Gilded Chains

The sun spilled into the dining room in soft golden streaks, but it couldn't chase away the chill that clung to the edges of the long mahogany table.

Emma entered quietly, her steps tentative. Her eyes flicked toward the head of the table where Alexander sat, already reading the day's paper, a cup of black coffee steaming beside him. He didn't look up. Not even a glance.

She swallowed.

The chair across from him had been set — likely on Dorian's orders — with a delicate breakfast spread: eggs, toast, a cut fruit platter.

Emma took her seat slowly.

Silence.

She kept her eyes lowered, pretending to be focused on the food, but her stomach twisted. Every clink of her fork echoed in the large room. She snuck a glance at him — his face was unreadable, his features composed, carved from ice.

No greeting. No mention of the night before.

Not even anger.

Just… indifference.

And that somehow hurt more.

She blinked quickly to keep the sting behind her eyes from becoming tears.

You don't get to cry. Not here.

He stood abruptly after a few minutes, folding the newspaper crisply. Without a word, he walked away — his footsteps fading down the marble corridor like a verdict.

Emma sat motionless.

Only when she was certain he was gone did she let herself exhale.

She closed her eyes for a second, steadying her breath.

It's fine. You're fine. Don't fall apart. Not today.

Later that morning, the campus gates of Ashton University welcomed her like an old friend.

Emma walked through them with her bag slung over her shoulder, the breeze catching her hair and lifting the weight from her chest — if only slightly.

No bodyguards. No mansion walls.

For a few hours, she could pretend her life was still her own.

"Emma!" a familiar voice rang out.

She turned toward it, her lips parting in a real, unforced smile. Lily, with her curly hair bouncing wildly, jogged up beside Robert, who waved with his usual easy charm.

"You actually came," Lily said, pulling her into

hug. "I was betting you'd flake and run off to Monaco or something with your billionaire husband."

Emma let out a breathy laugh. "No Monaco. Just… breakfast with a newspaper."

"Sounds thrilling," Robert joked, nudging her shoulder. "You good?"

Emma asked, "Did you know that I got married?"

Robert nodded. "Of course. I heard everything from Lily. It's okay. It's a secret."

Emma smiled softly, grateful for this small moment of normalcy.

The university wasn't just a place to pass time — it was her sanctuary, her rebellion, her hope.

Her friends Lily and Robert became her anchors, their easy laughter and shared secrets a balm against the loneliness.

For the first time, Emma allowed herself to believe she could build a life beyond the walls of a gilded cage.

But no matter how far she ran, a shadows always found her.

That evening, as the sun bled out of the sky and dusk wrapped the world in deepening shadows, Emma's footsteps slowed before the grand front door — the threshold between hope and the cage she could never fully escape.

The grand sitting room was dimmer than Emma remembered, the velvet curtains drawn to soften the harsh afternoon light. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint rustle of old pages.

Emma hesitated at the threshold before the soft sound of weeping reached her ears.

There, seated in an armchair by the window, was her grandmother. Her delicate hands trembled as she wiped at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. The lines of her face deepened with sorrow, and her usually steady breath came in quiet, uneven bursts.

"Grandma..." Emma's voice was barely above a whisper.

Her grandmother looked up, surprise giving way to relief. "Emma, my dear," she said, voice thick with emotion. She reached out a trembling hand, and Emma moved closer, sitting gently on the edge of the nearby couch.

"I'm so sorry you had to… marry so young. To a man you barely know," her grandmother said, tears glistening in her eyes again. "It's not how it should be."

Emma's throat tightened. She fought hard to hold back the flood of tears threatening to spill. "I'm... I'm fine," she said, forcing a soft smile, though her voice wavered.

Her grandmother nodded slowly, as if trying to believe the same. "You're stronger than you look, child. But remember — marriage, especially one arranged by others, is its own kind of journey. Patience, understanding, and a bit of grace go a long way."

She paused, folding her hands in her lap, her gaze steady now. "Try to see Alexander not just as a stranger, but as a man carrying his own burdens. Sometimes, love grows quietly — through respect, kindness, and small moments. You have the power to shape this marriage, Emma, even when it feels like the world expects otherwise."

Emma swallowed, the weight of the words settling gently over her. "I'll try," she whispered.

Her grandmother's lips curved into a soft, bittersweet smile. "That's all anyone can ask." She reached over and took Emma's hand in hers, squeezing it tenderly.

For a moment, everything seemed less formidable, softened by the warmth of shared understanding.

But that fragile comfort shattered the moment Emma's stepmother appeared at the foot of the staircase, a cold smile playing on her lips that didn't reach her eyes.

She didn't bother with pleasantries.

Emma's grandmother sat beside her on the couch, her eyes soft but steady as the stepmother's cold smile spread across the room. When the woman began her sharp words, the grandmother's gaze never wavered.

"So," the stepmother said, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "How are you?"

Emma's heart stuttered, the weight of that smile sinking deep into her chest like ice.

"I am good." Emma replied.

"You do realize," her stepmother continued, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her, "this isn't some playground. This is your life now. And your role in it is clear."

Emma stiffened but kept her eyes down, clutching her bag tighter as the woman's sharp gaze bored into her like a blade.

"You're married to Alexander Wolfe," the stepmother hissed, voice low and dangerous, "which means your only purpose is to give him an heir. Nothing more."

She stopped inches from Emma, voice dropping even further. "You'd better be very wise about this, Emma. You're expected to be… productive. And soon."

Emma's breath hitched. Before she could find words, her grandmother's voice cut through the tension, calm but firm.

"Enough," she said quietly, but with unmistakable authority.

The stepmother blinked, momentarily thrown off.

Turning to Emma, the grandmother reached out and gently squeezed her hand. "Emma is not a mere vessel to be ordered about, nor is she a servant to your whims."

She forced herself to lift her chin, voice barely a whisper but steady. "I'm trying. I'm doing my best."

Her stepmother's eyes darkened. "Trying isn't good enough." She leaned closer, her voice a venomous whisper.

Emma's hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms, but she dared not show the fear twisting inside her.

The stepmother turned abruptly and swept up the stairs, leaving a chilling silence behind.

Emma stood there trembling, the weight of the mansion pressing down on her like a stone.