The Cage With View

I couldn’t breathe.

My chest tightened as though invisible hands were pressing against my ribs, my vision blurring around the edges. I stumbled, the weight of the world and a lifetime of silence collapsing onto me all at once. My back hit the cold marble wall of the corridor, and the ache in my throat clawed its way upward, desperate for release—but I swallowed it down. Like I always did.

“He’s sixty-two,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “He’s thrice my age.”

Tristan didn’t say a word. I felt him move closer, the air between us shifting as he bent down in front of me, one knee grazing the floor. His hands hovered at my sides, not touching, but close enough to ground me.

“Hazel.” His voice was low, calm, and firm. “You need to breathe. Look at me.”

I didn’t want to. If I looked at him, I’d fall apart. But my lungs burned, desperate for air, and something about the way he said my name—like I mattered, like I was more than a bargaining chip—made me meet his eyes. He voice was so soothing

His gaze was steady. Not kind. Not cold. Just... there.

I sucked in a breath. Then another.

I hated that he was the one witnessing this moment. I hated that someone had to. I hated myself more to fall apart in front of him

But I hated, most of all, that I wasn’t surprised.

My father had always been the same. A man who measured love in numbers and affection in contracts. I was born into his world—a world built on profit margins, handshakes, and sharp smiles. And from the moment I was old enough to walk, I’d understood my place in it.

I wasn’t his daughter. I was his investment.

Other girls had lullabies. I had lessons. Public speaking at five. Language tutors at six. Etiquette at seven. I wasn’t allowed scraped knees or childish tantrums. There was no space for softness in the Voss household. Not for the only heir to the empire.

My father had married four times. I’d called none of them “mother.” They came and went like staff. Some left quietly, others with lawsuits and bitter headlines. He didn’t care. As long as the press didn’t touch his name.

But with me, he was careful. Possessive. Not in a loving way—no, never that. It was calculated, strategic. He kept me tucked away, educated by the best, guarded like crown jewels. Not because he loved me, but because I was valuable. A future bargaining chip in a world where marriage was still currency for the powerful.

And now, he was cashing in.

A marriage alliance. That’s what he called it. As if I were land. Or a merger.

I gripped the edge of the marble paneling beside me, trying to stay upright. The corridor was silent now, the sound of my gasps having faded. Only the echo of our footsteps remained—a haunting reminder of the path I was being dragged down.

“Hazel,” Tristan said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go back in there.”

“I do,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Because he’ll make it worse if I don’t.”

He didn’t argue. He knew.

Tristan had seen the way my father treated me. Not with violence—never anything that would leave marks or bruises. Just the quiet cruelty of indifference. The way he’d interrupt me mid-sentence during meetings. The way he’d look through me when guests were around, only acknowledging my presence when it benefited him. The way he’d make decisions about me without ever speaking to me.

I was the perfect daughter, on paper. Accomplished, poised, obedient. And completely invisible.

I hated him. God, I hated him so much.

But even more than that, I hated how much I still wished—somewhere deep and buried—that he’d see me. Just once. That he’d say, “You don’t have to do this.” That he’d pull me away from this deal, from that man, from this life—and say, You deserve better.

But he never had.

He never would.

I straightened up slowly, wiping beneath my eyes with the back of my hand. The sting had faded, but the pain? That would linger like a scar beneath the surface.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” I murmured.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Tristan said.

“Yes, I do,” I replied. “Because if I don’t, I forget I’m supposed to behave. And if I forget to behave, I get punished.”

There was a flicker in his expression. The kind that came and went too quickly to decipher. But he didn’t press. He knew the rules. He knew my father.

And he knew that whatever I was being forced into... wasn’t new.

This wasn’t the first time my future had been written without my consent.

It was just the first time the ink felt permanent