Chapter 5 The Gilded Cage Closes

(POV: Isabela Montoya)

My heart jumped, then started pounding hard against my ribs. The desperate beat felt loud in the thick silence after Quino called my name. Papa wants to see you. Now. The impatience in his voice, the sharp, final sound – it wasn't just about the brochures. This was something bigger. Something important. Something awful.

My fingers finally pushed the floorboard back into place – click – just as Quino banged on the door again, louder. "Isabela!"

"Coming!" The word squeaked out, high and shaky. It didn't sound like my voice. Hands trembling, I smoothed my dress. I forced my wobbly legs to push me up and towards the door. I caught my reflection in the big mirror-pale face, eyes too wide, trying hard to look blank. The mask clicked into place. Looking like a perfect doll outside; feeling like broken glass inside.

Quino stood stiffly in the hall, arms crossed tight over his chest. He wouldn't even look at me. He just flicked his head towards the west wing of the house. "Papa wants you. Study. Now." Short. Cold.

Walking beside him felt like torture. Each step on the marble floor seemed to boom loudly, echoing the sick dread twisting tighter in my gut. The air in this house always felt thick, heavy with secrets and old violence. But today it felt crushing, pressing in on me. Even the guards looked sharper, their eyes following us. Did they know? Was I the last one to find out about whatever waited for me?

Quino walked slightly ahead. His silence was like a wall between us. I couldn't find any comfort there, no feeling of a brother helping his sister. He was Papa's heir, the enforcer Papa was training. His loyalty was only to the Montoya name, to saving our failing family business, not to the sister walking towards her doom behind him.

We stopped before the huge, dark wooden doors of Papa's study. Did they always look this tall? They felt bigger today, scarier somehow. Quino knocked once, sharply, on the wood. Then he pushed the door open without waiting. He stepped aside just enough for me to go in. He followed right behind me and pulled the door shut. The lock clicked-quiet, firm, and with a chilling sound like a jail cell door slamming shut.

Papa's study was the center of his power. It was made to scare people. Bookshelves went from floor to ceiling, covering three whole walls. They were packed tight with fancy leather books that looked important but were mostly just dusty decorations. Old maps showing lands and shipping routes hung next to strange, modern paintings Papa liked. His desk was huge, dark polished wood, kept perfectly clean except for a single phone system and a heavy crystal ashtray, even though Papa hadn't smoked in years. The study smelled old-like leather, faint ghosts of cigars, and the sharp chemical smell of Papa's hand cleaner.

He sat behind the desk. He wasn't slumped over like at breakfast. Now he sat straight up, strangely stiff, like he was bracing himself for something. That little shake in his hands was still there, giving him away. But his jaw was set hard. His gaze caught mine instantly-dark, sharp, intense. Felt like he looked right through me. Shadows from the curtains deepened the hollows of his face, showing the bones beneath thin skin, sharp and gaunt. Like looking at a skull. But even though illness had clearly wasted him physically, that aura of absolute, cold authority was still there, heavy and suffocating in the air around him. Undiminished."Sit down, Isabela," he ordered. The rough anger he had before was gone. This was worse-a flat, cold voice that sent ice down my spine.

My feet felt heavy as rocks as I crossed the thick rug to the stiff leather chair facing his desk. Like walking to be executed. I sank onto the cold leather. I locked my shaking hands together in my lap. Quino stood near the door, looking relaxed but watchful-a silent warning that this was serious.

Silence stretched for a moment, heavy and tight. Papa put his trembling fingertips together. His eyes stayed on me, steady, judging me. I met his gaze, forcing myself not to look away, hoping my eyes didn't show the desperate prayer pounding inside me. Don't show him you're scared.

"Our situation," Papa began, his voice steady now, scary in its control, each word chosen carefully, "is..." He paused slightly. "...delicate." He stopped, letting the soft word hang heavy in the air. "Alliances change. Old enemies see weakness as a chance to attack." His eyes flickered briefly, maybe admitting he was getting older, weaker, without saying it out loud. "We must make things stable. The Montoya legacy must be protected. No matter the cost."

My blood ran cold. I knew right away what this was about. It was the secret price paid in our world, the dark trade made for safety and power. Daughters were tools, things to be traded to make alliances, seal deals, end fights. I had always known this, like a fact in a book. But knowing it and having it happen to me were completely different things.

"Therefore," Papa continued, his voice dropping a little, taking on a hard edge that meant it was final, "an agreement has been made. A necessary one. It will make our position strong and scare off our enemies." He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes pinning me there. "You will marry Mateo Castillo."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Mateo Castillo. Not just a name, not just some ally I hadn't met. Him. The boy – the young man – from that terrible day. Cold eyes. That was the first thing I remembered. The boy covered in blood, standing in the middle of all the death, making that vow with terrifying calm. The memory rushed back, sharp and too real: the shine of the gun, the sharp smell of gunpowder mixed with warm blood, the awful neatness of the killings, his shadow turning towards me under the table. And the chilling thought: back then, he wasn't much older than me. Just a boy. What was he like now, ten years later? Was that coldness even worse? Was the violence deeper?

