A Cage Of Promises
The ink had barely dried on the marriage contract when Talia Quinn found herself standing in the Thorne estate's grand foyer - an intricate cage of marble and silence. Her suitcase sat by her feet lie a symbol of her new reality: she had traded freedom for a last thread of belonging, a flicker of affection she hoped might still exist in the man who had barely looked at her.
Damon Thorne.
He hadn't come to welcome. Of course he hadn't.
The butler, stiff and expressionless, had led her in with a nod and a clipped,
"Young master instructed that you be shown to your room."
No warm smiles. No congratulations.
Just cold air and colder stares from staff who already seemed to think less of her - just another outsider swallowed by the house's grandeur.
She trailed behind him through vast corridors adorned with expensive art and polished wooden floors that whispered with every footstep. It felt less like a home and more like a palace built to impress - sterile, distant, and grand enough to remind her exactly where she didn't belong.
The room wasn't lacking. A private wing with a queen-sized bed, a desk overlooking the garden, and an en suite bathroom lined with marble and gold fixtures. It was more space than she'd ever called hers before. Yet it felt hollow, like a polished shell wrapped around a woman no one saw.
She ran her fingers across the velvet curtains, then over the edge of the desk. Everything was immaculate. Untouched. Like a room meant for display, not living.
Talia stood by the window, watching dusk bleed into the sky. Damon still hadn't come home.
She placed her hand on the windowpane, her reflection staring back at her - a woman who once believed love could be won with loyalty. Foolish.
Her phone buzzed.
Message from Mom:
How's the mansion? Take it slow, sweetheart. You'll be okay.
She didn't reply. What could she say?
That her husband hadn't spoken a word to her since signing the contract? That she felt more like a pawn moved into position than a bride?
Later that night, she changed into a soft nightdress, pulling a cardigan over her shoulders as she stepped out into the corridor. Her footsteps echoed softly as she made her way to the kitchen.
Perhaps a glass of warm milk would help the nausea twisting in her stomach- though she wasn't sure if it was hunger, nerves, or something deeper.
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard voices drifting from the parlor.
"... You married her? Damon, that's beneath you."
A woman's voices. Sharp. Elegant. Familiar.
Damon's mother.
Talia instinctively pressed herself against the wall, her breath hitching.
"I needed someone obedient," Damon's cool voice responded, devoid of emotion.
"She won't be a problem."
There was a pause, then a low, dissaproving hum.
"I still can't believe you let go of Valeria for this... orphan."
"She signed the contract. One heir. Then she's gone."
Her fingers tightened around the banister. The cold of the polished wood bled into her skin.
Gone.
That was all she was to him-a temporary vessel. A placeholder until she fulfilled her purpose.
Back in her room, she closed the door gently and sank onto the edge of the bed. Her stomach churned, but not from hunger. She had known. Deep down, she had always known what this marriage was.
A contract. A cage.
But it didn't make it hurt any less.
She picked up her phone and opened the contract once more. The clause was still there, in stark black letters:
Should the wife provide a legitimate heir, she shall leave the estate with due compensation and no claim to the Thorne fortune.
No love. No promises. No future beyond what was written in ink.
She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling, letting her cardigan slip from her shoulders.
She had dreamed of this once- being with Damon. In highschool, she'd watched him from afar, heart aching with a crush she never dared voice. He had been untouchable then. He still was now.
But this wasn't the fairytale ending she'd imagined. This wasn't love.
It was survival.
Talia closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath. Maybe one day, she'd look back on this and feel nothing. Maybe the pain would dull. Maybe if she gave enough of herself, he'd come to see her differently.
Or maybe.
Maybe she'd stop waiting for someone to save her.
Maybe she'd save herself.
She placed a hand over her stomach. It was flat, empty-yet it already carried the weight of impossible expectations.
She would endure.
For the child she didn't yet carry. For the silver of hope that maybe - just maybe- Damon would one day see her not as a means to an end, but as a woman capable of love.
And if not...
She would find her own way out.
Even if it meant burning every illusion along the way.