Chapter 3: A Gilded Cage
The penthouse was a mausoleum dressed in marble.
Emma stood in the center of Dominic's living room, her hands clasped in front of her, and tried not to think about how much the place looked like a museum exhibit. Everything gleamed. The floors, the countertops, the windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and showed the city sprawled out below like a kingdom waiting to be conquered. The air smelled like lemon polish and something floral—lavender, maybe, the kind of scent that was supposed to be calming but only made her feel like she was trespassing in someone else's life.
Dominic had brought her here straight from her apartment. No warning.No discussion. Just a black car idling at the curb and his voice on the phone telling her to pack a bag, they were leaving in ten minutes.
She'd packed in eight. Not because she wanted to please him, but because she wanted to get it over with.
"Sit."
He pointed at a chair—white leather, chrome legs, the kind of furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Emma sat. The leather squeaked beneath her, and she winced at the sound.
Dominic moved to a cabinet against the wall, poured himself something amber, and didn't offer her anything. He was wearing a suit again. He was always wearing a suit. She was starting to wonder if he slept in one.
"You've had a week," he said, turning to face her. "Have you thought about what I told you?"
She had. Every night. Every morning. Every moment in between shifts at the bookstore, when she'd been trying to memorize the faces of her coworkers and the sound of her neighbor's dog barking and the way the light came through her kitchen window at exactly four in the afternoon. She'd been trying to commit all of it to memory, because she had a feeling she wouldn't be seeing it much longer.
"I've thought about it," she said.
"And?"
"And I don't want to move in."
Dominic's expression didn't change. He took a sip of his drink, slow and deliberate, and set the glass down on a coaster that probably cost more than her monthly rent.
"I didn't ask if you wanted to."
"I know." Emma kept her voice even. Calm. The way she'd learned to talk to her father when he was drunk and looking for a fight. "But I'm telling you anyway. I have a life, Dominic. A job. Friends. I can't just—"
"You can." He crossed the room and sat across from her, close enough that she could see the faint lines around his eyes. He was older than Craig. Harder. There was nothing playful about Dominic, nothing warm. He looked at her like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve, and the lack of solution was making him angry. "You can and you will. You're a Moretti now, Emma. That means certain things. Certain obligations."
"I'm not a Moretti. I'm just a name on a piece of paper."
"You're wearing my ring." His eyes dropped to her hand, and Emma fought the urge to hide it behind her back. "That makes you mine. And I don't leave what's mine unprotected."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that she wasn't a thing to be protected, that she didn't need a keeper, that she'd been taking care of herself for twenty-three years and she was doing just fine. But she'd learned something in the past week. Something about the Morettis and their world. Something about how arguing with them was like arguing with a brick wall. It didn't matter how loud you yelled. The wall stayed standing.
Instead, she said, "What do you want from me?"
Dominic leaned back in his chair. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe.Or approval. She couldn't tell.
"I want you to understand the rules," he said. "I want you to follow them. And I want you to stop fighting me on every little thing."
"I'm not fighting you. I'm just—"
"You're stubborn." He said it like it was a diagnosis. "Craig warned me about that."
Emma's stomach tightened. "You talked to Craig about me?"
"He's my cousin. Of course I talked to him." Dominic stood and walked to a desk near the window. He opened a drawer and pulled out something—a book, thick and leather-bound, with gold lettering on the spine. He brought it back and set it on the table between them. "This is for you."
She stared at it. "What is it?"
"A list of expectations." He pushed it toward her."Rules. Guidelines. Everything you'll need to know about being part of this family. Read it tonight. Memorize it by Friday."
Emma didn't touch the book. "You're giving me homework?"
"I'm giving you a roadmap." Dominic's voice was flat. "You can either learn the terrain or get lost in it. Your choice."
She picked up the book. It was heavy. The leather was cool against her palms, softened by age, and she wondered how many other women had held it before her. How many had read its pages and nodded along and become exactly what the Morettis wanted them to be.
"I had clothes delivered," Dominic continued, like he hadn't just handed her a manual for her own life. "They're in the guest room. Everything you'll need for the gala tonight and the rest of the week."
