The Gilded Cage

My parents think they've struck gold. To the Seans, Eugene York is the son-in-law dreams are made of: billionaire, courteous, and impossibly patient with my "excesses."

They were so dazzled they didn't just walk me down the aisle; they practically sprinted to secure my future before I could scare him off.

The wedding was a grand, elegant blur. And then, it was over.

I'm currently thirty thousand feet in the air, sipping a drink that costs more than a car, realizing that nobody told me we were going to the wrong place.

I leaned toward the window of the private jet, watching the landscape shift. This isn't California. The rolling hills below are rugged, vast, and unmistakably Texas. I turned to the stewardess with a smile so sweet it could draw blood.

"We're landing in Texas."

The woman gave me a guarded look and returned a stiffened smile, her eyes empty. She said nothing.

"Eugene said California," my voice dropped an octave, I enunciated each word sharply. "Someone in this cabin is going to explain this to me. Right now!"

Silence. The servants suddenly found the floor very interesting. The stewardess studied the wall as if it held the solution to world problem.

I smiled in disbelief but remained seated anyways, although a cold, instinctive knot was already forming in my stomach. Something was wrong. I'd walked down an aisle in a gown that cost more than a mansion, said vows to a man whose face I'd barely seen through my veil, and now I was being shipped off like high-end merchandise to God knows who.

Nobody had asked me, Ivanna Sean what I really wanted. They never did.

The car turned through the gates, and for a moment, I forgot to be angry.

The villa didn't just appear; it revealed itself. Wrought heavy metal gates, crafted as lace, opened to a driveway of pale cobblestone. And then, the castle rose from the earth, a world built entirely from fantasies. Pale granite walls, tall turrets climbing toward a bleeding orange sky, and carvings so fine they looked like they were breathing.

I slowed down, my breath catching. It was magnificent. Overwhelming.

But what stole my breath wasn't the grandeur. It was the recognition.

This ancient castle, with its arched windows and winding stairs, was the exact image of a drawing I'd tucked away in my room years ago. A childish sketch of a house for royalty. I had drawn it from my imagination, never believing it existed.

Yet here it stood.

For a brief, confusing moment, I loved it. I stepped inside, my heels clicking against marble floors that shone like mirrors. The silk drapes, the hand-carved jade sculptures, everything was exactly to my taste.

But a gilded cage is still a cage.

I built walls for a reason. I spent years chasing away twenty suitors and crafting my reputation as "The Legendary Spoiled Brat" because I knew marriage wasn't a fairy tale. It was a contract. A way to make a woman weep in silk dresses while the world called her lucky.

My mom was a living testimony to that.

I promised myself I would never belong to anyone. I would never be like my mother.

And yet, here I was, delivered to a stranger's home, forced into the very fate I'd fought to avoid. I sat on the massive bed, staring up at the silk canopy. The food was perfect, the wardrobe was immaculate, and the service was silent.

Someone had studied me. Someone knew exactly what I liked.

I should have felt pampered, spoiled rotten in this luxurious cage. Instead, I felt like a bird being stuffed and fattened up for slaughter.

I took a slow walk through the endless halls. Guards in military uniforms stood frozen like statues, their eyes tracking me without a single word. Their silence said everything: these were not men you messed with.

On the surface, everything was flawless.

Everything was perfect. Almost too perfect. It was like living inside someone else's dream.

Except it wasn't my dream. And the man I'd married was missing from it entirely.

I hadn't seen Eugene since the day we stood in front of the judge. He hadn't appeared once in his own home. He was a ghost, someone who had bought me and then disappeared, leaving me alone in this beautiful prison built from memories I could no longer touch. How bitterly poetic.

I looked at the ring on my finger, the platinum heavy and cold thing. It felt less like jewelry and more like a shackle.

Boredom crept in like water under a door, slow, inevitable, and impossible to stop.

Finally, I decided I'd had enough. I would call my parents, unleash a theatrical rant, and demand they fix this. They always did.

I dialed.

"This number is no longer in service."

The flat, mechanical voice hit me like a door slamming in my face. I tried again. Ten times. Twenty. The same indifferent recording. My parents' number, the one that had been active my entire life, was dead.

