Gilded Shackles

Chapter 1

ELLE

Okay, look. I've watched enough movies to know how this is supposed to go. The girl holds her breath, takes off her shoes, and by the time anyone notices she's gone, she's already three drinks deep in a life that actually belongs to her.

That's the plan. Let's see how far I get.

I keep my shoes in my hand as I pad down the marble hallway of our penthouse, quiet as a fucking mouse, because squeaky shoes and a grand escape? Not best friends.

Come on, Elle, you've got this.

A thrill whispers through the air. I might have actually gotten away with it. My heart races, my legs move faster. My eyes dart left and right, but no one's seen me... yet.

Thank God for small mercies, huh?

Just a few more steps and I'll be tucked safe in that gleaming private elevator going down.

I can already smell it. Freedom. Thirty-five floors down and one block over, before the men who watch me realize I'm gone.

Just a quick trip, I tell myself. In and out real fast. They'll never know.

I'm going to be twenty-six years old tomorrow and I'm sneaking out like a teenager. But then, teenagers get more freedom than I do.

They at least get to leave the building.

The button lights up. My stomach flips.

Come on, come on. One more step... that's it... hurry up before...

"Raphaella!" My mother's furious voice slithers down my spine, gluing me in place. I wince and turn, already knowing what I'll see. "Where, exactly, do you think you're going?"

I plaster on an innocent little smile, like I wasn't about to commit a cardinal sin.

"Just... the café on the second floor," I say, too quickly. "They have that new pistachio croissant I've been dying to try."

My mother, with her eagle eyes, never lets me out on the street. But this building? It's my playground, and she lets me have that, at least.

"Without your bodyguard?" Her eyes squint at the shoes in my hand, the tote slung over my shoulder. "Don't lie to me. You're dressed to run."

When she looks at me like that, it's hard to forget that Gayle Donovan owns this building, this marble, the very air I breathe... and me.

I am, in fact, dressed to run: black leggings, hoodie, and a tight braid falling over my shoulder. If only it were a rope I could throw out of this tower, but I learned too young that fairy tales aren't real. My mother made sure of that.

Of course, Mother won't be fooled. Not with how I look, when usually I leave my golden-blond hair in a lazy ponytail that brushes past my ass.

Right about now, she looks like she's about to burst into flames.

"I wasn't going to leave-leave," I say, which is obviously a lie. "Just... breathe."

"Breathe." She steps closer. Close enough that I can smell her perfume: cold gardenias, the scent of every locked door in my childhood.

"I was restless," I try to explain.

“Dogs are restless. You are a Donovan. Act like one.”

“It’s the only way I know how to act.”

“I don't know what the hell is going on with you nowadays." My mother crosses her arms. "This is the second time this month I've caught you trying to sneak out."

Always pristine. Even when furious, even at six in the evening, there's not one wrinkle on that suit she's wearing, nor a hair out of place. Goddamn it, even her lipstick looks like it's afraid to color out of the lines.

Gayle Donovan is abso-fucking-lutely perfect in every way, and I'm her failure of a daughter. For far too long now, I've done everything to keep her happy.

But when happiness means feeling like life's being sucked out of you, turns out, you're okay being the disappointment.

I meet her gaze, as politely as I can, because God forbid Mother gets mad. When Mother gets mad, she gets…dangerous. I don’t want a black eye on my birthday.

It's my birthday tomorrow and she's promised me dinner. Hopefully out in the city. The last time I went out to the city, it was over a year ago, and even then I was only allowed coffee with her.

She exhales. That same tired, disappointed sound that's been the soundtrack to my existence. "We've discussed this, Raphaella."

She knows I hate being called Raphaella.

She also knows I have to pretend that I don't. I made the mistake of correcting her once, when I was fourteen.

She canceled my birthday dinner that year and didn't speak to me for a week. I sometimes wonder if she would have killed me if Jeffrey hadn’t intervened.

I learned.

Mother knows best. That's what she's told me since I could form words. Mother knows best, so sit down, shut up, and look grateful for your tower.

She glides closer and I can’t help but flinch. "Look, darling. Your safety is non-negotiable. We're not having this conversation again."

"God, you're such a dictator." The words just fall out. My mouth wants me dead.

There it is, the little tremor in the air when I push too far. Lightning before thunder.

Her eyes, the same green as mine, flash. "Let's not do this today."

