Chapter 8 The Velvet Cage

The silence inside the car stretches long and velvet-thick. You don't speak. You don't breathe deeply. You just let yourself drift, lulled by the low hum of the engine and the cold glass of the window against your temple. Outside, the city is a blur of wet lights and gray shapes-nothing real enough to hold onto.

But then your phone buzzes again.

Not a message this time.

A name.

Adrian.

You hesitate before answering. Always that pause. That flicker of resistance that's more muscle memory than rebellion now.

You swipe to pick up.

"Say something," his voice says, low and steady. No greeting. No preamble.

Your throat tightens. You glance at the driver, still silent, eyes fixed ahead like he's never heard a voice before.

"I saw Elias," you murmur.

A beat of silence.

Then, "Did he touch you?"

You flinch.

"No."

"Good," Adrian says, like that's the only answer that matters. "Come home."

The line goes dead.

You don't realize you're holding your breath until the mansion gates slide open in front of you.

The car curves up the long driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and your heartbeat starts to quicken. Not out of fear, exactly. Something else. Something that always waits behind those doors.

But the house doesn't greet you with silence this time.

There's a voice.

A laugh.

A woman's.

Sharp. Laced with champagne and something older than charm.

You pause as the front door opens and a woman strides into view-barefoot, holding a half-full glass, wrapped in a silken robe that wasn't meant to be worn modestly.

She doesn't startle when she sees you. Doesn't blink.

"Ah," she says, smiling like a cat who's already finished her prey. "The little doll returns."

You stare at her. She's tall, red-haired, maybe in her early thirties-but ageless in that expensive, careless way. Her eyes are the same kind of dangerous as Adrian's, only warmer, more amused.

You don't move.

"Let me guess," she says, sauntering closer. "He didn't tell you I'd be here."

You say nothing.

She tips her head and sighs, mock-sympathetic. "Poor thing. You look like you've just been slapped with a memory."

"Who are you?" you finally manage.

She grins.

"Liana."

She doesn't offer a last name.

And then she leans in, voice low and sweet and dangerous. "I'm the one who built him before you came to break him."

Your stomach drops.

Behind you, the driver closes the door.

You're not sure if you're stepping inside anymore.

Or if you've just walked into a war.

You don't answer her.

You just stand there, the hem of your coat dripping onto the marble, your skin still holding the chill of the rain outside-but it's not the cold that makes your breath shallow. It's the way she looks at you. Like she already knows how the rest of the story ends, and she's just waiting for you to catch up.

"Don't worry," Liana says, swirling the liquid in her glass. "I'm not here to steal your crown."

You didn't know you were wearing one.

She turns, gliding down the hallway as though she owns it. And maybe she does. Maybe she always did.

You follow, not because you want to-but because she expects you to.

The hallway feels longer tonight. Every step muffled. Every wall listening. The portraits seem to shift in your periphery-too many eyes, too many secrets.

She leads you to the sitting room.

Dim lighting. A low fire. A single lamp flickering gold over the rim of her wineglass as she sinks into a chaise like she's been draped there her whole life.

You hover by the door, unsure if you're allowed to enter, unsure who makes the rules anymore.

"Relax," she says without looking at you. "You're not the first girl to look at this house like it might eat her alive."

You swallow hard. "What are you doing here?"

That smile again. Slower this time. Softer. But not kind.

"I used to live here," she says, crossing one leg over the other. Her robe slips slightly. You see the shimmer of silk beneath. "I'm visiting."

You shake your head. "Adrian doesn't let people just visit."

She lets out a little laugh-dry, full of history. "He does if he still owes them."

That sentence sits heavy between you.

You finally step inside, the door whispering closed behind you.

"What does he owe you?" you ask.

Liana's eyes flick to yours.

And for a second-just one-her smile falters.

"Everything."

She sets her glass down. The sound is too loud in the quiet room.

"I knew Adrian before he became Adrian," she says. "Before the mansion. Before the control. Before the contracts and the cages dressed like palaces."

Your stomach tightens.

"You loved him," you whisper.

"I made him," she corrects.

The words punch the air out of your lungs.

For a second, you forget how to stand.

She rises, moves toward you with that same eerie elegance. Stops just close enough for you to smell her perfume-jasmine and smoke.

"I'm not your enemy," she says. "But don't make the mistake of thinking you're his equal."

The tension stretches tight.

And then-

The door opens.

Both of you turn.

Adrian.

Stillness.

He doesn't look at her. Not at first. His eyes are locked on you.

"You're late," he says softly.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Liana, beside you, just exhales and brushes past him.

"Don't worry," she murmurs. "I was just reminding her where the walls are."

Then she's gone.

And Adrian is standing there, the silence clawing at your throat.

He steps forward.

Takes your chin in his hand.

Tilts your face up.

"What did she say to you?"

You shake your head, voice small. "Nothing."

He studies you. For a second, it's like he might kiss you.

Instead, he lets go.

"Get upstairs," he says, low.

You obey.

But as you walk away, your heart still pounding, Liana's voice echoes behind your ribs.

"I made him."

And suddenly...

You're not sure which one of them is the more dangerous.

You climb the stairs with your pulse in your mouth.

The house is too quiet again-but now it's a listening kind of quiet, like something behind the walls is waiting for you to breathe wrong. Like it's aware that Liana's perfume still lingers on your skin.

