The car that arrived at ten the next morning was a silent, black sedan with tinted windows. The driver, a large, unsmiling man named Albert, loaded her two suitcases into the trunk with efficient movements. He held the door open for her without a word.
The drive was a journey from the familiar, tree-lined streets of her old neighbourhood into the gleaming, vertical heart of the city's financial district, and then into the vibrant, pulsing core of the entertainment quarter. The car finally slid into a private underground garage beneath a towering, sleek building adorned with discrete, backlit script: The Gilded Cage. The architecture was modern, all sharp angles and dark glass, imposing and exclusive.
Albert led her to a private elevator with a biometric scanner. He placed his palm on it, the doors slid open, and he gestured for her to enter. "Penthouse level. Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."
The elevator ascended in a silent, swift rush. When the doors opened, they did so directly into the foyer of the penthouse.
Sydney stepped out, and her breath caught.
It was stunning. And it was as cold as a museum exhibit.
The space was vast, open-plan, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking, dizzying panorama of the city and the river beyond. Everything was done in a palette of monochrome and steel: polished concrete floors, dove-grey walls, furniture in black leather and chrome. There were no photographs, no personal knick-knacks, no books lying casually about. A single, massive abstract painting in shades of black and silver dominated one wall. It was beautiful in a severe, calculated way. It felt less like a home and more like the set of a very expensive, very minimalist film.
Damien stood in the centre of the living area, waiting. He had shed his suit jacket and stood in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms. He looked more like the lord of this sterile manor than ever.
"Welcome," he said, the word devoid of warmth.
"It's… something," Sydney managed, setting her carry-on bag down on the cool floor.
"Your room is this way." He didn't offer to take her bag. He simply turned and walked, expecting her to follow.
He led her down a hallway with several closed doors. He opened the last one on the right. "This is yours. The en-suite is through there. The closet should be adequate."
The room was a smaller echo of the main living space—a large bed with a grey linen headboard, a sleek desk, another impressive window. The view here was different, looking east over a patchwork of older city rooftops. It was impersonal, a hotel room. Her suitcases, delivered by Albert, sat neatly at the foot of the bed.
"The rules," Damien said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. His presence seemed to shrink the room. "This is a secure building. You will be given a keycard for the main elevator and the penthouse door. Do not lose it. Do not duplicate it. You are free to come and go as you please, but I expect a text message if you will be out past midnight."
She nodded, feeling like a teenager being given a curfew.
"The west wing of the penthouse," he continued, his gaze steady and unblinking, "is private. My study and private quarters are there. It is off-limits. Especially after 8 PM. Is that clear?"
The specificity of the time sent a strange little chill down her spine. "Why after eight?"
"Because I said so," he replied, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Meals are not a communal requirement. The kitchen is fully stocked. Help yourself. If you require anything, text Albert. His number is on the refrigerator. Do not disturb me unless it is an emergency."
He was drawing a line, brick by brick. She was a guest, but a confined one. A ward.
"What constitutes an emergency?" she asked, a flicker of defiance in her voice.
His eyes glinted, a hint of something sharp beneath the ice. "Blood. Fire. Or a direct threat to your safety. Everything else can wait." He pushed off the doorframe. "I have business to attend to. Settle in."
He was gone, his footsteps silent on the concrete. Sydney stood in the middle of the room, the silence of the penthouse pressing in on her. It was a dense, expensive silence, broken only by the faint, almost subliminal hum of the city below.
She unpacked slowly, hanging her clothes in the vast, empty closet, placing her toiletries in the pristine, marble bathroom. The few personal items she'd brought—the graduation photo, a small ceramic vase she'd made as a child—looked absurd and fragile on the minimalist desk. She felt absurd and fragile.
As dusk began to bleed into the sky, painting it in shades of violet and orange, she wandered back into the main living area. It was still empty. She went to the massive windows, drawn to the view.
And then she saw it.
Below, as the city lights began to wink on, the building directly beneath the penthouse erupted in a cascade of brilliance. Neon signs, thousands of bulbs, scrolling marquees—it was a dazzling, chaotic symphony of light. She could make out the elegant script of The Gilded Cage at the entrance, where doormats in tuxedos greeted a stream of sleek cars. This was his world, right below her feet. A world of money, risk, and glamour, buzzing with a life that felt galaxies away from this silent, sterile apartment in the sky.
She was living above a casino. In a cage of glass and steel, with a warden who was more puzzle than person.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Liam. Thinking of you. Are you there? Is it awful?
She typed back, her fingers cold. I'm here. It's like living in a design magazine. A very quiet one. She didn't mention the rule about the west wing, or the unsettling specificity of the 8 PM cutoff.
Call me if you need to talk. Any time.
Thanks.
Another text came through, this one from an unknown number. This is Albert. Your keycard and a folder with relevant numbers/instructions are on the kitchen island. -A.
She found them: a sleek black keycard and a simple black folder containing a list of numbers (building security, a preferred car service, a gourmet grocery delivery service), and the Wi-Fi password. The efficiency was disquieting.
She made herself a simple dinner from the intimidatingly well-stocked refrigerator, eating alone at the large island, the click of her cutlery on the plate echoing in the space. As she washed her dish, she glanced at the digital clock on the oven: 7:58 PM.
Her eyes drifted to the hallway that led to the forbidden west wing. It was dark, the door at the end presumably closed and locked. What did he do back there every night after eight? What was so private?
The clock ticked over to 8:00.
As if on cue, she heard a faint, heavy thunk from that direction—the sound of a solid door closing, or perhaps a lock engaging. Then, silence.
A rule had just come into effect. The boundary was now active.
She finished in the kitchen and retreated to her room, closing her own door. She changed into pyjamas and climbed into the enormous bed. The sheets were high-thread-count and cold.
From her window, she had a different but equally captivating view. The older part of the city, with its church spires and cobbled mews, was a patch of shadow against the glittering backdrop of the new. And directly across from her, on the roof of a slightly lower building, she could see the illuminated rooftop terrace of The Gilded Cage. Figures moved like elegant shadows, glasses in hand, under strings of fairy lights. Laughter, faint and distorted by distance and glass, occasionally drifted up.
She was in the cage, all right. But she was in the highest, most isolated part of it, looking down on all the other birds who thought they were flying free.
She lay in the dark, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the building—a low hum of machinery, the occasional sigh of the elevator in its shaft. She thought of her father's study, warm and cluttered. She thought of Liam's worried face.
A door clicked open somewhere in the penthouse. Footsteps, slow and measured, moved across the concrete floor in the main living area. Damien was out of his wing. He paused, perhaps by the windows. Sydney held her breath, listening.
The footsteps resumed, coming down the hallway. They passed her closed door without hesitation and continued. A moment later, she heard the front door of the penthouse open and close with a soft, definitive sigh.
He'd left. The warden had gone down to his kingdom, leaving her alone in the silent tower.
Sydney rolled over, pulling the cold sheets tighter around her. Outside, the city glittered, a circuit board of endless possibility. Inside, the rules of her new life hung in the air, as tangible as the walls around her. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five nights of this.
She closed her eyes, but sleep was a long time coming. When it did, it was fitful, filled with dreams of locked doors and her father's face, receding into a corridor of shadows.