"I have clothes."
"You have jeans and sweaters and T-shirts with book quotes on them." His lip curled slightly. "That's not what a Moretti wears."
Emma opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. What was the point? He'd already decided. The clothes were already here. The decision had been made before she'd even walked through the door.
"Fine," she said. "Anything else?"
"Yes." Dominic reached out, and for a moment she thought he was going to touch her face. Instead, his hand went to the phone sitting on the table beside her—her phone, she realized. She hadn't even seen him take it. "This is a problem."
"It's my phone."
"It's a liability." He swiped the screen, and Emma watched in horror as he navigated to her contacts. "You have names in here. People. Friends. Anyone could use them against you. Against us."
"Give that back."
He ignored her. His thumb moved across the screen, swift and efficient, and she saw the names disappearing one by one. Her coworker from the bookstore. Her old college roommate. The woman who ran the coffee shop down the street from her apartment, who always saved her the day-old pastries and never charged her full price.
"Dominic, stop."
"This one." He paused on a name—Marcy, her manager at the bookstore. "Who is this?"
"My boss."
"She's not anymore." He deleted it. "You're quitting your job."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He looked up, and his eyes were dark and cold. "Moretti women don't work in bookstores. They don't have jobs. They support their husbands. They manage the household. They stay out of the way."
Emma's hands were shaking. She could feel it—the tremor in her fingers, the tightness in her chest, the way her throat was closing up like it did when she was about to cry. But she didn't cry. She hadn't cried in years. She wasn't going to start now.
"You can't do this."
"I already did." He set the phone down and slid it back toward her. "The contacts I've approved are still there. Your father. My number. The household staff. If anyone else reaches out to you, you don't answer. You don't respond. You tell me, and I'll handle it."
She picked up the phone. Scrolled through the contacts. Her father's name was there. Dominic's. A few others she didn't recognize—drivers, housekeepers, security. Everyone else was gone.
Nine years of friendships. Gone in thirty seconds.
"I hate you," she whispered.
Dominic didn't flinch. "You'll get over it."
He stood and walked toward the hallway, pausing at the door. "The gala starts at eight. I'll send someone to help you get ready. Wear something appropriate."
Then he was gone, and Emma was alone in the mausoleum, holding a phone full of strangers and a book full of rules.
---
The gala was in a hotel ballroom that looked like it had been carved from pure gold.
Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen rain. The floor was marble, veined with something dark that might have been onyx or might have been blood. Women in gowns swirled past her like tropical fish, their jewelry catching the light and throwing it back in blinding flashes. Men in tuxedos stood in clusters, their hands holding crystal glasses, their faces wearing the same expression Emma had seen on Dominic all week. Cold. Calculating. Always watching.
The gown Dominic had chosen for her was black silk, floor-length, with a neckline that plunged just low enough to make her feel exposed. It fit perfectly. It was beautiful. It wasn't hers.
She'd spent an hour in the guest room, staring at herself in the mirror, trying to find the girl she knew somewhere in the reflection. The girl who wore sweaters with book quotes and went to bed at nine and worked in a musty bookstore that smelled like old paper and possibility. That girl was gone. In her place stood a stranger with a face she recognized but didn't fully trust.
Dominic kept her close all night. His hand rested on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd, introducing her to people whose names she forgot the moment they were spoken. They all smiled at her—bright, polished smiles that didn't reach their eyes. They all said things like "welcome to the family" and "how lovely to meet you" and "Dominic is so lucky."
Emma smiled back. Said thank you. Pretended she wasn't counting the minutes until she could escape.
"Smile," Dominic murmured in her ear, after she'd let it slip for the third time. "You look like you're at a funeral."
"Maybe I am."
His fingers tightened on her waist—a warning, a reprimand, something in between. "Don't embarrass me."
She didn't. She kept smiling. Kept nodding. Kept playing the part of the perfect fiancée, even though she felt like she was suffocating in her own skin.
