Chapter 3 - The Golden Cage
The ride in the bulletproof black sedan felt like traveling inside a spaceship. Leather seats that swallowed me whole, tinted windows that kept the chaotic city outside, and a soft, muted silence that felt entirely unnatural. Nathaniel sat across from me, his eyes never leaving my face.
“You have so many questions, don't you?” he asked gently, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Are you really my father?” I asked, finally voicing the thought that had been spinning in my head since he said those words in the lobby.
Nathaniel sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to shed years off his shoulders. “Yes, Ruby. I am. Twelve years ago, your mother and I… our worlds didn't fit together. People who wanted to hurt me targeted her. To keep her safe, she walked away, and I spent over a decade searching for her. She hid you from me to protect you, but she didn't know how dangerous things were becoming.”
Before I could process that my life had changed completely in the span of an hour, the car slid down a ramp into a subterranean parking garage beneath a sprawling estate that looked like a European castle carved into the cliffs overlooking the ocean.
Guards in dark suits stood at attention every ten feet. As the car door opened, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a neat bun and wearing a traditional housekeeper’s uniform stepped forward, her hands folded neatly over her apron.
“Mr. Graves,” she said, bowing her head slightly before her eyes landed on me. She gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. “Good heavens… Clara?”
“No, Mrs. Gable,” Nathaniel said as he lifted me out of the car. “This is Ruby. My daughter.”
Mrs. Gable’s eyes filled with tears. She stepped forward and knelt right beside us on the cold concrete. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. “Welcome home, little one. You’ve been so terribly missed.”
Inside, the mansion was vast and intimidating. High vaulted ceilings, sweeping staircases of white marble, and walls lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men in vintage suits. It felt less like a home and more like a museum.
“Your mother’s things are still in the East Wing,” Nathaniel murmured as we walked up the grand staircase. “We will bring her here tonight. She won't have to work another day in her life.”
Just as we reached the second-floor landing, a sharp, cold voice echoed from down the hallway.
“Nathaniel? What is the meaning of this? Why are the gates locked, and who is this dirty little beggar child standing in our hallway?”
We turned to see a stunning, impeccably dressed woman in her late thirties standing by the mahogany double doors. Her blonde hair was styled to perfection, and her eyes flashed with sharp, undisguised hostility as she looked down at my faded dress and dusty sneakers.
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It was Victoria Vance, the daughter of the city’s most prominent shipping tycoon, and the woman the financial newspapers frequently called the future queen of the Graves empire.
And her face twisted into an expression of pure venom as she looked at me.