I lunged for my laptop, my fingers flying as I typed a frantic email. The second I hit send, the screen flickered once and went completely black.

Dead.

The silence that followed was absolute.

I stood up, and for once, I didn't throw a tantrum. A cold, steady calm settled over me, the kind of quiet that expensive things make right before they shatter.

I walked into the hallway. The maids stood in their usual neat line, eyes lowered, the picture of perfect servitude.

"Where is Eugene?" My voice was quiet. Controlled. "I want to speak to him. Right now."

Nothing. Not a breath. Not a flicker of acknowledgment.

It hit me then, like a freight train in a terrifying way: Since the moment I'd stepped into this castle, not a single person had spoken to me. I'd been too busy being served to notice the silence was deliberate. I mean why would I want to chat a maid in the first place. It's beneath me. I thought initially, with the flipping of my hair.

But then, on a closer look, if I felt weird about this whole arrangement earlier, now the weirdness certainly did a triple time.

"Answer me!" I snapped.

Still nothing. The rage that had been hiding beneath the surface finally broke free. I stepped forward and hit the nearest maid from the side view, with the full force of my open hand and frustration.

CRACK.

My palm hurt, but I didn't care. Instead, I waited for the tears, the groveling, the apology I'd received from the Sean's servants since I was a child. But the woman didn't move. She didn't even blink..

She just kept staring at the wall as if I were a sound she'd learned to unhear..

I felt a chill right in my spine, vertebra by vertebra.

"What is wrong with every single one of you? Are you all zombies? Why are you all playing mute? Gracious God! Can't you talk? I'm f**ken talking to you." My voice cracked. I grabbed an antique vase from its stand and threw it in annoyance. Except , it connected with the God-knows-who, temple with a sickening crack. Red liquid oozing down one of the maid's face, and settled in her white collar, but she didn't even move an inch. Neither did she flinch.

I stumbled backward, my heart pulsing like a conga beat loudly against my ribs. This wasn't just wrong. It was preposterous.

I stumbled absentmindedly back into my room and tore through it like a storm. Pillows flew. Perfume bottles shattered, filling the air with a dozen conflicting scents. Books, vases, silk curtains, I reduced my "perfect" world to ruins in minutes.

When I finally stopped, my chest heaving and hair wild, I looked at the wreckage at my feet. The room looked exactly how my soul felt.

In the ringing silence, I understood the truth I could no longer talk myself out of. I wasn't lonely. I wasn't bored.

I was Trapped.

Prince's Introduction

On the other side of the world, a private jet sliced through the dawn sky before gliding onto the runway with the quiet authority of royalty.

The cabin door opened, and he appeared,

The Prince.

Dressed in a bespoke, charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, he descended the jet's steps with the calm, lethal elegance of a man born to rule.

Behind him, a wall of elite guards followed in seamless formation, their movements silent and disciplined.

A convoy waited. Within minutes, the prince was seated in his ultramodern office, floor-to-ceiling glass, black marble, and a view that made cities look like chessboards beneath him.

He reclined in his leather swivel chair, fingers gliding across the keyboard with practiced ease.

Across the desk stood Nicolas, his most trusted aide, holding a stack of documents.

Nicolas cleared his throat.

"Sir, the deal concerning the wine refinery in the Republic of China has been finalized. The acquisition is complete."

The prince didn't look up; he simply continued typing.

Nicolas continued, flipping a page.

"The First Lady of Johannesburg has requested a private meeting, likely regarding our new mechanized gold-mining machinery. Also, you've been invited to the Guinness Annual Honors Event for the Most Successful Youngest Billionaire."

He hesitated.

"And the customized car you ordered has arrived. You may inspect it at your convenience."

Still, the prince typed.

"And concerning the Sean family..."

His hands stopped.

He finally raised his head, dark eyes sharp and alert.

"What about the Seans?"

Nicolas straightened immediately.

"Our planted allies have begun to move. Progress is steady. We've secured spies in every major sector under Sean control, and we've successfully persuaded several of their most trusted men to switch sides. Additionally, we've begun purchasing their shares... discreetly."

The prince leaned back, twirling a pen between his fingers. For a moment, he looked almost thoughtful, almost bored.

Then he spoke casually, almost as an afterthought.

"Oh. That reminds me."