Air caught sharp in my throat. My mind screamed no while ice flooded my veins. It couldn't be. Not him. Please, not him.

"Papa...?" The name was a choked whisper. I saw annoyance flash instantly in his eyes.

"There is nothing to discuss, Isabela," he snapped back. The hard edge returned to his voice like a knife being drawn. The weak old man disappeared, replaced by the unbending father. "This is not a request. It is a decision. Final." He waved a shaky hand dismissively. "The Castillo connection is essential. Mateo is young, ruthless, ambitious. He controls the southern routes now. He's gaining power faster than anyone expected after his own father... stepped down. This marriage helps both our families. It ends the quiet tension that's been between our families for years. It shows we are united and strong."

"But-" I tried again. Desperation pushed past the fear. The sick taste of panic burned in my throat. "Papa, please, listen-"

"Silence!" The word felt like a whip cracking across the desk, sharp and stinging. He lunged forward, leaning over the polished wood. His weak body was forgotten. His eyes suddenly burned with a fierce heat that shocked me. "Do you actually think you have a choice in this? Do you think your childish dreams matter when our survival is at stake?" His words hit me like stones. He was talking about the university brochures. He must know about them, know I hid them. Was this planned all along? A cruel punishment for my pathetic hopes? "You are a Montoya. You have a duty. Your duty is to secure our future. Mateo Castillo understands duty. He understands what must be done. You will learn from him."

Hot tears pricked my eyes, blurring my vision for a second. Stinging. But I blinked hard, pushed them back. Would not cry. Held myself together. Not now. Crying would just prove him right-prove I was still a child. Show weakness. I risked a quick look at Quino, hoping for... something. Anything. His face was blank, like a mask. His eyes were fixed hard on the opposite wall. His jaw was tight. No help there. None at all. He wouldn't stand up to Papa, not for me, not for this. He accepted the order as necessary, maybe even smart from his view. I felt completely, utterly alone.

My mind raced back frantically, searching for any power I had, any memory of a time Papa had changed his mind, had listened. A quick picture flashed in my head: me, maybe seven or eight years old, begging desperately for a kitten I found hiding in the stables during a storm. Papa was scary even then, but Mama was alive, a softer feeling beside him. He had listened to my breathless reasons about taking care of it, about being lonely. His face was serious but... he seemed to be thinking about it. He finally, unwillingly, agreed, with a rough warning about taking good care of it. That man, the one who could sometimes be reached, felt like a ghost now. Buried under layers of fear, sickness, and the harsh needs of his world. That door was closed. Forever.

The brochures felt like burned paper ashes in my memory now. My paper wings had just been violently ripped off. My carefully protected spark of hope was put out, drowned in the icy truth of this order. I wasn't Isabela Montoya, the person who dreamed of libraries and fall leaves. I was a thing. A bridge between two powerful, dangerous families. Handed over to a man whose name brought thoughts of death and cold control. My future wasn't mine to make; it had just been signed away in a deal made for survival. The fancy cage hadn't just gotten stronger; its door had slammed shut and the lock had clicked firmly into place.

"The engagement will be announced next week," Papa stated. He leaned back slightly. The burst of anger seemed to have tired him out. "The wedding will follow quickly. Plans are already being made. Quino will handle the security." He looked from me to my brother. His eyes stayed on me a moment longer, hard, waiting. He was daring me to argue more, challenging me to show any more useless fight. "You understand your duties, Isabela?"

The question hung in the air. It demanded more than just understanding. It demanded agreement. Obedience.

My throat felt tight, raw. I couldn't speak, couldn't force any words out. But the small, tiny nod I managed to give seemed to be enough for him.

"Good," he said sharply. "That is all. You may go."

He gave a vague, careless wave of his hand, already looking back down at his desk, at whatever paperwork he had spread out there that I couldn't make out. Dismissed. The meeting was clearly over. I stood up on legs that felt numb, unsteady. Turning, avoiding Quino's eyes which I felt slide towards me now – maybe filled with pity he couldn't say out loud – I walked towards the door. It took immense effort to lift each foot, making the short walk to the door feel agonizingly long. My fingers wrapped around the cold knob, then pulled-the heavy door swinging reluctantly open. Crossing the threshold felt like finally breaking the surface after being submerged too long; the stale hallway air suddenly tasted impossibly fresh, sweet, like life itself. But the hallway air felt just as thick and heavy as the silence inside Papa's room had been. No escape. It tasted old, bitter. My future, which just moments ago held the weak, secret chance of escape, now stretched out in front of me like a narrow, terrifying path leading straight into the hands of Mateo Castillo. The silence I walked into wasn't empty; it screamed with the final sound of Papa's order. The gilded cage had closed, and the key, I suspected, was now held firmly by Mateo.