Chapter 3 - The Golden Cage
The foyer of the Moretti estate looked like a museum. White Carrara marble floors, a sweeping double staircase, and a crystal chandelier that looked larger than Harper’s entire kitchen in Pilsen.
An older woman in a crisp black dress stood waiting at the foot of the stairs, her grey hair pulled into a tight bun.
"This is Mrs. Gable," Dominic said, taking Harper’s coat. Harper noticed the way he held her thin, worn coat—not with disgust, but with careful respect, handing it to a waiting butler. "She manages the house. Mrs. Gable, this is Harper. She will be staying in the East Wing."
"Welcome home, ma'am," Mrs. Gable said with a deep, respectful curtsy.
Harper swallowed hard. "Please... just Harper."
"Mrs. Moretti will do fine," Dominic corrected gently, stepping beside her. His hand moved to the small of her back. The touch was light, but the heat of his palm burned straight through the cotton of her waiter's vest. "Show her to her rooms. Have the chef prepare something light. She hasn't eaten since noon."
"Right away, sir."
Harper followed Mrs. Gable up the grand staircase. Her feet sank into the plush runner rug. As they reached the second-floor landing, Harper turned her head and looked back down.
Dominic was still standing in the foyer, looking up at her. He hadn't taken off his coat yet. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture immaculate, watching her with that dark, unreadable intensity that made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a tall building.
Her suite in the East Wing was larger than her entire apartment building. It featured a king-sized bed draped in cream silk, a fireplace flickering with warm blue gas flames, a walk-in closet the size of a bedroom, and an adjoining bathroom made entirely of green onyx. On the bed lay three large silk boxes stamped with the gold foil logo of Neiman Marcus.
"Mr. Moretti had these delivered two hours ago," Mrs. Gable explained, gesturing toward the boxes. "Sleepwear, day dresses, and shoes in your size. If anything does not fit properly, the tailor will be here at eight in the morning."
Harper walked over to the bed and touched the edge of one of the silk boxes. "How did he know my sizes?"
"Mr. Moretti notices details, ma'am," Mrs. Gable replied softly, a faint smile touching her lips. "He notices everything."
After Mrs. Gable left, Harper stood in the center of the vast, quiet room. The silence was deafening—no rattling radiator, no sirens wailing on the avenue, no loud voices from the neighbors upstairs. She walked to the window and looked out over the dark expanse of Lake Michigan.
Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She pulled it out.
It was a text from her brother, Leo: Harper??? A guy in a black suit just showed up at the apartment with pizza, a box of brand new winter clothes, and a letter saying I don't have to go back to Pilsen High. What is happening? Are you okay?
Harper let out a ragged breath, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. She sat on the edge of the silk-draped bed, her fingers tracing the giant diamond ring on her hand. It felt heavy, cold, and entirely surreal.
She typed back: I'm safe, Leo. Everything is taken care of. I'll explain tomorrow. Just pack your things. We're moving.
A knock sounded at the door connecting her room to the main hallway.
Harper froze. "Yes?"
The door opened slowly, and Dominic stepped inside. He had taken off his suit jacket and tie; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong wrists covered in dark hair and a thin, white surgical scar near his right wrist.
"Leo got the package?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"Yes," Harper said, standing up quickly. "He... he was confused. But thank you."
"He'll be moved into his dorm at Saint Ignatius by Sunday afternoon," Dominic said. "He’ll have his own room, a private tutor, and three meals a day. You don't have to worry about him anymore, Harper. You've taken care of him long enough. It's my turn now."
Harper looked down at her battered work shoes, suddenly feeling terribly out of place amidst the marble and silk. "Why are you doing this, Dominic? Really? You could have hired any high-society girl in Chicago. Someone who knows how to hold a champagne glass. Someone who fits into those tiny designer dresses."
Dominic walked toward her, his heavy leather shoes making no sound on the thick rug. He stopped two feet away. He was taller than her, but he didn't lean over her in a way that felt threatening; he simply commanded the space.
"High-society girls are born with gold spoons in their mouths, Harper," he said softly, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register. "They know how to smile at parties, but the second real blood hits the floor, they run. I live in a world where people try to kill me twice a year. I need a woman who doesn't scare easy. A woman who looks at a storm and stands her ground."
He reached out, his long fingers gently catching a stray strand of dark hair that had fallen out of her messy waitress bun, tucking it behind her ear. His knuckles brushed against her warm cheekbone.
May you like
Harper’s breath hitched, a sudden, fierce spike of heat shooting down her spine.
"As for fitting into dresses," Dominic murmured, his grey eyes trailing slowly down her throat, over the curve of her collarbone, down to the heavy, soft swell of her breasts beneath the black vest. "The women in those magazines look like stick figures. You... you look like a woman built for a king. Don't ever apologize for your body in my house."
