Chapter 3: The Gilded Cage

Sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows pulled Nicole from a restless sleep filled with fragmented nightmares. For a moment, she forgot where she was—the bed was impossibly soft, wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets that probably cost more than her monthly rent. Then reality crashed back like a cold wave, and she bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs.

This wasn't the stark cell she'd expected. This was... paradise.

The bedroom suite stretched out before her like something from an architectural magazine. Cream marble floors gleamed beneath Persian rugs so intricate they belonged in museums. A sitting area by the windows featured velvet furniture in deep emerald, positioned to showcase a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Original paintings—she recognized a small Monet, a sketch that might have been a Picasso—adorned the walls with casual opulence.

Nicole's art history training kicked in automatically, cataloging details even as her mind reeled. The crown molding was hand-carved, probably eighteenth century. The chandelier was Baccarat crystal. The bookshelf held leather-bound first editions that would make her professors weep with envy.

She stumbled toward the windows, pressing her palms against the glass. Forty stories below, the city moved in miniature—cars like beetles, people like ants, all of them free to go wherever they chose. The glass was thick, reinforced. No way to break it, even if she could survive the fall.

A soft chime made her spin around. A section of the wall had slid open—so seamlessly integrated she hadn't even noticed the hidden panel. A figure in crisp white uniform wheeled in a cart laden with silver-domed dishes, the aroma of fresh coffee and pastries filling the air.

"Good morning, miss," the woman said with a slight accent Nicole couldn't place. "I'm Clara. I'll be attending to your needs."

Nicole wrapped the silk robe she'd found draped across a chair tighter around herself. "I... where am I?"

Clara's smile was polite but distant. "The penthouse level of Petrova Tower. Ms. Petrova thought you might enjoy the view." She began arranging dishes on the marble table by the windows—fresh fruit, croissants that looked like they'd come from a Parisian bakery, eggs Benedict with hollandaise that smelled divine.

The casual normalcy of it was surreal. "Are you... like me? A prisoner?"

Something flickered across Clara's features—too quick to interpret. "I'm staff, miss. Nothing more." She gestured to the spread. "Fresh orange juice, Colombian coffee, and Cook prepared your breakfast to Ms. Petrova's specifications. She thought you might need to regain your strength."

Nicole's stomach clenched at the implication. Strength for what? More of Eva's twisted games? She shook her head, backing away from the table. "I'm not hungry."

"The fruit is very fresh," Clara said mildly, as if Nicole had simply expressed a preference rather than outright refusal. "And Cook will be disappointed if nothing is touched."

"I don't care about Cook's feelings," Nicole snapped, then immediately felt guilty. This woman was probably just trying to do her job. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't eat right now."

Clara nodded with understanding that seemed genuine. "I'll leave everything here, miss. In case you change your mind." She moved toward the hidden door, then paused. "There are clothes in the wardrobe. Ms. Petrova selected them personally."

When Clara was gone, Nicole found herself alone in her beautiful prison. She tested the obvious first—the main door was locked, of course, with what looked like a high-tech keypad. The bathroom was marble and gold, with a tub large enough for three people and toiletries that probably cost more than her textbooks.

The wardrobe made her stomach turn. Silk and cashmere, designer labels, everything in her exact size. How long had Eva been planning this? How much did she know?

Nicole pulled on the simplest thing she could find—black leggings and an oversized cream sweater—and began her exploration in earnest. The suite was enormous, with multiple rooms flowing into each other. A study with a mahogany desk and leather-bound books. A second sitting room with a fireplace that probably worked. Even a small kitchen, though she suspected the appliances were more for show than function.

Every luxury imaginable, and every possible escape route sealed. The windows were reinforced. The air vents were too small for a child, let alone an adult. Even the fireplace had some kind of grating that looked impossible to remove.

She was cataloging the bathroom for the third time when she noticed it—a small gap behind the massive mirror. Not an escape route, just a hiding place where the wall didn't quite meet the frame. Her fingers explored the space, and her heart leaped when they encountered something familiar.

A sketchbook. Plain, spiral-bound, exactly like the ones she'd used throughout college. Tucked beside it were charcoal pencils, still sharp, and a kneaded eraser worn smooth from use.