You pass the second-floor landing and don't look at the doors lining the hallway. You don't want to see if hers is open. You don't want to know if Adrian gave her his room once.

Your fingers shake when you close your bedroom door behind you.

Not your bedroom. His.

You just sleep here.

Your coat is wet, and your hair is stringy and damp against your cheeks. You don't move to change. You just sink onto the edge of the bed and press your palms against your knees, like you need to ground yourself before the floor vanishes again.

She said I made him.

And the worst part is... you believe her.

Your phone buzzes again.

You don't want to look.

But you do.

One new message.

No name.

Just three words:

Come to me.

You don't ask where.

You already know.

The hallway outside his wing is colder somehow, the air sharper. Every step feels like a decision you already regret making. You reach his door, and it opens before you knock.

He's waiting.

Adrian stands with his back to the fireplace, sleeves rolled, collar open, eyes unreadable. One glass in his hand. One on the table.

He doesn't speak as you step inside.

The door closes behind you with a slow finality that makes your spine stiffen.

"I didn't tell you about her," he says eventually, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as dangerous.

You don't answer.

Because there's no point.

Because he never tells you anything until it's too late to run from it.

"She was here before all of this," he continues. "Before the rules. Before the structure. Before I learned how to... control what I want."

You fold your arms. It's instinct, not defiance.

"And what was she?" you ask.

He looks at you like the question amuses him.

Then he walks toward you-slow, deliberate, like he's weighing how much truth to give.

"She was the storm," he says. "Before I learned to build walls."

You don't realize you're holding your breath until he reaches out and cups your cheek.

"But she was never you."

A beat.

"You should know that."

You blink hard.

"Then why is she here?"

His thumb brushes your jaw. "Because she's not finished."

A cold crack runs through your chest.

"What does that mean?"

Adrian leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"It means she wants to see if the doll I chose is breakable."

You recoil slightly-but he doesn't let you step back. His hand finds your wrist, firm but not cruel.

"I didn't bring her here to hurt you," he says. "But I'm not going to stop her from showing you who she is."

Your voice is barely a whisper. "So I'm just... what? A test?"

Adrian's eyes flash with something too quick to name.

"No," he says. "You're the answer."

He releases you.

Turns.

Walks away like he didn't just rip the floor out from under you.

But you don't fall.

Not yet.

Because now you know something you didn't before.

Liana isn't just part of his past.

She's the ghost still haunting the lock.

And you...

You're the one holding the key.

You don't sleep that night.

You lie still, wrapped in cold sheets and colder thoughts, staring at the ceiling like it might eventually offer you an answer.

But all it gives you is silence.

And the faintest sound of laughter down the hall.

Liana's.

You wonder if Adrian is with her.

You hate that you wonder.

By morning, your eyes burn and your body feels like it's been hollowed out. You slip into the shower without thinking, scrubbing your skin too hard, too long-like you can rinse off the doubt crawling beneath it.

By the time you walk into the dining room, she's already there.

Of course she is.

Liana sits at the table with one leg tucked beneath her, wrapped in a silk robe that should be indecent but somehow looks like armor. She's stirring her coffee slowly, languidly, like this is her house.

Like you're the visitor.

She doesn't look up when you enter.

Adrian does.

He stands beside the window, dressed in black, tie abandoned, sleeves rolled again like last night never ended.

His eyes meet yours-and there's something unreadable in them.

But there's no apology.

"Good morning," Liana purrs, finally glancing up.

You don't answer.

Adrian gestures toward the chair across from her.

"Sit."

The word is soft.

Still, it leaves no room for interpretation.

You do.

Liana studies you as you move, eyes trailing every inch like she's measuring you. Not like a rival. More like a scientist watching a specimen that's learned a new trick.

"I like this one," she says lightly, sipping her coffee.

You don't know if it's a compliment or a threat.

Adrian doesn't smile. "She's not here for your approval."

Liana raises an eyebrow. "No? Then why is she still trembling under it?"

You flinch before you can stop yourself.

She notices.

Of course she notices.

Adrian's jaw tightens, barely. His gaze flicks to you-sharp, assessing. Then, he moves to the table, sets a hand on your shoulder. Not possessive. Not comforting. Something else.

A message.

"She doesn't need to prove anything," he says.

Liana laughs softly, setting her cup down.

"Oh, darling. Everyone needs to prove something in this house. Even you."

You see it then.

The crack in him.

It's brief.

So brief you almost miss it.

But it's there.

And it tells you more than he ever would.

This isn't just a visit.

Liana's here to unmake something.

Maybe him.

Maybe you.

Maybe both.

She stands, slow and graceful, crossing to Adrian like she's walked this path a thousand times. She leans in, lips near his ear, her smile too sharp to be sweet.

"I hope your little doll dances better than the last one," she whispers.

Then she turns to you.

"And I hope she doesn't break."

You don't look away.

You won't.

But your breath is shallow.

Because she's not bluffing.

And Adrian's silence?

It isn't denial.

It's consent.

She leaves the room without waiting for a dismissal.

The air she leaves behind is thick with something unsaid.

You sit there in that silence, Adrian's hand still warm on your shoulder, the coffee untouched in front of you.

And you realize-

This is the beginning of something.

Not a game.

Not a test.

A war.

And you're no longer sure who you're fighting.

Or who you're fighting for.