Chapter 4 Gilded Bars and Paper Wings

(POV: Isabela Montoya)

Sunlight streamed through the big arched window. It made a thick, warm pool of gold on the soft grey carpet. It lit up the silk picture on the wall – peaceful shepherds under trees. It looked so calm, not like my real life at all. My bedroom suite was full of fancy things: heavy cream curtains tied with gold rope, old dark furniture polished shiny, lots of expensive perfume bottles on the dressing table that I rarely used. Anyone looking would see Montoya riches, a loved daughter living in luxury.

They wouldn't see the bars.

Not real iron bars anymore. Papa said those looked too ugly after I turned sixteen. Now, pretty iron swirls covered the bottom half of the special strong glass. Fancy, Papa called them. Protective. But to me? They were just fancy gold bars on a very expensive cage made of silk and fear. And watching everything, hidden high up near the ceiling above the door, was a tiny dark camera lens. You could barely see it. Part of the cage. Always watching.

I pushed back the heavy silk covers – so soft, ridiculously expensive – and put my feet on the floor. The polished wood felt cool and smooth. Camila, my maid since forever, had already put my clothes out on a chair: a plain linen dress, light blue, simple enough for breakfast with Papa. My whole life was planned out, scheduled, expected. My only real freedom was choosing which tea to drink, not choosing my own future.

A soft, musical chime sounded from the hall. Breakfast. I sighed quietly. Time for the next performance.

Putting on a blank face – the one I practiced for years – I let Camila help me dress. She moved quickly, professionally. She was older now, with lines around her eyes I didn't remember from when she used to try and coax a scared eleven-year-old out from under furniture. Did she feel sorry for me? Did she hate me? Or was I just another part of the big, dangerous house machine she worked in every day? Impossible to know. Nobody showed real feelings here. It wasn't safe.

The walk to the dining room was quiet. My slippers made no sound on the shiny marble. Two guards stood like statues near the west wing hall where Papa's study was. They nodded slightly as I passed. More watchers. More bars.

The dining room was already busy. My brother, Quino, sat waiting in his place opposite Papa's big chair down the long, gleaming table. Light poured generously through the floor-to-ceiling windows, scattering brilliant little sparks off the heavy silver forks and waiting crystal glasses. It made the room feel too bright and cold. Quino looked up when I came in and gave a quick, tight nod. He wasn't very warm usually. He looked tougher now, older, more like Papa used to look. You could see the worry lines between his eyebrows from all the pressure.

But my eyes went straight to Papa. My stomach twisted with that old mix of pity and nervousness. Santiago Montoya... his name still made people scared outside this house. But here? He looked... smaller. He sat hunched a little in his chair. His expensive suit looked too big on him now. His hair, once thick and black, was mostly thin silver, combed carefully. When he reached for his water glass, his hand shook a tiny bit. The ice cubes rattled loudly in the quiet room. I flinched.

"Isabela." His voice was thin, scratchy from being sick, weaker than before. But you could still hear the order underneath. "Sit."

"Papa," I murmured, sliding into my usual seat next to him. The room smelled like strong coffee and the sharp rubbing alcohol Papa always used on his hands now.

Maids came quietly, served breakfast without a word, then disappeared like ghosts. They always knew what you needed before you asked. Their eyes stayed looking down. The talk, like always, felt stiff, like business. Quino reported quickly about some shipping problem – not too many details, Papa hated small details unless they were really important. Papa listened. His eyes were sharp even though his body looked weak. Sometimes he asked a short question or gave a quick order that still made Quino tense up.

I picked at a piece of melon. I felt like I wasn't really there, just watching strangers eat breakfast. You could feel the tension in the quiet moments between words. Everyone pretended things were normal. But Papa's weakness wasn't just his shaky hands; it made the whole dangerous balance of our lives unsteady. Everyone knew it. Everyone felt it. The worry was always there, humming under the surface. Would today be the day everything fell apart? Could Quino handle it? Or would our enemies see we were weak and attack, like sharks smelling blood?

Suddenly, Papa slammed his weak hand flat on the table. The silverware jumped. Quino flinched. "Idiots!" Papa hissed, his face getting a little red. "Are all of you useless fools? This should have been handled weeks ago, Quino!"

"It is handled, Papa," Quino answered, his voice tight, controlled. "There was a problem. It's fixed now."

"Problems cost money! Problems show weakness!" Papa snapped back. He sounded out of breath. He glared at Quino. The old fire flashed briefly in his faded eyes. But the anger seemed to tire him out quickly. He looked drained. He waved a shaky hand like he didn't care anymore. "Just... see it doesn't happen again," he finished, the command barely a whisper. He sagged back against the high back of his chair, suddenly looking utterly deflated, like that flash of fury had cost him dearly.

I looked down at my plate quickly. Pretend I didn't see. Pretend I didn't feel that familiar tight knot of worry in my stomach. This was just our life – quiet tension broken by quick bursts of anger, always shadowed by the fear of losing control.

As soon as breakfast ended, I excused myself quickly. I mumbled a safe lie about needing to talk about menus. It felt so good to leave the dining room. My chest loosened up. I felt like I could finally take a real breath. I walked fast back to my rooms, trying to ignore the guards' eyes I felt following me, ignoring the silent bows from staff who stepped out of my way.

Inside my suite, I nodded for Camila to leave. I waited until I heard the solid click of the lock. Alone. Finally. I let out a long breath. Then, walking with purpose, I went to the corner by the window, where the old wooden chest sat. I knelt beside it. The rug was thick and soft here. My fingers found the edge of one floorboard, one that was slightly looser than the others. Using my fingernail, I carefully pried it up.

Underneath lay my secret. My small rebellion. My impossible dream.

A small, flat waterproof pouch held several thin, shiny brochures. University brochures. Oxford. Paris. Heidelberg. Places full of history, learning. Stone arches and falling leaves. Students rushing between classes, talking about poems and ideas, completely unaware of the dark, violent world I lived in. I pulled them out gently. The smooth paper felt cool in my hands.

The edges of the pages were a little worn. I'd unfolded and refolded them secretly so many times over the last few years. I traced the pictures with my finger: ivy covering old walls, sunny courtyards, classrooms filled with serious faces. Normal faces. Young people worried about exams, planning fun trips, falling in love without the threat of family deals or sudden, bloody violence. A life where being valuable didn't mean dodging bullets or getting rich through fear. A life where I could decide who I wanted to be.

Wanting that life hurt deep inside me, a sharp, constant ache. To walk on those paths, read those books with my own name, breathe air that didn't always smell like secrets and coming danger... it felt like wishing for the moon. Impossible. Crazy, even. Papa would never let me. Quino would think I was betraying the family. And yet... holding onto these paper dreams was the only thing keeping me from totally suffocating in this fancy prison. It was a tiny spark of defiance in the huge darkness.

I was lost in a picture of a library – endless rows of books, quiet readers bent over tables – when a sound shocked me back to reality.

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Coming down the hall, right towards my door.

Panic grabbed me, cold and instant. My heart slammed against my ribs. Oh god-the brochures! They were still scattered all over the floor, like proof of my secret dreams. Scrambling, my fingers suddenly clumsy and useless with fear, I scooped up the shiny pages. I shoved them blindly back into the pouch. The footsteps halted right outside. God, quick! My hands shook as I fumbled with the loose board, pushing hard, trying to settle it back into place. Couldn't get a proper breath-it just hitched uselessly in my chest.

The footsteps stopped right outside my door. A sharp, commanding knock rattled the heavy wood.

"Isabela?" Quino's voice. Sharp. Impatient. "Papa wants to see you. Now."