Nicole pulled them out with trembling hands. The sketchbook was new, unused, but the pencils... these were hers. She recognized the tooth marks on one, the way another had been sharpened down to a stub. These were from her apartment, from her old life.

Who had put them here? Eva seemed too calculating to leave such a thing by accident. But Bryce... the memory of his quiet kindness the night before flickered through her mind. The water glass, the pain medication, the moment of unexpected humanity in his gray eyes.

She clutched the supplies to her chest, feeling the first genuine emotion besides terror that she'd experienced since waking up in that chair. Hope was too strong a word, but it was... something. A connection to who she'd been before this nightmare began.

The sound of the door chime made her freeze. Quickly, she shoved the sketchbook and pencils back into their hiding place and stepped away from the mirror as if she'd been doing nothing more than checking her reflection.

But it wasn't Clara who entered. It was Bryce.

He filled the doorway with his presence, dressed in black tactical gear that emphasized his powerful build. His gray eyes swept the room systematically—checking corners, assessing threats, cataloging details with professional efficiency. When his gaze landed on the untouched breakfast, something that might have been disappointment flickered across his features.

"Ms. Petrova is concerned about your appetite," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

Nicole straightened, meeting his eyes with what dignity she could muster. "I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat." Not a suggestion. A statement of fact.

"Or what?" The defiance in her voice surprised them both. "You'll force-feed me? Tie me down again and—" She stopped, her cheeks burning with the memory of how completely she'd surrendered to him.

Bryce's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. He moved closer, not threatening exactly, but unmistakably present. When he reached the breakfast table, he picked up a piece of toast and took a bite, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Not poisoned," he said mildly. "Not drugged. Just food."

The simple act of him eating first—tasting for safety—was so unexpected that Nicole felt her defensive walls waver. Was he protecting her, or was this just another form of manipulation?

"Why?" she asked quietly.

"Why what?"

"Why are you here? Why does Eva need someone like you?"

Bryce set down the toast, considering her question with the same careful attention he seemed to give everything. "Because beautiful things are fragile," he said finally. "They need protection."

"From what?"

"From the world. From themselves. From people who would take them apart just to see how they work."

There was something in his voice, a darkness that spoke of personal experience. Nicole found herself studying his face—the scar across his eyebrow, the way his hands moved with controlled precision, the absolute stillness that surrounded him like armor.

"Is that what you do?" she whispered. "Protect Eva's beautiful things?"

His gray eyes met hers, and for a moment she saw past the professional mask to something raw and complicated underneath. "I protect what matters to her."

The words hung between them, loaded with meaning she couldn't quite decipher. Was she one of Eva's beautiful things now? Another collectible to be guarded and maintained?

"The sketchbook," she said impulsively. "Did you—"

But Bryce was already turning away, moving toward the door with that predatory grace. "Eat something," he said without looking back. "She'll know if you don't."

The door sealed behind him with a soft hiss, leaving Nicole alone with her questions and the lingering scent of his cologne. She stood frozen for a long moment, processing the strange encounter. He hadn't answered her question about the sketchbook, but he hadn't denied it either.

And there had been something else, something in the way he'd looked at her before turning away. Not the cold assessment she'd expected, but something warmer. More complicated.

Nicole moved to the breakfast table, her stomach finally beginning to rumble. She picked up the piece of toast Bryce had bitten, studying the small crescent mark his teeth had left. Such an intimate thing, sharing food. Such a human thing.

As she ate, she found herself thinking about his words. Beautiful things are fragile. They need protection. From people who would take them apart just to see how they work.

Was that what Eva was doing? Taking her apart to see how she worked? The thought made her shiver, but it also crystallized something important. If she was going to survive this—really survive, not just endure—she needed to understand the rules of the game she'd been forced into.

Eva was the queen, absolute and terrifying. But Bryce... Bryce was more complex than he appeared. And in a world where she had no allies, no advantages, even the smallest crack in her captors' unity might be the key to her survival.

Nicole finished the toast and poured herself coffee, her mind already working. She had her art supplies hidden away—a secret Eva didn't know about. She had Bryce's small acts of kindness, whatever they meant. And she had her memory, her ability to observe and catalog details that others might miss.

It wasn't much. But it was a start.

Outside her gilded cage, the city continued its dance of freedom. Inside, Nicole began to plan.