The ballroom was too hot.Too crowded. Too loud. The music was a string quartet playing something classical and forgettable, but underneath it was the constant hum of conversation, a thousand voices blending into a single wall of noise that pressed against her ears like cotton. She needed air. She needed space. She needed five minutes where no one was looking at her, expecting her to be something she wasn't.
"Excuse me," she said, pulling away from Dominic's grip. "I need to find the restroom."
He glanced at her, annoyed. "Now?"
"Now."
He frowned but didn't stop her. "Don't be long. There are people I want you to meet."
There were always people he wanted her to meet. She nodded and slipped away before he could say anything else.
The hallway outside the ballroom was marble too, but quieter. The noise from the gala faded to a distant murmur, and Emma leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, letting herself breathe for the first time in hours. The air here smelled like lemon cleaner and expensive perfume, a combination that made her want to gag, but at least no one was staring. At least no one was asking her questions she didn't know how to answer.
She didn't know how long she stood there. A minute, maybe.Two. Time felt slippery tonight, sliding through her fingers like water.
Until she heard footsteps.
She opened her eyes, and there he was.
Craig.
He was wearing a tuxedo that probably cost more than her car—if she still had a car, if Dominic hadn't already taken that away too. His bow tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck, and his dark hair was falling into his eyes in a way that made him look like he'd just rolled out of bed and decided to attend a black-tie event on a whim. He was holding a glass of champagne, and his smile was that same sharp, dangerous smile she remembered from the VIP booth.
"You look like you're drowning, sweetheart."
His voice was low. Intimate. The kind of voice that was meant for close spaces and late nights and things that shouldn't be said out loud.
Emma's cheeks flushed. She pushed herself off the wall, straightening, trying to look like she hadn't just been standing there trying not to fall apart. "I'm fine."
"That's what you said last time." He stepped closer, and the hallway felt smaller, the air tighter. "And last time, you weren't fine either. You were just too stubborn to admit it."
"I'm not stubborn."
"You're the most stubborn person I've ever met." His eyes traveled over her slowly, lingering on the dress, the ring, the way her hands were clenched at her sides. "And that's saying something, because I've met a lot of stubborn people."
Emma crossed her arms over her chest. A defensive gesture, and she knew it, but she couldn't help herself. Craig had a way of looking at her that made her feel like he could see through everything—the dress, the smile, the carefully constructed walls she'd spent years building around herself. It was unnerving.
"Did you follow me out here?"
"If I said yes, would you be flattered or freaked out?"
"Freaked out."
"Then no." His grin widened. "I was passing through. Coincidence."
She didn't believe him. But she also didn't have the energy to argue.
"What do you want, Craig?"
"Want?" He tilted his head, considering the question like it was a complex math problem. "What makes you think I want something?"
"Because you're a Moretti." She said it like it was an answer, because it was. "You always want something."
"Fair point." He leaned against the wall beside her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—cedar and something smoky, like woodsmoke in autumn. It was distracting. He was distracting. "So I'm a moretti, I always want something, and you're drowning in a dress that's not yours, surrounded by people who are smiling too much. Am I close?"
Emma's throat tightened. She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she was fine, that she didn't need his help or his pity or whatever this was.
But she couldn't. Because he was right.
"Want me to throw you a rope?" His voice dropped even lower, a whisper barely audible over the distant music. "Or are you going to keep pretending you don't need one?"
She closed her eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the weight of everything pressing down on her—the ring, the rulebook, the phone full of strangers, the life she'd lost and the life she was being forced into.
When she opened them, Craig was still there. Still watching.
"I don't want to make my situation any messier," she said. Her voice was quiet. Steady. The same voice she used when her father was drunk and dangerous, the one that hid everything behind a veneer of calm. "And you... you're messy, Craig. You're the messiest thing that's ever happened to me."
He laughed. Low and warm, like whiskey poured over ice. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I wasn't complimenting you."
"I know. That's what made it nice." He pushed himself off the wall and stood in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes. His expression had shifted—the humor fading, replaced by something deeper. Something that looked almost like sincerity. "You don't belong here, Emma. You don't belong in that dress or in this world or with my cousin. You know that, right?"
"I know a lot of things."
"Then you know you're allowed to leave."
