GILDED CAGE

Morning in the Gavrila estate was nothing like the world Adel had come from. There were no honking cars outside the window, no neighbors arguing over rent or stray cats meowing at the trash bins. Instead, there was silence—curated and still, like even the air had been taught how to behave.

Adelina opened her eyes to soft golden light pouring through gauzy curtains. The bed she lay on was impossibly plush, the kind you sink into, the kind made for princesses—not women who once worked two jobs to afford basic healthcare. It should have felt like paradise. But instead, it felt… unreal. Like a dream on the edge of becoming a nightmare.

She sat up, feeling slightly more stable than yesterday. Her limbs were lighter, but her chest held a strange pressure. Maybe it was the memory flashes. Maybe it was Nathan's face as he said, "You scared me."

A knock came—gentle, precise.

Anya stepped inside. She held a tray with breakfast: poached eggs, warm brioche, honeyed fruit. Everything glistened.

"Good morning, Miss Adelina," she said with a polite smile.

"Morning," Adelina replied. Her voice still sounded foreign in her own ears—soft, higher-pitched, refined.

After breakfast, she asked to walk around the estate. Anya agreed but insisted on staying close. Two other staff members joined them as they descended the grand staircase, like she was royalty under constant watch.

The mansion was endless.

Hallways lined with oil paintings of ancestors, antique vases in every corner, and polished floors that reflected the sunlight like water. She passed drawing rooms, reading rooms, music rooms, a private gallery—every space dripping with quiet wealth. Gilded frames. Silk wallpaper. Every object said: this is not a place for the ordinary.

But the more Adel explored, the more claustrophobic she felt.

Her footsteps were too quiet. Her presence too heavily monitored. Every time she paused, someone waited for her to move again.

A golden cage, beautiful and suffocating.

She found herself drawn to a room at the end of a quieter wing. It was smaller than the rest. Simpler. Soft pastel walls, bookshelves, an antique desk.

"My study," she murmured. The words came out before she could stop them.

Anya tilted her head. "Yes, Miss. This used to be your favorite room."

Adel walked inside slowly. There was dust on the corners of the shelves, as if no one had touched anything since the accident. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books. Most were classic literature. Jane Austen. Tolstoy. A few children's books tucked between them—odd, given Adelina's age.

She opened a drawer and froze.

Inside was a stack of notebooks.

Hardcovers, bound in soft leather. All labeled the same way:

A.G. — Private.

She looked up. Anya was politely turned away, pretending not to notice.

Adel sat and opened the first journal.

March 4th — I told Mother I didn't want to attend the spring gala. She said my duty is more important than my comfort. Sometimes, I think I only exist as a reflection of her ambition.

She flipped the pages. Entry after entry, a portrait began to emerge.

Adelina Gavrila had not lived a life of luxury and joy.

She had been hidden. Groomed. Smothered.

Sheltered in a way that went beyond protection—closer to imprisonment. Her outings were monitored. Her friends, approved. Her clothes, curated. Her words, filtered. Always perfect. Always silent.

And in the margins, over and over again: Nathan understands.

There were passages describing him—not in romantic terms, but reverent. As if he was her only ally. The only person who ever let her be human.

She turned to a photograph tucked between two pages.

Young Adelina—maybe sixteen—smiling weakly at a birthday cake. Nathan stood beside her, hand resting protectively on her back. Even then, his eyes had been sharp. Possessive. Like he dared the world to touch her.

Adel closed the book, suddenly cold.

"Miss?" Anya's voice brought her back.

"Hmm?"

"There's someone who wants to see you. Your new personal maid. She'll be helping manage your wardrobe, schedule, correspondence... and more discreet matters."

A girl stepped into the room—tall, willowy, with a sly smile and curious eyes. Early twenties, confident. She bowed dramatically.

"Hi, Miss Adelina. I'm Mirela. Or 'Mira,' if that's easier. I'm your glorified gossip filter."

Adel blinked. "You're… my what?"

Mirela grinned. "Technically, I assist you. Realistically? I tell you who's lying to your face, who's in love with your shoes, and which events are worth faking illness to avoid."

Adelina laughed softly—her first real laugh in this body.

"I like you already," she said.

"Good. Because this house is exhausting." Mirela winked. "Come on. I'll show you your real closet. The one they don't show guests."

The hidden closet was behind a sliding panel in her bedroom. It was less of a closet and more of a boutique: rows of designer clothes, shoes arranged by season, jewelry displayed like museum pieces.

Mirela handed her a velvet box.

"Your favorites," she said. "Apparently."

Inside were letters. Handwritten notes. Tiny sketches. Snippets of music. And—photos.

One photo stopped her breath.

Nathan.

Standing on a beach at sunset, shirt sleeves rolled, staring out at the waves. Taken from behind, candid. On the back, written in loopy cursive:

"He looks peaceful here. He rarely is."

Adelina's chest tightened.

These weren't just the reflections of a sister. There was something else here. Something unsaid.

Unwritten.

Mirela tilted her head. "You okay?"

Adel nodded, then put the photo away. "Just tired."

That night, she couldn't sleep.

The estate was too quiet. The bed too big. Her thoughts too loud.

She walked to the window and stared out into the courtyard, lit faintly by golden garden lamps.

Then she noticed something strange.

A blinking red light on the bookshelf. Hidden between books. Tiny. Almost invisible.

A camera.

Adel froze.

She searched the room. Near the mirror. Behind a curtain. Another one. And near the chandelier.

Her skin crawled.

Who had placed them?

She turned to the vanity and noticed a drawer slightly ajar. Inside, a slim tablet. Locked. No password written. But it looked new.

She picked it up.

Suddenly, the door creaked open.

Nathan.

She turned to him, the tablet still in her hand.

He didn't speak.

His eyes moved from her face to the device, and back again.

Then, calmly, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

And she knew—without a word being spoken—that this cage wasn't just gilded.

It was guarded.

By him.