It began with something as ordinary as the desire to step outside.
No dramatic impulse. No breakdown. No hidden intention of running. Just the simple, human craving to breathe air that wasn't recycled through mansion vents, to feel sun on skin without the filter of glass, to walk along the estate gardens rather than stare at them from behind a locked window.
It was, strangely, the most normal feeling she'd had in weeks.
Seraphina rose from the chaise at the foot of her bed, her body knotted with stiffness from days of confinement. The east wing was enormous by any rational standard—larger than the entire homes of most wealthy families—but it still felt too small for a body filled with nerves, regrets, and silent terror.
She walked toward the adjoining dressing room on bare feet.
Luxurious carpeting swallowed her steps, the silence so complete it felt padded, insulated. The east wing was designed for calm. For recovery. For fragile minds and shattering emotions. Every edge was softened, every surface reluctantly echoing, as though even sound treading too loud might destabilize its occupant.
Inside the dressing room, light spilled from the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the rows of designer clothing he'd ordered for her long before their marriage was finalized. The selection was curated with a precision that bordered on unsettling—soft fabrics, flattering silhouettes, pale colors meant to soothe.
Seraphina let her fingertips drift across the hangers.
Silk. Cashmere. Organza. Satin.
Everything she could have wanted. Every label, every brand. Clothes most women her age could only dream of owning.
She selected a cream-colored dress, soft and flowing, hugging her figure delicately. Something she might have worn to brunch in the city or to a leisurely walk through a gallery—if her life hadn't imploded into something unrecognizable.
She changed slowly, almost reverently, as though putting on normal clothes might summon a normal life.
Then came makeup—a light layer, nothing overwhelming, just enough to smooth out the fatigue under her eyes and the pallor at her cheeks. For the first time since her confinement began, she looked like the girl she used to be.
The girl who laughed easily.
The girl who believed men fell at her feet because she was charming.
The girl who thought her life's hardships would never be more than parental pressure and the occasional heartbreak.
She stared at her reflection.
That girl was dead.
Gone quietly, without ceremony.
What remained was a ghost—prettily dressed, carefully polished, but hollowed out and aching beneath the surface.
Still… she wanted to go outside.
Just for an hour.
Just long enough to remember life existed beyond therapy, guards, and a husband who kept a universe of thoughts hidden under the polished veneer of self-control.
She approached the door.
The guards outside straightened.
"Madam?" one asked carefully.
"I want to go to the estate grounds," she said, voice firmer than she felt. "Just a short walk."
The guards exchanged a look—neither refusing nor agreeing—because they knew who held the real authority in this house, and it wasn't her.
One spoke into an earpiece. "Requesting clearance for Mrs. Harrington."
A pause.
Seraphina exhaled, anxiety already pooling in her stomach.
Another pause.
Then—
"Chairman says she may go with two escorts."
She froze.
Two escorts.
To walk on land she technically lived on. A prisoner wrapped in silk and escorted through golden gardens.
She should have been grateful, she told herself. After what she'd done, after the bloodshot panic in his eyes the night she tried to throw herself off the balcony—she should have understood his caution.
But humiliation curved sharp inside her ribcage.
She swallowed it.
"I'll need a bag," she murmured.
She went back inside, retrieving a small cream purse that matched her dress. She checked for the essentials—lip balm, tissues, a compact mirror. Then she reached for her wallet.
Her elegant fingers froze when she opened it.
Empty.
No cards. No black titanium credit line he had once handed her casually in their early engagement days. No access to the Harrington accounts or allowances.
Of course.
She was under suicide supervision. Financial access was a risk.
She sat down slowly on the stool in front of the vanity, the purse limp in her hands.
She thought: It's fine. I can use my parents' money.
Then an immediate, violent recoil swept through her.
Her parents.
Her parents who sold her to image and reputation, who cared far more about the social value of her marriage than her emotional well-being. Her parents who interrogated every choice, scrutinized every weakness, measured every gesture. Her parents who had sent her off like a decorative pawn.
Her hands tightened around the wallet.
She could contact them.
She could ask for a temporary card.
She could pretend she wasn't chained in a gilded asylum wing.
But the thought churned her stomach.
She hated them.
Not in a childish, rebellious way—but in a deep, aching, soul-worn way. She hated that being near them made her feel smaller. Hated that asking them for anything felt like crawling back into another cage—one lined with entitlement, pressure, expectations, and quiet conditional love.
And then there was… him.
Her husband.
The man who used to adore her, who now looked at her with a mixture of concern and exhaustion. The man who dragged her back from the edge—literally—and then, in the same breath, locked her away for safety.
She trusted him more than her parents.
But she was terrified of asking him for money.
Terrified of what he would think.
Terrified of the look that might cross his face.
He would give her anything—she knew that. He was like that: detached, broken, disciplined, but generous in ways that hurt him. If she asked for access to his accounts, he would give it without hesitation.
But would he pity her?
Would he think she was irresponsible?
Would he fear she would use the money to buy tools for another attempt?
Would he feel burdened?
Her throat tightened painfully.
She couldn't risk it.
She couldn't bear the thought of him seeing her as someone grasping at luxuries while barely holding onto sanity. She couldn't bear to be another weight dragging him down when he already lived on thin, fraying margins of control.
Her eyes drifted around the room.
Shelves of books.
Cabinets filled with artisanal teas.
A private cinema screen.
Skincare, perfumes, jewelry cases filled with pieces he'd chosen out of habit—his old habit, back when he wanted her attention, back when he believed showering her in gifts might win back something she'd never actually given him.
The east wing had everything she could possibly want.
Everything except freedom.
Everything except a future she understood.
Everything except the ability to breathe without thinking about consequences.
She set the empty wallet down.
She didn't need to go out.
She didn't need a card.
She didn't need anything.
And yet she felt the smallest, saddest crack appear inside her chest.
A quiet admission she didn't want to face:
I have everything.And none of it matters.Because I'm not free.
Her reflection in the vanity wavered, a shimmer of light bending as tears threatened.
In the end, she stood, removed the cream purse, and placed it neatly on the dressing table.
"I won't go out today," she told the guards.
They bowed in acknowledgment.
She walked back into the room—into the comfort and suffocation of the east wing.
Dressed elegantly.
Perfectly groomed.
Surrounded by luxury.
A princess in a palace.
A patient in confinement.
A wife without access to her husband's world.
A daughter who refused to return to her parents' cage.
And so she remained in the one cage she had left—the one she called home.