CHAPTER 4 THE GILDED CAGE NORA
THE GILDED CAGE
NORA
The Hidden Hills mansion stretches around me like a gilded cage, every polished surface reflecting moonlight that slices across the floor in silver shards, cool and sharp beneath my socks.
Outside, the pool glitters like liquid glass—perfect, untouchable, framed by hedges sculpted to the edge of perfection. Los Angeles sprawls beyond, glittering and endless. A city I can see but will never touch.
Somewhere in the hall, Wes's footsteps echo. Each step a subtle reminder that everything has to bend to him. Everything must be perfect. Everything must be his.
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering—not from the air, but from the thought of him. From the knowledge of what tonight will demand of me.
Seven years ago, I arrived in LA wide-eyed and fearless, wanting everything and not knowing I'd lose myself along the way.
Wes was kind then. Magnetic. Relentless in a way that made me feel like I mattered.
Flowers on random Tuesdays. Whispers that I was brilliant, that I could take on anything.
He was the studio executive who chased me across that crowded party two years ago, who made me feel like a story worth investing in. Who saw my book—my voice—and somehow made me believe the world might listen.
He signed the contract for my adaptation and it opened doors I hadn't imagined.
But only through him. Only on his terms.
Somewhere along the way, the man I fell for disappeared. Replaced by ambition sharpened into edges. Charm fused with claws. A constant reminder that love and control are not the same thing.
And I wonder, fleetingly, if I ever loved him. Or if I just let him make me visible to the world while leaving me invisible to myself.
He appears in the doorway. Armani sharp. Eyes appraising me as if I'm a piece of his collection.
"Why aren't you ready?"
His voice is low, precise, threaded with irritation. It slides over me like ice.
I haven't brushed my hair. My oversized band t-shirt and sweatpants are a surrender. At least my lips are glossed.
“Our dinner reservation is in twenty minutes,” he says, stepping closer.
My chest tightens. Stomach twisting.
"We can't be late."
“I still have twenty minutes.”
“Yeah but you still look like that.” His eye trace me up and down. "Come on, Nora. You're driving me crazy."
I nod and move towards the bathroom.
The car ride is silent except for the hum of the engine and the occasional ping of Wes's phone. He types rapidly, screen glowing blue against his face, illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw, the focused crease between his brows.
I stare out the window. LA blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow. Billboards advertising lives I'll never live. Streets I'll never walk down.
"You're quiet," he says without looking up.
"Just tired."
"Don't be tired tonight." His tone is light but edged. "I need you present."
Present. Like I'm an accessory he's worried might malfunction.
I smooth my dress—silk, black, something he picked out last week. It clings in all the wrong places. Makes me feel exposed in ways I don’t like.
The restaurant comes into view. Valet parking. Red carpet treatment. A building that looks more like a museum than a place people eat.
My stomach knots.
The restaurant is worse than I imagined.
Green velvet chairs. Gold-rimmed everything. Chandeliers dripping crystals that fracture the light over a floor so polished I can see myself reflected in it—thin and fragile, as though I might shatter if I move the wrong way.
The air smells faintly of citrus and expensive perfume. The entire place has been booked for us alone. The hush presses down like a weight. Like an audience I never asked for.
My stomach twists.
Wes leads the way, chest out, head high, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He walks as if the air bends around him. Every step a silent claim.
He pulls out my chair with precision so rehearsed it feels calculated.
I sit. Hands twisting in my lap. Forcing my back straight.
How did this become my life? How did I become someone who nods at the flick of his wrist? Who shrinks while he shines?
"What's the occasion?" My voice sounds brittle, but I try for casual. Conversational. Though each word drags like lead across my ribs.
"To celebrate everything we've done together," he says smoothly, scanning the room as though it were a reflection of himself. "And everything we're going to do."
Together.
The word coils in my stomach, tight and uneasy.
Together, as if we are equals. As if I can forget that he's the man who made my book visible to the world—but only in a frame he controlled.
Eden flashes across my mind—the last time I remember what freedom actually felt like. Hot sand under bare feet. Wind tangling my hair wild and unruly, nothing like the meticulous, suffocating styles I now wear for unseen cameras and people I'll never meet.
Back then, freedom wasn't something I thought about. It just was. Now it's something I chase and never quite catch.
Laughter that didn't have to be tempered or filtered.
Sunlight that never asked for approval before it touched me.
And Nate.
