back.
"Yes?" I called, expecting Martha's return.
Instead, the door opened to reveal a man I hadn't seen before—tall and lean, with dark hair and features that held an echo of Damian's, though softer somehow.
"Well, look who's finally awake," he said, leaning against the doorframe with casual ease. "The bride herself. Though I hear your wedding day was more dramatic than most."
I took an instinctive step back. "Who are you?"
He raised an eyebrow, stepping into the room uninvited. "Don't recognize me? I'm wounded, Elena. It's Jackson." When I continued to stare blankly, he smiled. "The younger, better-looking Thorne brother."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't remember."
Jackson studied me with open curiosity, circling me like an exhibit. Unlike Damian's controlled intensity, Jackson's energy was loose, almost predatory in a different way.
"Fascinating," he murmured. "Complete amnesia? Or just selective?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "The doctor—"
"Mercer," Jackson supplied with a dismissive wave. "Damian's pet physician. I wouldn't put too much stock in his diagnosis."
Something in his tone made me pause. "You don't trust him?"
Jackson's smile was sharp. "Let's just say his loyalty to my brother outweighs his Hippocratic oath." He dropped into an armchair. "So, what do you remember? Anything about the accident? The wedding? The contract?"
"Contract?" I echoed.
His eyes widened slightly before his expression smoothed over. "The prenup, of course. Standard procedure when marrying into the Thorne fortune."
But something in his reaction told me that wasn't what he'd meant. Before I could ask him further, the door burst open again.
Martha stood there, her normally composed face flushed with anger. "Mr. Jackson! You know you're not permitted in Mrs. Thorne's quarters without Mr. Thorne's express permission."
Jackson raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just welcoming my new sister-in-law to the family, Martha. No harm done."
"Out," Martha said firmly. "Now."
To my surprise, Jackson complied, rising with fluid grace. At the door, he paused, looking back at me.
"We'll talk again soon, Elena," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "When there are fewer… interruptions. Ask yourself why my brother was in such a hurry to marry you when you'd only known each other for months. Ask yourself about the Three Wolves Pact."
"Mr. Jackson!" Martha's voice cracked like a whip.
With a wink, he was gone, leaving me with more questions than answers.
Martha closed the door behind him, her hands trembling slightly as she turned the key. "I apologize, Mrs. Thorne. Mr. Jackson can be... difficult."
"What's the Three Wolves Pact?" I asked.
Martha's face went carefully blank. "I wouldn't know about Mr. Thorne's business affairs."
"He didn't say it was business," I pointed out. "And you're lying."
For a moment, something like respect flickered in Martha's eyes. "You should rest, Mrs. Thorne. Dr. Mercer will be here soon."
As she turned to leave, I called after her, "The doors. Why are they kept locked?"
Martha paused. "This estate is isolated, Mrs. Thorne. The forest surrounding us can be dangerous, especially at night. The locks are for your protection."
"From what?" I pressed. "What's out there?"
She looked over her shoulder, her expression grave. "Wolves, Mrs. Thorne. The woods are full of them. And they're always hungry."
The door closed behind her, the lock turning with finality.
I moved to the window again, staring at the seemingly peaceful forest. As if on cue, a howl rose from somewhere among the trees—too close for comfort, too wild to be a dog.
Wolves. The word echoed in my mind, triggering something—a memory or a dream. Amber eyes in darkness. The scent of pine and earth. The feeling of running, heart pounding, through trees just like those.
And beneath it all, a certainty I couldn't explain: Martha wasn't telling me everything. Jackson wasn't telling me everything. And Damian—my husband, my jailer—was hiding something that might explain why I'd woken up in a blood-soaked wedding dress, married to a stranger who kept me under lock and key.
