Chapter 3 - The Golden Cage
An hour later, the private elevator hummed as it ascended to the top floor of the Rowe Estate in the hills overlooking the bay.
The doors opened directly into a sanctuary of dark marble, floor-to-ceiling glass, and soft velvet furnishings. It was vast, silent, and intimidatingly sterile.
A middle-aged woman in a crisp grey uniform met us in the foyer. “Good evening, Mr. Rowe. The guest suite has been prepared with organic linens, and Dr. Harrison is on standby for a medical examination.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” Cassian said, removing his damp coat and handing it to her. “Please prepare a light, nutritious meal for Clara. No caffeine, no raw unpasteurized cheeses.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “You already memorized pregnancy dietary restrictions?”
“I spent the last five months reading every obstetrics textbook printed in North America while my men searched the eastern seaboard for you,” Cassian replied without a trace of irony. “I don't leave details to chance.”
Mrs. Gable guided me down a grand mahogany hallway to a sunroom suite overlooking a lit swimming pool and private gardens. The bed was larger than my entire former studio apartment. A rack of soft cashmere maternity dresses and silk robes sat in the corner, all brand new with tags intact.
“How did you get these clothes?” I asked, touching a pale blue sweater.
“Mr. Rowe had three luxury boutiques send over their entire seasonal inventory the moment he confirmed your name on the building’s employee roster two hours ago,” Mrs. Gable explained warmly. “He was frantic, Miss Clara. I’ve worked for him for twelve years, and I have never seen him raise his voice to security the way he did tonight when he realized you were carrying heavy trash bags.”
My heart did a strange, uncomfortable flutter in my chest.
I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, looking out over the glittering grid of the city below. Down there, in the damp streets, I had spent months counting nickels to buy folic acid pills. Up here, warm air smelled of fresh jasmine and sandalwood.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Cassian stepped inside, having changed into a charcoal sweater and trousers. The sharp edge of his corporate suit was gone, but his presence still filled the entire room.
“Is the room acceptable?” he asked, standing near the doorway, keeping a respectful distance.
“It’s too much, Cassian,” I murmured, holding my elbows. “I’m a girl who grew up in a double-wide trailer in Ohio. I don't belong in a palace.”
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Cassian walked over slowly, stopping two feet away.
“You are carrying the heir to everything I own, Clara,” he said, his voice deep and velvet-soft. “And more importantly... you are the only person who looked at me on that hotel roof and didn't ask for my money or fear my name. You belong wherever you want to be.”