"I can't."
"You can." He said it like it was simple. Like the choice was hers and hers alone, and the fact that she didn't see it meant she wasn't looking hard enough. "You just have to be willing to pay the price."
Emma thought of her father. Thought of the debts he'd racked up, the men he owed, the way he'd cried when he'd told her what he'd done. She thought of the ring on her finger and the book of rules on Dominic's coffee table and the emptiness of her phone.
"What price?" she asked, even though she already knew.
Craig's smile was sad. "Everything."
They stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching between them like a held breath. Emma could hear footsteps somewhere down the hall, the clink of glasses, the distant strain of the string quartet. The gala was still happening. The world was still turning. And she was standing in a hallway with a man she barely knew, feeling more seen than she had in weeks.
"I should go back," she said finally. "Dominic will be looking for me."
"Let him look."
"Craig—"
"Emma." He said her name like it was a secret, soft and deliberate. "I'm not going to pretend to be a good guy. I'm not going to pretend I don't want things I shouldn't. But I'm also not going to stand here and watch you drown without at least offering you a hand."
"And what happens if I take it?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at her with those eyes that saw too much, and Emma felt something shift in her chest. Something dangerous. Something she couldn't afford to feel.
She turned away. Walked back toward the ballroom, toward Dominic and the dress and the life that wasn't hers.
But she felt Craig's eyes on her the whole way. And she knew—with a certainty that settled into her bones like a warning—that this was only the beginning.
She took her time walking back. The hallway stretched long and pale, a corridor of polished stone that echoed every click of her borrowed heels. She didn't want to return to that ballroom, to the heat and the noise and the endless parade of faces that expected her to smile.
But Dominic was waiting. He was always waiting.
She found him near the bar, deep in conversation with a man whose gray hair and weathered face suggested decades of surviving things that should have killed him. Dominic's hand found her waist the moment she appeared at his side, pulling her close, tucking her against him like a coat he was afraid someone might steal.
"There you are." His voice was smooth, but his fingers dug into her hip. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost."
"Just needed air."
"Mm." He didn't believe her. She could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes flicked over her shoulder, searching for something. Or someone. "You met Craig."
It wasn't a question.
Emma's heart stuttered. She kept her face blank, the way she'd learned to do when her father came home and she didn't want him to know she'd been crying. "He was in the hallway."
"And?"
"And nothing. He said hello. I said hello. There's nothing else to tell."
Dominic's grip loosened, but his expression didn't. He was studying her now, the way he studied everything—like she was a problem to be solved, a code to be cracked. It made her skin crawl.
"Craig has a habit of inserting himself where he doesn't belong," he said. "He's a pest. A persistent one."
"He's your cousin."
"Which is why he's still breathing." Dominic said it like a joke, but the flatness of his tone made it sound like something else entirely. "Stay away from him, Emma. He's not your friend. He's not your ally. Whatever he told you, whatever he offered—it comes with strings."
The warning was clear. Emma nodded. She didn't mention the rope Craig had mentioned, or the way his voice had dropped when he'd said her name. She didn't mention any of it, because Dominic had a way of making everything worse just by knowing.
"Come." He steered her toward the center of the room. "There are more people you need to meet."
---
The next hour was a blur of names and faces.
She met a man whose arms were covered in tattoos that told stories she didn't want to hear. She met a woman whose smile was too wide, whose eyes were too sharp, who asked questions about her background in a tone that suggested she already knew the answers. She met a boy—barely older than her—whose hand shook when he shook hers, whose eyes darted to Dominic every few seconds like he was waiting for permission to breathe.
Emma smiled. Nodded. Shook hands. Let Dominic guide her through the maze of this world she didn't understand and never wanted to. She caught glimpses of Craig across the room—once near the bar, once by the windows, once in a cluster of men who all seemed to be laughing at something he'd said. Every time she looked, he was already looking back.
It felt like standing in a river. The current was strong, pulling her under, and no matter how hard she kicked, she couldn't reach the surface.