A faint smirk touched his lips.

"I have a wife, don't I? How is she?"

Nicolas blinked, caught off guard.

"Yes, sir. About that... she has been well-behaved until yesterday."

The prince arched a brow.

"Go on."

"She demanded to see you and nearly turned the house upside down. When she learned her calls to her family were being monitored and blocked, she lost control. One maid suffered a blow to the ear, still bleeding as of yesterday. Another was hit with a vase and is currently unconscious."

The prince chuckled softly, low and dangerous.

"Quite a temper."

He tapped the pen against the desk.

"So she's not happy about being married to me... and it took her this long to notice my absence? Hm."

His eyes glinted.

"Not bad."

Nicolas hesitated.

"So... what should be done, sir?"

"Well," the prince said, rising from his chair, "since she doesn't seem to want her maids anymore, then let's not impose them on her."

Nicolas's head snapped up.

"...Sir? Withdraw them? All of them?"

"Yes. Exactly."

Nicolas swallowed.

"With respect, my Prince, she will starve. She doesn't know how to cook, and it takes ten maids hours to clean the entire estate. Removing all of them may not be... wise."

"Oh?"

The prince gave a slow, amused smile.

"In that case..."

He turned his back to Nicolas, looking out the massive window at the city he ruled like a kingdom.

"Send Lady Margaret to her."

Nicolas's eyes widened as though the prince had just ordered an execution.

"What? Lady Margaret?" he stammered. "S–sir, she could kill her! Madam Margaret is known across three continents for her ruthlessness. Sending her to handle a spoiled girl like Ivanna... it doesn't sound wise. I'm afraid she may torture the girl to death, my Prince."

The prince didn't even blink.

"And how," he asked calmly, "is that supposed to be my problem, Nicolas?"

Nicolas swallowed.

The prince set his pen down, folded his hands, and leaned back with unhurried grace.

"If her own parents watched her rot into the thing she is now, then she clearly needs re-education. You've seen how Vanessa was raised." His tone softened only slightly at the mention of his sister.

"Despite being our youngest, despite being a girl, she endured every form of military training Lady Margaret put her through. And she flourished."

His gaze sharpened dangerously.

"If Vanessa could survive that, then Ivanna has no excuse."

He picked up the pen again, twirling it slowly, thoughtfully.

"Do you know the number of things I've heard Ivanna did? The scandals? The filth?"

His jaw tightened.

"I will not tolerate that level of rottenness anywhere near my name. If she survives, good. If not..." He shrugged lightly.

"That is hardly my fault."

Nicolas bowed his head in reluctant acceptance.

"...Very well, sir. If that is your decision."

The prince paused, eyes narrowing in thought.

"Wait."

He tapped the pen against his desk.

"You said she has been demanding to see me, correct?"

"Yes, my prince."

A cold, calculating smile curved at his lips.

"Then perhaps I should grant her that one request."

He rose from his chair with the quiet power of a man who commands nations.

"Let's pay her a visit before her... rejuvenation begins."

He adjusted his cufflinks.

"Who knows? She may truly not survive Margaret's training. In that case..."

His smile deepened.

"I should see my bride once more, while she is still whole."

He waved a hand dismissively.

"Prepare my car."

"Yes, my prince."

Nicolas bowed low and retreated from the office, leaving the prince tapping away remorselessly on his keyboard, unfazed and unhurried.

MEETING HER

Ivanna sat curled on her bed, seething.

Sulking.

Furious.

Her eyes were red from a night of yelling, and a fragile vase lay shattered on the floor, another casualty of her temper.

When the doorknob clicked, she didn't even bother looking.

"YOU LOWLY MAIDS!" she screamed, snatching a pillow and hurling it with all her strength.

"How dare you enter without my permission?! Get out before I strangle every one of..."

The words died.

Her breath caught.

The figure stepping into the room was not a maid.

He was tall, impossibly so, filling the doorway with a presence that made the air shift. His suit molded perfectly to a sculpted frame, the kind only discipline and power could create. His features... too perfect, too sharp, ethereal, almost unreal.

He looked like an angel carved from marble.

Or a demon disguised as one.

Ivanna's heart stuttered in her chest.

His aura, cold, commanding, untouchable, pressed against her like an invisible weight.

