Chapter 28
A Gilded Cage is Still a Cage
Violet
The second the door clicks shut behind him, I suck in a breath so hard it burns.
Like my lungs forgot how to work without him in the room.
My hand is clenched around my phone, knuckles white, and thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. I stare at it like it might explode. Or betray me. Or shake again if I look too closely.
Good girl.
The words crawl back up my spine, hot and invasive, settling low in my stomach where they don’t belong.
I hate him.I hate the way he said it—calm, controlled, deliberate. Like he knew. Like he planned it.
Worse—I hate myself for the way my body reacted.
That traitorous shiver.That heat that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something I refuse to name.
I shake my head hard, like I can rattle it loose.
Focus. Spiral later.
I pull up Cami’s messages and type fast, not letting myself think.
ME: I’ve been kidnapped.
Her reply hits instantly.
CAMI: WHAT.
Another one before I can blink.
CAMI: Where the fuck are you?? Who took you??
My thumbs hover. I glance at the door, half-expecting it to open again. It doesn’t. Still, my chest stays tight.
VIOLET: Asher. I don’t—It’s complicated.
The typing dots appear. Vanish. Come back.
CAMI: I’m calling Mav. He’s in the Order. He can help.
Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. I sag back against the dresser, breathing for the first time since I walked into this place.
Thank God. Someone with power. Someone who—
A new message pops up. A screenshot.
My stomach twists as I read.
CAMI: She’s been kidnapped. Some psycho named Asher Redmont. You need to take him down.
MAVERICK: Slow down. Are we sure she’s in immediate danger?
CAMI: What the hell do you mean slow down? He took her. He’s keeping her.
MAVERICK: That’s not the same as her being in danger.
CAMI: You don’t know him like I do.
MAVERICK: I’m sure she’ll be fine.
My blood goes cold.
Fine.
Like this is a scheduling conflict. Like I’m overreacting. Like men like Asher Redmont don’t ruin lives quietly, efficiently, and without ever raising their voice.
My fingers twitch over the screen. I want to scream at them. Tell them they don’t understand. That I don’t understand and that’s the problem.
But something stops me. I swallow, lock the phone, and shove it under the pillow like it can’t hurt me there. I need to move. I need to do something before I come apart.
I push off the bed and throw open the closet doors looking for something I can use or a way out or something.
And freeze. What the hell.
I step inside slowly, fingertips grazing fabric after fabric. Perfectly arranged. Immaculate. All designer. All expensive.
All… mine? My size. My proportions. Things that would actually fit—not “close enough,” not “maybe if I suck it in,” not “this would look better on someone else.”
I’m not a size two. I’m not easy to shop for. This doesn’t just happen.
A sharp breath punches out of me. Anger flares first—hot, and defensive. Then something else slips in beneath it.
Shock. And—God, no—flattery?
Because it isn’t easy to shop for me. Because most of the time I’m the problem in the mirror. Because here—here everything would hug me like it was made to.
I curl my fingers into the fabric, chest tight.
How did he know?
My mouth is dry as I back into the bathroom.
And then I see the vanity.
Every product. Every brand. Every scent. My shampoo. My cleanser. My stupid vanilla lip balm I keep losing in my purse.
My stomach lurches.
This isn’t rich-guy excess. This isn’t convenience.
This is intent.
I grip the counter, breath coming shallow and fast.
He’s been watching me. There’s no other explanation.
And the worst part—the part that makes my skin prickle, and my thoughts scatter—is that some part of him knew me well enough to get it right.
That might be the most terrifying thing of all.
I don’t sleep. I almost sleep. That awful hovering state where your body sinks but your mind stays sharp, barbed, and waiting for the hit.
Every time I drift, the image snaps back into focus.
Them. Standing over me. Close enough to touch. Close enough to breathe me in.
The words burned into the wall like they were carved there.
You killed my family. I will kill yours.
My chest tightens until it hurts. My body is wrecked—heavy, sore, and desperate—but my brain won’t shut up. Every creak of the floorboards makes me flinch. Every shadow feels deliberate. Watching.
I want to scream. I don’t. What would it change? What could Asher even do? What is he doing?
Am I safe here? With him?
The thought twists low and ugly in my stomach, shame crawling in behind it. Because the worst part—the part I don’t want to look at—is that some traitorous piece of me wants to trust him, and wants to believe he’d protect me if it came down to it.
That’s what scares me most.
Morning arrives without ceremony. Just light leaking in through the glass and me feeling hollowed out. Brittle. Like my skin doesn’t quite fit anymore.
My head throbs. My limbs ache. But underneath all of it is something sharper.
Panic, honed into rage.
I drift downstairs barefoot, moving on autopilot. The marble floor is ice-cold, but it doesn’t ground me. Nothing does. The smell of coffee pulls me forward anyway—habit, maybe. Muscle memory. Something normal.
The kitchen stops me short.
It’s immaculate. Too immaculate. Every surface gleaming. Not lived in—maintained. The kind of space meant to impress, not exist in. Cold. Controlled. Like him.
I head for the freezer. I don’t know why. I just need to do something. Touch something. Prove I’m real.
I yank it open, and my body locks.
Front and center on the top shelf sits a box of Ella’s favorite organic waffles.
My breath stutters. My heart slams so hard it hurts.
I stare at the box until the edges blur, until my mind slides somewhere dark and unbearable.
Them. In my house. Near her. They aren’t just threatening me. They’re watching my sister. They know what she eats. What she likes. What makes her feel safe.
The waffles sit there like a message. A dare.
Something inside me snaps.
I slam the freezer shut so hard it rattles, the sound cracking through the silence— And then I feel it.
Eyes on me.
I spin.
Asher sits at the dining table, coffee cup lifted like he’s been there forever. Like this isn’t a scene he’s walking into—it’s one he’s been observing.
His suit is flawless. Crisp. Tailored. He looks rested. Awake. Like sleep is a luxury he takes for granted. Like he’s been waiting.
His gaze flicks to the freezer. Then back to me.
Nothing on his face gives him away. He sets the cup down slowly. Calm to the point of cruelty.
I’m shaking. My fists are clenched so tight my hands ache. My breathing is all wrong—too fast, and too shallow—like I just ran barefoot over broken glass.
How can he be this calm? Is this just another Tuesday for him—death threats, violations, and stalkers leaving breadcrumbs behind like it’s a game?
And if this is his world…What does that make me for standing in it?
His mouth curves, just slightly. “Good morning, Violet.”
I see red.