Night fell over the Harrington estate without ceremony, slipping down the sky like something too heavy to hold itself up anymore. Darkness rolled over the manicured lawns, swallowed the fountains in the courtyard, pooled under the tall windows like ink gathering at the bottom of a quill. Inside, the lights were soft, restrained, almost reverent—as though afraid to disturb the fragile equilibrium of a marriage birthed in panic and sealed in misery.
In the east wing—her new "home"—Seraphina sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, unable to unclench her fingers from the sheets. The room was too large, too quiet, too pristine. Its walls were an elegant cream tone, the ceiling high, the curtains heavy enough to suffocate sunlight. The place looked more like an upscale suite for a foreign dignitary than the bedroom of a newlywed woman. It was beautiful. It was luxurious.
It was a cage.
A different cage—one she had trapped herself in with her own trembling signature.
She leaned forward, hands covering her face as the reality slammed into her with the force of a falling cathedral. Her breath came in uneven pulls, her ribs tightening as though hands were slowly closing around her lungs.
She had wanted this.
She had chased him. Clung to him. Demanded he take responsibility for her. Begged—God, she begged—for him to stop trying to leave her. She had sabotaged herself at every step. She had thrown away her dignity, her reputation, her future, her pride. She had walked into the lion's den and then wept when the lion didn't become a housecat.
And now… now she was here.
She got what she wanted.
She was his wife.
But at what cost?
Her mind reeled back through the years—the earlier times, the carefree days, the moments when Adrian had worshipped her with a devotion that made every other boy in their social circle pale by comparison. He had been monstrously overweight then, naive, soft-hearted to the point of foolishness, ready to obey her like a loyal dog if she so much as crooked a finger. She had been embarrassed of him, yes. She had avoided him, yes. She had mocked him in private, yes.
But he had loved her.
Loved her in a way she had not understood. Loved her in a way she had dismissed as trivial, removable, replaceable.
Then he disappeared. Then his parents died. Then he returned—changed, terrifying, untouchable. A man carved from silence and trauma, a figure whose authority and power made every room shift around him. The boy who adored her had been dissolved in the acid bath of grief, violence, starvation, discipline, reinvention.
And she—stupid, foolish, selfish she—had returned too late.
Returned not because she loved him, but because she did not want to lose what she once had at arm's length.
And he crushed her hope with the same bluntness with which he had crushed everything soft inside himself.
She whispered into her hands, voice cracking, "I asked for this… I forced this… I begged for this…"
It was like staring into a mirror that only reflected ugliness.
A cage.
She came here trying to escape the cage her parents had put her in—the cage of obligation, prestige, and expectation. She thought running back to Adrian would save her. She thought being with him, even in his coldness, was better than being suffocated by her parents' greed.
But what she received was a cage of her own construction—wrought from desperation, fear, and shame.
The irony was almost poetic.
Almost funny.
Almost hysterical.
Her breath hitched, and suddenly a sound escaped her throat—a trembling, uneven laugh that dissolved instantly into a sob. She curled forward, hugging her knees, tears leaking hot and humiliating down her cheeks.
"I'm in another cage… I climbed right into it…"
She rocked slightly, unable to stop herself. The walls felt as if they were inching closer, quietly, relentlessly, like a predator stalking without footsteps.
The silence was oppressive. This wing had always been unused, meant only for overflow guests or distant relatives. The staff passed by occasionally but never lingered; no one dared intrude into the private sanctuaries of the Harringtons unless summoned.
She was alone.
Completely, thoroughly alone.
Except she wasn't. She shared this house with him.
The thought made her chest twist.
He was somewhere in the west wing right now—probably buried under mountains of paperwork, punishing himself with work until his eyes burned and his hands trembled. She had seen him deteriorate, even in the short time since her arrival. Saw how he tortured himself with inhuman discipline. Saw the exhaustion hanging from his shoulders like chains. Saw the hollowness in his eyes, the haunted, feral glint whenever someone touched a nerve buried in the rubble of his past.
And yet she had been so desperate, so selfish, she tried to force herself onto that collapsing structure.
She had almost broken him.
And she had almost broken herself.
Her breathing turned erratic. The room felt colder.
She whispered, "Why… why did I do this? Why was I like this? Why didn't I call him when his parents died? Why did I only think of myself? Why… why… why…"
The questions spiraled, each one twisting deeper into her thoughts like a hook.
She imagined the other version of herself—the version who actually cared, who reached out years ago, who came to the funeral, who held him while he cried, who stayed, who didn't hide behind cowardice and vanity.
That version of her could have had a chance.
But she had never been that girl.
She had been the version who wished he had died with them.
The moment the memory surfaced, her heart lurched violently as if trying to stop itself.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, choking on a sob. She had wished that, didn't she? Wished that the humiliation of being tied to him would disappear neatly with one tragic headline. Wished that the engagement would dissolve itself without her having to make a decision.
And now she lived in the consequences of those wishes.
A cage.
A cage she chose.
A cage she climbed into and locked from the inside.
A cage guarded by a man who didn't even want her there—but felt too guilty to let her fall apart again.
The humiliation was suffocating.
Her vision blurred again as she stared around at the opulent room—its gleaming floors, tall windows, imported fabrics, handcrafted furniture—and realized it all meant nothing. Luxury couldn't disguise imprisonment. Wealth couldn't soften rejection. Marriage couldn't erase the truth:
She was not his partner.
She was his responsibility.
A responsibility he resented.
Another weight on his shoulders. Another burden. Another reminder that everything he touched turned to dust and misery.
And she had added herself willingly to that pile.
A faint knock sounded at her door.
Seraphina jerked upright, wiping her face quickly even though no one was supposed to enter without permission. Before she could speak, a maid's voice drifted through—quiet, respectful, rehearsed.
"Madam, Mr. Harrington has instructed that a therapist will arrive tomorrow morning. Please be ready by nine."
Her stomach dipped.
Of course. He was doing exactly what he promised. He would stabilize her. Protect her. Manage her like one of his responsibilities.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Would you like anything brought up?" the maid asked gently.
Seraphina swallowed. "No… nothing."
"If you require anything, please ring."
Silence returned.
Seraphina exhaled shakily, her voice barely audible as she curled into herself on the bed, head pressed against her knees.
"I got what I wanted," she whispered. "I got it. And all I did was trap myself again."
She buried her face deeper, breath trembling.
"I chose another cage… and this one… this one is even harder to escape."
And somewhere in the mansion—across halls, across empty drawing rooms—Adrian sat alone in his office, hands clenched, breathing ragged, haunted by the knowledge that he had just tied himself to a woman whose suffering he could not ignore and whose love he could not return.
Two cages.
Two prisoners.
Bound by a marriage neither of them could walk away from without blood on their hands.