This man was not ordinary.

And this man was her...?

Her eyes narrowed suddenly, anger flaring back to life.

Her husband?

The reminder reignited her fury.

She sat up straighter on the bed, chin raised, attempting to hide the tremor that had shot down her spine moments ago.

The prince had barely taken one step into her room before a pillow flew at his face with the velocity of a missile. He caught it reflexively, years of combat training saving him from a humiliating smack, but the shock of it still stung his pride.

He lowered the pillow slowly, eyes sweeping the disaster around him.

The entire room looked like a war zone.

Shattered glass, overturned furniture, broken vases, torn curtains, nothing had survived her fury.

His jaw tightened.

"Wow," he murmured, voice low and edged with disbelief. "You did all this?"

He nodded once, disappointed.

"Hmm. Interesting."

Without another word, he turned and walked out.

Ivanna blinked, startled for a moment, before anger shot through her veins again. She stomped after him, following him into a much larger suite, his.

He entered with calm, controlled steps and slid off his tie, his back to her. Ivanna hovered behind him like a storm cloud, breathing hard, glaring at him with all the rage in her tiny, furious body.

He closed his eyes briefly, breathed out... steadying himself.

Then he turned.

And he froze.

For the first time, he truly saw her.

He had missed her appearance at the birthday party. At the wedding, she had avoided his gaze completely, half-hidden behind a veil, and he had been too consumed by vengeance to care. He assumed the worst, plain features, perhaps, or average beauty at best, reinforced by the city's unflattering rumors.

But the woman standing before him now...

She wasn't just beautiful.

She was devastating.

Her hazel eyes were bright and stormy, her lashes thick, her nose elegantly pointed, her lips full and plush with a natural crimson tint. And her body, God.

Curves sculpted in outrageous perfection. Rounded, full breasts. A flat waist. Hips that looked like they had been carved to tempt a saint. Skin smooth and glowing.

The prince's fingers twitched at his side.

He, a man who prided himself on self-control, felt his pulse stumble.

She looked like something out of a painting, too perfect to exist in reality. An untamed goddess wrapped in chaos.

He circled her slowly, expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him with subtle flickers, stealing forbidden glances, tracing every line of her body.

He had seen many beautiful women.

Women who graced magazine covers.

Women who ruled red carpets.

But none of them, not a single one, compared to Ivanna.

For a dangerous moment, he felt himself slipping.

Then he reminded himself of why she was in his life at all, revenge, strategy, political leverage.

He exhaled sharply, locking his emotions back into place.

"So," he said coolly, "I heard my bride demanded to see me. Here I am."

Ivanna scoffed, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"So you finally remember how to show up? Bride? Please, keep dreaming."

He chuckled softly, tilting his head.

"Really? Last time I checked, your family handed you over to me. I didn't ask for a wedding, yet they insisted. I was forced to register our marriage, remember?"

He tapped his chest mockingly.

"That automatically makes you my wife, Ivanna."

"Don't you dare call my name, you dimwit!" she snapped.

Before he could respond, she snatched something from the table and hurled it at him with vicious precision.

He caught it instantly.

His expression darkened.

She had thrown his limited-edition wristwatch, a custom piece worth more than the average apartment in the city.

"You call yourself a husband?" she shouted. "You left me here alone for almost ONE GOOD MONTHS! And you dare stand in front of me like you did nothing?! I could've gone with a dog instead of you!"

The prince exhaled slowly, as though he finally understood the root of her rage.

"I see where this is going," he murmured, placing the wristwatch on the bed with controlled precision. He lifted his gaze, eyes glinting.

"Not only do you enjoy throwing objects at your newly wedded husband... you also seem to have another problem."

He paused, lips curving.

"You miss me. You miss me so much you're practically growing fur."

Ivanna stared at him, then barked out a sharp, mocking laugh.

"Really? Eugene, or whatever ridiculous name you go by..." she waved a hand dismissively "...I don't give a damn about you. If someone had asked me one months ago, I wouldn't even know you existed."

The prince raised a brow.

"How strange. Because my sources reported that you've been crying nonstop to see me. Yet here you are, suddenly indifferent."

"Indifferent?" she scoffed. "If I didn't need to speak to my parents, I wouldn't care if you dropped dead at the door."