By ten o'clock, her feet were screaming. The heels Dominic had chosen for her were beautiful—strappy and silver and impossibly tall—but they were also instruments of torture. She'd lost feeling in her toes somewhere around the second hour.
"Do you need to sit?" Dominic asked, noticing her falter. It wasn't concern in his voice. It was impatience.
"I'm fine."
"You're limping."
"I'm fine," she repeated, sharper this time.
He didn't argue. He just led her to a table near the edge of the ballroom and pulled out a chair. "Sit. I'll get you something to drink."
She sat. She watched him walk away. She breathed.
The chair was hard and uncomfortable, but at least she wasn't standing anymore. She could feel the blood returning to her feet, painful pins and needles that radiated up her legs. She curled her toes inside the heels and tried not to wince.
The gala continued around her. The music played. The people danced. The champagne flowed. Everyone looked so happy, so comfortable in this world of wealth and power and unspoken rules. They didn't know what it cost to be here. They didn't know what it cost her.
She felt eyes on her before she saw him.
Craig was standing near the powder room, half-hidden behind a pillar, watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip. He was holding a glass of something dark—whiskey, maybe—and he wasn't drinking it. Just holding it. Just watching.
She looked away. Focused on the table. On the white tablecloth and the crystal centerpiece and the tiny silver forks that were lined up like soldiers waiting for orders.
When she looked up again, he was still there.
---
Dominic returned with a glass of water. No champagne. No wine. Just water, tepid and bland, like he was already trying to control what she put into her body.
"Drink," he said.
She drank.
"How long do we have to stay?"
"We're in the middle of a conversation." He gestured vaguely toward the room. "These people are important. Important for me, important for the family. You don't just leave when you feel like it."
"I'm not leaving. I'm asking how long."
He looked at her then, really looked, and something in his expression softened. Just slightly. Just for a second. "An hour. Maybe two. If you can hold out that long."
"I can hold out."
"Good girl."
She hated when he said that. Hated the way it made her feel like a dog being praised for sitting on command. But she didn't say anything. Just nodded and sipped her water and pretended she wasn't counting the seconds.
A man approached the table—tall, dark-haired, with the kind of easy confidence that came from years of never being told no. He shook Dominic's hand, clapped him on the shoulder, and turned to Emma with a smile that was meant to be charming but landed somewhere closer to predatory.
"Dominic, you didn't tell me your fiancée was so lovely."
"I didn't think you needed to know."
The man laughed. It was a hollow sound, empty of real humor. "Always so serious. You need to learn to relax." He extended his hand to Emma. "Marco Bellini. I work with the family. Real estate investments, mostly."
She shook his hand. His palm was sweaty. "Emma."
"Emma." He repeated her name like he was tasting it. "Lovely name for a lovely girl. You know, I've known Dominic for years. Since we were kids, really. He's always been the serious one. Never could take a joke."
"And you were the joker?"
"Something like that." Marco's smile widened. "I'm the one who reminds him that life is supposed to be fun. You should come to one of my parties sometime. They're legendary."
"She won't be attending any parties." Dominic's voice was cold. "She's going to be busy."
"Busy doing what? Sitting by your side looking pretty?"
Emma felt the tension spike between them. Dominic's body had gone rigid, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Marco didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he didn't care.
"I'm not a decoration," Emma said quietly.
Both men turned to look at her.
"I'm not a decoration," she repeated. "I have a job. I have a life. Just because I'm engaged to Dominic doesn't mean I'm going to spend the rest of my life sitting in the corner looking pretty."
Marco's eyebrows rose. Dominic's expression flickered—surprise, irritation, something else she couldn't identify.
"A job?" Marco laughed. "Sweetheart, Moretti women don't have jobs."
"I'm not a Moretti woman yet."
"You will be."
"Then I guess you'd better get used to disappointment."
The words hung in the air, sharp and defiant. Emma didn't know where they'd come from—some part of her she'd tried to bury, maybe. The part that had spent years watching her father destroy himself and promising herself she'd never be weak like him. The part that refused to be silenced.
Marco stared at her for a long moment. Then he looked at Dominic and laughed again.
"I like her. She's got teeth."
