Chapter 2

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

I could hear my grandfather' s steady breathing, a comforting sound from my childhood.

"Are you sure, Sarah?" he finally asked. His voice was laced with a concern that was both warm and heavy. "You know what coming home means. You know the arrangement I've made for you."

I knew.

For years, my grandfather had been trying to get me to leave Mark. He saw through Mark' s charm from the very beginning. He called him a fake, a user.

He had offered me an escape route: a marriage.

A strategic alliance with the son of an old family friend, a man named Ethan who was now a successful tech entrepreneur. It was a practical solution, a way to secure my future and tie our families' influential businesses together.

I had always refused. I was in love, I had told him. I chose Mark.

"I'm sure, Grandpa," I said, my voice steadier this time. I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand. "I' m ready for the arrangement."

"What happened?" he asked, his tone sharp. "Did that artist finally do something you couldn't forgive?"

I couldn't bring myself to tell him the whole humiliating story. Not yet. The shame was too raw, too close.

"We just grew apart," I lied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "I realized we want different things in life."

It was a weak excuse, and we both knew it.

My grandfather didn't press me. He was wise enough to know when to let things be.

"Alright, Sarah," he said softly. "Ethan is a good man. He will treat you well. He's known about the possibility of this arrangement for a long time, and he has always been respectful."

A good man. A man who would treat me well. It sounded so simple, so foreign.

"Pack your things. I'll have someone pick you up from the airport. We'll handle everything from there," he said, his voice full of the quiet authority I had always associated with him.

"Okay, Grandpa. Thank you."

"I love you, Sarah. Welcome home."

After I hung up the phone, I sat on the floor of the closet, surrounded by the life I had built with Mark. His expensive suits hung next to my dresses. His art supplies were stacked in a corner.

For five years, he had kept me in this beautiful apartment, a gilded cage.

He paid for everything. The rent, the food, my clothes, my studio space. He loved to say that he was taking care of me, that I was his muse and didn't need to worry about anything but being beautiful and inspiring him.

At first, it felt romantic.

Later, I realized it was a form of control.

I had no money of my own. No savings. No real independence. I was completely reliant on him. He had isolated me, made me believe that my world revolved around him and his art.

He made all the decisions. Where we ate, who we saw, how we spent our time.

I had no choice. I had no voice.

And I had allowed it. I had mistaken his control for love, his obsession for passion.

Now, I was choosing something else. A marriage to a stranger, an arrangement made by my grandfather. It wasn't my choice, not really. It was just a different cage.

But this time, at least I knew what it was. And maybe, just maybe, this cage would have a door I could open myself.