Gilded Cage

Isabella Hart POV

I'm dead and this is some weird afterlife.

That's my first coherent thought as consciousness creeps back in. I'm staring up at a ceiling painted with cherubs and gold leaf that probably costs more than my yearly tuition. Silk curtains the color of deep wine hang from a four-poster bed that could fit my entire apartment inside it.

My second thought hits harder: Why does everything hurt except the places that should hurt most?

I sit up slowly, testing my body like I would examine a patient. My head should be pounding from the crash—I remember hitting the window, tasting blood. But there's no pain, no dizziness. I run my fingers along my scalp where I felt the warm trickle of blood, but find only smooth skin.

The cut on my temple is gone. Not healing—gone. Like it never existed.

My ribs should be screaming from the seatbelt impact, but when I press against them, nothing. I pull up the silk nightgown someone dressed me in and find unmarked skin where bruises should bloom purple and black.

"What the hell," I whisper, voice hoarse from disuse.

The room around me looks like it was torn from a European castle and transported to—where exactly? Antique furniture that belongs in a museum. Oil paintings in heavy golden frames that I recognize from art history textbooks. A Persian rug so intricate it probably took years to weave.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching marble floors that feel like ice. The nightgown is silk, expensive, and fits me perfectly despite the fact that I've never worn anything this fine in my life.

A massive wardrobe stands against one wall, its dark wood carved with scenes of hunting and warfare. I pull it open and freeze.

Clothes hang inside in my exact size. Designer labels I've only seen in magazines. Dresses, jeans, sweaters, all perfectly organized by color and style. Even underwear and bras in the right size, still with tags attached.

Someone has been planning this. Not just the kidnapping, but everything after.

I grab the first pair of jeans and a sweater, dressing quickly. The clothes fit like they were tailored for my body. Even the jeans are hemmed to exactly the right length for my legs.

The window calls to me next. Heavy curtains frame glass that looks like it's bulletproof—thick and slightly green-tinted. Beyond it stretches manicured gardens that could grace the cover of a luxury home magazine. Topiary animals. Fountain sculptures. Stone paths winding between flower beds that probably require a team of gardeners.

And walls. High stone walls topped with what looks like razor wire, stretching as far as I can see.

This isn't a hospital. This is a compound.

I try the door handle, knowing what I'll find before my hand closes around the ornate brass. Locked. Of course it's locked.

The nursing part of my brain kicks in, methodical and analytical despite the fear crawling up my throat. I've been unconscious for at least several hours, maybe longer based on how rested I feel. Someone changed my clothes, treated any injuries I might have had. Someone who knows my exact measurements and dress size.

How long have they been watching me?

A soft knock interrupts my spiral of questions. The lock clicks, and the door swings open to reveal a woman in her fifties carrying a silver tray. She's small, round, with graying hair pulled back in a neat bun. Her smile is warm but doesn't quite reach her dark eyes.

"Buongiorno, signorina," she says, her Italian accent thick but her English clear. "I am Rosa. I bring breakfast."

She sets the tray on a small table near the window. Real china plates, silver utensils, crystal glasses. The food looks like it came from a five-star restaurant fresh fruit, pastries that smell like butter and heaven, coffee that makes my mouth water.

"Where am I?" I ask, staying by the door.

"You are safe," Rosa says, but her hands shake slightly as she arranges the dishes. "Mr. Vincent, he will explain everything soon."

Vincent. The name those men mentioned before I lost consciousness.

"I need to call my mother. She doesn't know where I am."

Rosa's face tightens with what might be sympathy. "I am sorry, signorina. No telephone calls yet. But soon, perhaps."

I step closer, noting how Rosa's shoulders tense. "Rosa, how long have I been here?"

"Three days," she whispers, glancing toward the open door like she expects someone to be listening. "You were very sick from the accident."

Three days. My mother will be frantic. My nursing program will have marked me absent. People will be looking for me.

Won't they?

I reach out instinctively, placing my hand on Rosa's arm. "Please, I just need"

The moment our skin touches, terror slams into me like a physical blow. Not my own fear, but hers. Raw, bone-deep terror that makes my knees buckle. Rosa jerks back, eyes wide with something that looks like recognition.

"You have the touch," she breathes. "Like your papa."

"My father is dead." The words come out harsher than I intend. "He died when I was five."

Rosa shakes her head slowly. "Mr. Vincent will tell you the truth about your papa. But signorina..." She glances at the door again, then leans closer. "You are in the Romano estate. You understand what this means?"

The name means nothing to me, but Rosa's reaction suggests it should. Her face has gone pale, and that terror I felt through her skin intensifies.

"Who are the Romanos?"

"They own half of Chicago," Rosa whispers, backing toward the door. "Politicians, police, judges everyone has a price, and the Romanos pay it. Cross them, and people disappear. But you..." She looks at me with something between pity and envy. "You are valuable to them alive. But value can change, signorina. Value can always change."

The words chill me more than the marble floors under my feet. I'm not a guest here. I'm an asset.

"Rosa, please. There has to be a way"

Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside, moving with purpose toward my room. Rosa's face drains of what little color remained.

"Remember what I told you," she whispers urgently, backing toward the door. "You are valuable alive. But be careful not to become more trouble than you are worth."

The footsteps stop directly outside my door. Rosa practically flees, slipping past whoever stands in the hallway. I catch a glimpse of black suits and hands that could crush my skull without effort.

A man enters. He's in his mid-fifties, distinguished in the way that comes from power and money. His suit probably costs more than my car, and his silver hair is styled with precision. He should look like someone's grandfather, maybe a successful businessman or politician.

Instead, he looks like a predator in expensive clothing.

Two massive bodyguards flank him, but he dismisses them with a gesture. They step back into the hallway, close enough to respond if needed but far enough away to give the illusion of privacy.

His smile is warm, practiced, the kind politicians use at fundraising events. But his eyes are arctic ice, pale blue and completely without warmth.

"Isabella, my dear girl," he says, settling into the chair across from where I stand frozen by the window. "We have so much to discuss about your father."

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. This is Vincent, the man those kidnappers mentioned. The man Rosa fears so much she can barely speak his name.

The man who apparently knew my father.

"I told you," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "My father died when I was five."

Vincent's smile widens, and somehow that makes him look even more dangerous.

"Oh, my dear child. That's the first of many lies we need to correct."