"When would you prefer? Tomorrow? Next week? How about my thirtieth birthday? Will I be allowed outside by then, or should I plan to celebrate that milestone from my tower too?"

Her jaw tightens, and I know I've pushed too far. But something about another birthday coming makes the words spill out like I've been shaken up and uncapped.

The slap comes without warning. My head whips to the side. I taste copper on my tongue. My cheek is burning.

For a heartbeat, I consider sprinting for the elevator. I'm small. Fast. I could run faster than her…but not the guards. The guards were everywhere. I’d never make it through the lobby.

I remember one time I did make it to the lobby.

My jailers stopped me, held me until she could come collect me.

Her hand around my wrist as she dragged me back to the elevator.

The way her nails dug crescent moons into my skin while she said: Only fools trade safety for freedom. They end up with neither.

I was stupid enough to believe her then.

"

“Fine, Mother. I’ll remain in my cage.”

"It's a fifty-million-dollar penthouse with every luxury imaginable," she hisses back. "Don't act spoiled."

"It's still a cage if I can't leave."

She looks at me for a long moment, and for one stupid second, I think maybe she understands.

But then her phone buzzes, and her face hardens. Whatever I thought I saw is gone. If it was ever there to begin with.

"I have a meeting. We'll talk more at your birthday dinner tomorrow." She looks up at me, then pauses. "Jeffrey is on the roof. Perhaps some fresh air will improve your attitude."

Not mood. Attitude. Because mood would imply I'm allowed feelings. Attitude implies I'm the problem.

Of course, my fairy tale has a bodyguard instead of a fairy godmother. Figures.

I roll my eyes and walk toward the elevator.

"Good girl," my mother calls after me, and the words settle on my back like a collar snapping shut.

I ignore her.

I don’t take the elevator. Jeffrey will be waiting at the rooftop terrace doors, exactly where she told him to be.

Instead I cut toward the staff stairwell. It feeds into the service landing one floor below the terrace, and nobody bothers with it unless there’s a delivery or a fire. Mother trusts cameras, locked doors, and men at choke points. She doesn’t waste bodies watching every concrete corner.

Tonight, I’m counting on that.

The stairs are cold under my bare feet and I'm glad. I want to feel something that isn't her voice still rattling around inside my skull.

Good girl.

I take the steps harder than I need to, slapping each one like it said something rude to me, shoes dangling from two fingers because putting them on would mean admitting I've lost. Again. My eyes are stinging and I will not cry. I will not give this building one more tear. I will not.

I round the landing and walk straight into a wall.

Not a wall. A chest.

Hard, warm, and wearing a suit that costs more than most people's rent. My shoulder connects with his chest and one of my shoes slips from my grip, bouncing off the concrete step with a sharp crack that echoes up the stairwell like a slap.

"Shit. Sorry. I'm sorry."

His hand is on my arm before I even register that he moved.

Steadying me like it's instinct, like catching stumbling women in stairwells is just something his body knows how to do.

His grip is firm without being tight. Warm through the thin fabric of my hoodie.

And his hands, God, his hands. Ink-dark tattoos cover every knuckle, every joint, trailing past his wrist and vanishing beneath a white cuff.

I look up.

Silver hair swept back from a hard face. A beard, close-cropped, dark and silver-threaded, framing a jaw that doesn't apologize for itself. He's older. Forties. But not the kind that wore him down. The kind that burned away everything unnecessary and left only what works.

His eyes are blue. Not pretty blue. Just blue, the way a flame is just hot. Direct and absolutely disinterested in making me comfortable.

They look directly into mine, and my lungs forget their entire job.

He glances down at the shoe on the step. Then at my bare feet. Then back at my face. Something shifts at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the place a smile would live if he allowed it.

And then he frowns. One large hand reaches out.

I flinch, pulling back. His eyes lock on mine.

The pad of his thumb brushes across my lower lip. I try not to wince.

He cocks his head to the side and stares at my cheek that I’m sure has a lovely red handprint like Wilson. Except Tom Hanks actually loves his Wilson. I am under no illusion my mother loves me as much as that man loved his ball.

Yes, I watch a lot of movies. I’m in a cage with a theater. There’s not much else to do.

"Going somewhere?" He asks and pulls his hand away.

Low voice. Quiet. A faint accent I can't place. The kind of voice that doesn't need volume to fill a room.

"Nowhere." It comes out more honest than I mean it to. "Apparently nowhere is where I'm headed most days."