CHAPTER 4 THE GILDED CAGE NORA #2
"Don't be difficult," he says, leaning forward.
I suppress the urge to laugh—or maybe it's a sigh of pure disbelief—sliding it into a dry smirk instead.
"Who, me?"
Wes blinks, momentarily taken aback, as if my words were a gust of air he hadn't calculated.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the laughter in. There's a delicious, guilty sort of freedom in having a thought like that.
I take another sip, letting the wine warm me. Loosen me. Sharpen me all at once.
The absurdity of it hits me: this gold-rimmed prison of a restaurant, all this expensive, overthought perfection—and me, quietly sass-mocking it in my head, finding cracks of rebellion in the edges of a glass.
Wes launches into stories of mergers, acquisitions, contracts—each one delivered as if the universe were constructed solely to witness him in motion. Percentages, timelines, forecasts, and power plays tumble from his mouth like confetti thrown at an audience that exists only in his imagination.
Numbers blur into noise. His tone a steady hum that fills the room like a finely tuned machine, too expensive to ever stop.
I drink more wine. Faster than I should. Let it slide down my throat, let the heat pool in my chest, softening the edges of tension just enough to feel dangerous.
My mind drifts—quietly, almost imperceptibly—back to cliffs and salt air.
To wind tangling my hair. To laughter that didn't have to be tempered. To sunlight that never asked for approval.
The freedom of it was raw and unpolished. The kind of freedom that didn't need chandeliers or uncomfortable velvet chairs or eighteen-thousand-dollar wine to exist.
And here I sit. Silk clinging in the wrong places. Gold glinting like a halo I never wanted. Watching someone else perform a life I used to dream about.
"Did you see the numbers on that merger?" Wes's voice cuts through my haze, anchoring me back.
He leans back, arm brushing my shoulder in that measured, deliberate way that's equal parts charm and ownership. Possession disguised as intimacy.
I nod. I don't care about the numbers.
"Come on, Nora," he says. Voice even, almost casual, but there's an edge that presses against me. "You're not really listening. You know how much rides on this. On us. On me. We're a team—don't forget that."
A team.
The word echoes, hollow.
My pulse tightens. Something hot rises in my throat. I swallow it down and smile. The polite, well-trained smile that has kept me alive in rooms like this for two years.
The waiter hovers, hands trembling slightly.
Wes tilts his head at him. Voice casual. "Make sure they serve it properly."
Not a request. An order disguised as a gentle reminder.
The waiter nods, practically melting, and I catch his eyes flicker toward me.
I sip more wine.
If the wine costs eighteen grand, it should at least have the decency to improve the personality of the man across from me.
The next course arrives.
Wes inspects it with the precision of a surgeon—tiny gestures magnified into intimidation. One scallop becomes a verdict.
He prods, pokes, frowns, mutters under his breath about technique, seasoning, and presentation.
"Too dry," he says. "Did you tell them how to cook this?"
His sigh is heavy and deliberate.
My stomach twists. My hand curls into the napkin, gripping it like a lifeline.
"You're making a scene," I whisper.
"No," he says smoothly, almost amused. "I'm just reminding everyone how things are done. I don't settle for anything less than what I expect—why should anyone else?"
I switch plates. Not because I want to. Because it's easier and I can't handle his temper tantrums tonight.
I notice the subtle ways he exerts authority over others.
So slight you might miss it if you weren't watching: the quick tilt of his head as a waiter approaches, the polite smile that isn't for the guest but a reminder of who has power in the room, the way he leans forward just slightly to invade someone's personal space without seeming threatening.
Nudges that make people bend without realizing they've done it.
I watch it. Sip my wine. Allow the darkness of amusement to creep in.
You should've warned me, universe, that charm this precise could cut so thin.
Another course comes out. He tastes, frowns, instructs, dismisses.
I contemplate standing up. Walking out. Slipping past the valet, down the pristine steps, disappearing into the LA night.
Time slips further. The wine loosens me. The conversation dulls and becomes an abstract buzz.
I drift.
Eden drifts in front of my eyes, almost tangible, almost touchable.
I'm there for a heartbeat. Inhaling salt air. Laughing in the wind. Spinning in sunlight that asks nothing of me.
And then—
"Nora."
The word snaps through my fog like a whip.
I blink and my body realigns itself with the present, like someone has yanked me from another reality and slammed me back into this one.
He leans forward. Eyes blazing. The previous performance has shifted—it's raw now, personal, a pivot that cuts through the haze like glass.
"Marry me."
The velvet box appears and the world tilts.
A Harry Winston diamond sparkles. It’s enormous. Flawless. Candlelight catches it at every angle.
My chest empties.
My stomach knots and suddenly all that wine I'd been sipping feels like it's about to come straight back up.
Time lurches into focus.
How long have I been absent from my own life? Watching it through a tiny window.
Years, gone. Smiling, nodding, existing without ever really existing.
A violin swells to the instrumental of “Young and Beautiful."
"Together," he says, voice bright with certainty, "we're going to be absolute powerhouses."
I taste fear, disbelief and anger all at once.
The hollowness spreads—the recognition of how much of my life has passed me by while I waited for a world that never asked me to breathe on my own terms.
My mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.
Wes is still talking. Still smiling. Still holding that box like it's a done deal. Like my answer is a formality.
The restaurant is silent except for the violin and the pounding of my heart.
I stare at the ring. At him. At the life he's offering that looks nothing like the one I want.
And I can't say yes.
I can't.
But I can't say no either.
So I do what I've been doing for two years.
I smile.
I reach for my wine glass.
And I say nothing at all.