"She's got an attitude problem," Dominic said flatly.
"Same thing." Marco clapped him on the shoulder again. "Hold onto this one, cousin. She might be the only interesting thing that's happened to you in years."
He walked away, and the tension at the table dissolved slightly. Dominic turned to Emma, and his eyes were hard.
"Don't do that again."
"Do what? Speak?"
"Embarrass me."
She didn't answer. Just took another sip of water and let the silence stretch between them.
---
The night wore on.
Emma sat at the table while Dominic circulated, shaking hands and making deals and doing whatever it was that Moretti men did at these things. She watched the crowd, the way people moved and talked and laughed. She counted the exits. She memorized the faces of the security guards—three near the main doors, two by the stage, one by the bar.
She didn't know why she was doing it. Just in case, maybe. Just in case she needed to disappear.
Craig was still watching her. He'd moved from the pillar to a seat at the bar, where he sat with his back to the room but his eyes always finding her. Every time she looked up, he was there. Every time she looked away, she felt him still.
It was exhausting. It was terrifying. It was something else, something she didn't want to name.
Dominic returned eventually, sliding into the chair beside her. He was tired—she could see it in the lines around his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders. Like putting on the mask had drained him.
"We're leaving soon," he said. "Just one more introduction. Then we can go."
"Who is it this time?"
"Salvatore."
Emma's blood went cold. Salvatore Moretti. Dominic's uncle.Craig's father. The head of the family, the architect of the deal that had turned her life into a prison.
"I don't want to meet him."
"Too bad." Dominic stood and offered her his hand. "He's requested to see you. You'll be polite. You'll smile. You'll say what he wants to hear. Understand?"
She understood. She understood perfectly.
She took his hand. Let him pull her to her feet. Let him lead her through the crowd like a lamb going to slaughter.
Salvatore was sitting in a private alcove near the back of the ballroom, separated from the rest of the party by a velvet rope and two men who looked like they could kill with their bare hands. He was older than she'd expected—gray hair, gold watch, eyes that had seen too much and felt too little. He was eating something from a silver plate, and he didn't look up when they approached.
"Uncle." Dominic's voice was respectful. Cautious. "This is Emma."
Salvatore raised his eyes. They landed on Emma with a weight that made her want to shrink. He looked her over slowly, deliberately, like she was a horse he was considering buying.
"She's small," he said.
"Small but strong," Dominic replied.
"Good." Salvatore set down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I've heard things about you, girl. Things I don't like."
Emma's throat tightened. "What things?"
"That you're defiant. That you have opinions. That you don't know your place." He leaned forward, and his eyes were like chips of flint. "In this family, you don't have opinions. You don't have a place of your own. You have what we give you, and you're grateful for it. Understand?"
She understood. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't a thing to be owned, that she'd been fighting for her own life since she was old enough to walk, that she'd die before she let another man control her.
But she thought of her father. His debts. His pleading eyes. The way he'd cried when he'd told her what he had done.
"Yes," she said. Her voice was quiet and steady."I understand."
"Good." Salvatore sat back and picked up his fork again. "You'll do fine. It takes time to learn the rules, but Dominic will teach you. Won't you, Dominic?"
"Of course."
"Then take her home. She looks tired."
Dominic nodded and steered Emma away from the alcove. She walked stiffly, her legs moving on autopilot, her mind somewhere else entirely. Somewhere far away from this place and these people and the life she was being forced into.
Dominic's hand tightened on her waist as they walked—pulling her closer, pressing her against his side. It was a possessive gesture. A claim. Look at what's mine.
She felt Craig's eyes on her again. Felt the heat of his anger, burning across the room.
When she risked a glance, he was standing by the bar. His knuckles were white around his glass, his jaw tight. He was staring at Dominic's hand on her waist, and for a moment—just a moment—she thought he might cross the room. Might do something reckless and stupid and violent.
But he didn't. He just stood there, watching. Burning.
Dominic pulled her closer.
Craig set his glass down. Hard. The sound cracked through the murmur of the ballroom like a gunshot.
And Emma knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones like a warning, that this was only the beginning.