The mansion was silent in a way that unsettled Aria more than noise ever could. It wasn't the silence of peace, of comfort, of a home at rest. It was the silence of control, the silence of a place so carefully managed that even the air seemed choreographed, waiting for permission to breathe. Every time she walked through the vast corridors, her footsteps echoing on marble, she felt as though she was intruding in a space that didn't want her. The grandeur that should have awed her—crystal chandeliers dripping light like icicles, polished wood that gleamed as if it had been waxed daily, velvet drapes that muffled the outside world—became oppressive. A cage, yes, but not one of iron. This was a cage of glass, glittering and unbreakable, a prison so exquisite that outsiders might envy it without realizing the bars were invisible yet stronger than steel.
In the mornings, maids came and went with trays of food she rarely had an appetite for. They bowed their heads politely, spoke little, and never met her eyes for longer than a second. Aria tried once, asking the girl who brought her breakfast what her name was, but the girl only stiffened, murmured "Signora," and left without another word. After that, Aria stopped trying. It was clear: loyalty in this house was not hers to claim. Everyone here belonged to Lorenzo, body and soul, and she was the interloper, the reluctant queen in a kingdom she had never wanted.
Her windows overlooked gardens that stretched endlessly—immaculate hedges cut into precise shapes, fountains that glittered in the sun, statues that seemed to watch her with stony disdain. And beyond the gardens, past the high wrought-iron gates, lay freedom. The city. The world. A world that seemed to shrink further from her each day, until she could hardly remember what it had felt like to walk down a street without eyes on her. Guards lingered at every corner, some in suits, others more casual, but all of them carrying the same cold authority. Their presence was constant, suffocating, and when her gaze brushed theirs, they didn't look away. They were reminders. Bars of the cage, human and unyielding.
The days blurred into one another. Hours spent pacing the room she had been given—a room larger than her entire apartment back home, filled with silk sheets, gilded mirrors, and closets lined with clothes she hadn't chosen. She hated them most of all, the dresses in every shade and cut, elegant, expensive, lifeless. She had once dreamed of wearing clothes she couldn't afford, of stepping into boutiques she had only ever walked past. Now, surrounded by silks and satins, she longed for her old jeans, her worn-out sneakers, the sweater with frayed cuffs that smelled faintly of home. Here, everything was beautiful. And nothing belonged to her.
Her meals were lavish spreads of food fit for royalty—roasted meats, delicate pastries, fruits flown in from places she had never seen. Yet each bite tasted like ashes in her mouth. She ate enough to survive, enough to avoid drawing questions or scorn, but her stomach never stopped knotting with unease. Hunger, she realized, was easier to endure when it was honest. This kind of indulgence felt poisonous.
Loneliness seeped into her like water filling cracks in stone. She hadn't thought it would be this heavy, this suffocating, to be surrounded by people yet utterly alone. Guards in the halls, staff in the shadows, Lorenzo's presence like a stormcloud that never left the horizon—yet none of them were companions. None of them were friends. Her father's absence gnawed at her, and every time she remembered his tear-streaked face as she was dragged away, she had to bite down hard on her lip to stop from crumbling. But tears were dangerous here. Tears would only feed the cage, remind her of her weakness.
So she raged instead. At first quietly, a seething storm inside her chest. She hated Lorenzo, hated his world, hated the smug way he spoke to her as if her life had always been his to claim. She hated the ring on her finger, the name he had forced onto her tongue, the way he could slice her open with a glance. But hatred was a fire that burned too fast. Alone in her room, staring at her reflection in the mirror framed with gold leaf, Aria saw the anger simmer and sputter, leaving her not freer but more exhausted. She realized one night, sitting on the edge of her silk-covered bed, that rage could only keep her warm for so long before it consumed her.
If she was to survive here, she needed something else.
Determination.
The realization came slowly, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. She was trapped, yes. Guarded, watched, smothered by luxury that cut deeper than chains. But a cage—no matter how beautiful—was still a cage. And cages had doors. Cages could be opened.
It struck her as she walked the halls again, memorizing the layout under the guise of idle wandering. She began to count her steps between the staircases, note which windows opened easily and which did not, which doors were locked and which weren't. She noticed the guards rotated at the same times each day, their breaks overlapping in a pattern that left certain corners of the estate less covered than others. She watched which staff lingered too long, which glanced nervously toward certain rooms. Every detail mattered. Every observation was a piece of the map she was slowly building in her mind.
And with every detail, the weight in her chest lessened. Not much, but enough. Enough to remind her she wasn't broken yet.
At night, when sleep refused to come, she stood at her window, her forehead pressed to the glass, staring at the gates far beyond. They shimmered faintly in the moonlight, guarded by men who didn't so much as twitch as the hours crawled past. She imagined slipping past them, running barefoot down some hidden road, the wind in her hair, the taste of freedom on her tongue. It was a fantasy, yes, but it lit something inside her. Something stubborn.
Her father's voice came to her then, unbidden but sharp. Don't let them see you small, Aria. Don't let them take that from you.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. "I won't," she whispered into the darkness.
The mansion wanted her compliant. The luxury wanted her softened, lulled, pacified. Lorenzo wanted her fire to dim so he could mold her into the perfect accessory for his world. But she would not dim. She would not shatter.
And so, as she stared out at the night, the plan began to form—not fully, not yet, but like the first threads of a web. She would find the weakness in this cage of glass. She would find the moment, the sliver of time, the overlooked crack. And when she did, she would escape.
Even if it cost her everything.