The last time I saw him was five years ago at Ollie and Mia's wedding. That disastrous conversation where he told me he'd outgrown what we had. That it was never meant to last. That we were just kids with a summer romance.
I'd brought Liam—a coworker from the London publishing house, someone safe and uncomplicated. Someone who didn't make me feel like I was drowning and flying at the same time.
If I'm being honest with myself, I'd also brought him because I was angry with Nate. Wanted him to see me with someone else. Wanted him to feel jealous, to hurt the way I'd been hurting for two years of silence.
It was childish. Cruel, even.
I hate that I did that to Liam—used him as a weapon in a war he didn't sign up for. I told him the truth later, after the wedding, sitting in the airport before our flight back to London. Apologized for making him part of something that had nothing to do with him.
Liam being Liam, he just smiled that easy smile of his and said he understood. That he'd suspected as much when he saw the way Nate and I looked at each other. That he forgave me, but maybe I should forgive myself too.
I'm still working on that part.
It was the first time I'd spoken to Nate since he left for rehab two years prior to the wedding. Since that night in my bedroom at the lake house when he told me he was leaving to better himself. Right before we made love for what would be the last time.
After that, he stopped replying to my texts. Ignored my calls. I heard bits and pieces—he got out, started a studio in Eden, was signing artists.
But no one like Camilla or Ollie or Mia would bring him up to me. It became unspoken territory.
A wound we all agreed not to touch.
The waiter approaches, leather-bound wine list in hand, grip slightly unsteady.
"Shall we start with something to drink?"
"Whatever is your finest," Wes says, voice smooth, absolute, leaving no room for debate.
The waiter clears his throat, voice careful, deferential. "May I suggest the Chateau Margaux 2015? It's exceptional, one of our best, and—"
Wes shakes his head, impatience curling at the edges of his expression. "No. I want the absolute finest. Nothing less."
A pause. The waiter swallows. "In that case, the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Romanée-Conti Grand Cru 2015. Truly one of the finest vintages we have."
Wes doesn't even glance at him. "Perfect," he says, flicking his hand dismissively. "Bring it."
No please, no thank you.
The waiter hesitates, voice almost inaudible, as if saying it aloud might break something fragile.
"It's eighteen thousand dollars, sir."
Eighteen thousand fucking dollars!?
My fingers curl around the edge of the table. My pulse hammers in my ears.
"Eighteen thousand? Wes, that's insane." The words escape before I can catch them.
Wes finally turns toward me. Eyes sharp. Calculating. Catching the flicker of incredulity on my face.
There's a warning in his gaze. A reminder that this is not a conversation but a demonstration.
"Just enjoy it, Nora," he says. Smooth. Deliberate. "Stop complaining about me spoiling you."
Eighteen thousand dollars for fermented grapes, and he expects me to smile.
I take a breath. Sip water. Let the coil of anger tighten further in my stomach. His hand brushes mine—not gentle, not affectionate. Possessive. Marking. Claiming.
I glance down at our fingers barely touching, and the urge to pull away flickers and dies before it can surface. I'm trapped between survival and outrage. Between fury and the dutiful smile I force onto my lips.
The waiter returns, balancing the Romanée-Conti like it's a crown. The cork pops with the kind of ceremony I expect for a royal wedding.
Wes leans back, chest puffed, as if he's not just ordering wine but declaring dominion over the universe.
I take a sip.
One. Just one.
It slides down my throat like liquid fire. Burning a little. Warming a little. Loosening the tight coil of anger that's been winding in my stomach all evening.
Maybe I should ask him if he wants me to personally taste it with my pinky raised, just to make sure it's worth the mortgage on a house.
I glance at Wes. He's speaking to the sommelier now, voice low and deliberate, as though everyone around him is too stupid to comprehend the brilliance of his ordering skills.
A feral tug pulls at my lips. The urge to snort laughter bubbles up and—thankfully—stays contained.
How do you even drink wine like this? Do you swirl it? Sniff it? Or just pour it over a pile of money and call it good?
I let my lips brush the rim again.
"Good?" Wes's voice cuts through my thoughts.
His eyebrows arched just enough to remind me he thinks this is all part of his charm.
I meet his gaze, and a tiny, venomous part of me can't resist.
"Oh, absolutely," I say. Voice calm. Sweet. But dripping with just enough edge to make him pause. "I always dreamed of drinking eighteen-thousand-dollar grape juice while being scolded like a child."
His lips twitch—not quite a smile. More a warning.