He blinked once.

"Such a foul tongue."

"I want to speak with my parents," she snapped. "Or better yet, I want to go see them. And I want out of this rat hole. Everything about you and this place is creepy, I can practically feel the walls crawling."

"You don't like it?" he asked, voice calm, almost amused.

"Are you deaf?" She spread her arms dramatically. "What is there to like? This house looks like a haunted castle. I just want to talk to my parents, and then we're done with this conversation."

"So because you couldn't reach them, that's why you beat a maid unconscious?"

Ivanna rolled her eyes with royal arrogance.

"What is my business with an ordinary maid? Why should I care about low-born people? If they can't answer simple questions, I'll beat them to death if I want. Those useless creatures, tell them not to show their faces again unless they want worse."

The prince's smile thinned into something dangerous.

"Oh, your wish, sweetheart. Not mine."

He tilted his head. "Just... be careful what you wish for. You never know when it might come true."

He smirked, cold and knowing, as he picked up his jacket and his wristwatch. Then he turned, clearly intending to leave.

The realization hit Ivanna instantly.

She rushed ahead, blocking the doorway, glaring up at him defiantly.

"What kind of uncultured behavior is this?" he asked, tone calm but laced with ice. "It speaks poorly of the Sean family if their daughter behaves this disgracefully."

The slap came fast.

A loud crack echoed through the room.

The prince's head barely tilted, but his eyes widened, shock flashing across them.

No one.

No one in his entire life had ever dared lay a hand on him.

Not his father.

Not his mother.

Not his enemies.

And this girl, this spoiled, reckless girl had just slapped him.

"You must be insane to question my parents' training!" Ivanna shouted, trembling with anger. "And don't pretend you haven't heard of me. I hate lowly and stupid people. And I hate men even more. So watch yourself."

The prince slowly touched his cheek, then looked at her with unsettling calm.

"...Did you just slap me?"

"I did." She folded her arms, chin raised. "So what now? Hit me back. Then we'll see what kind of upbringing your parents gave you."

For a long moment, he simply stared at her.

Then he laughed softly, empty, humorless.

"I can see you have the personality to anger someone to death."

He stepped closer, his presence towering over her.

"But it's your lucky day... because... I don't hit women."

He leaned in, voice dropping to a soft, lethal whisper.

"But don't mistake that for mercy."

Ivanna swallowed, suddenly feeling something cold crawl down her spine.

He straightened his jacket, eyes hardened into steel.

"In fact," he said, stepping past her, "I have something far better in store for you. To put it plainly, Ivanna..."

He glanced back at her, expression dark, unreadable, and terrifyingly calm.

"Getting entangled with me was the worst luck of your life."

The hatred that flashed across his face was so raw, so sharp, that Ivanna's breath caught.

Goosebumps rose on her skin.

For the first time since she met him, she felt... FEAR.

She stood frozen, staring at the doorway, and only then realized he was already gone.

Ivanna returned to her room with her mind spinning.

That look the prince had given her, so unsettling, so piercing, kept replaying in her head.

Why? Why would he stare at her that way? She was certain she had never met him before. She hadn't offended anyone of his status in her life. So why did it feel as though he was looking directly into her soul?

The unease began gnawing at her.

More than ever, she felt the desperate urge to contact her parents, immediately, at all cost.

Hours passed.

Ivanna refused to leave her room. She refused to eat. She refused to entertain anything connected to the palace. The more she thought, the angrier she became, and the more determined she was to shut the world out.

But the next morning, something felt off.

By the time dawn broke, Ivanna was drained, emotionally hollow, physically weak, and mentally exhausted.

Yet something felt different.

Very different.

Silence... deeper than before.

Too deep.

No footsteps in the hall.

No soft knocks.

No maids whispering outside her door, waiting for her wrath to descend.

Nothing.

No one came to check on her, not even the maids who normally stopped by to clean, bring food, or hover nervously around her demands.

The silence was... unnatural.

Unsettling.

Her room remained a mess from the night before, clothes scattered, sheets disheveled, and the sight only infuriated her further.

"These useless maids..." she hissed.

"They dare ignore me?"

Ivanna sat up slowly, her eyes scanning the chaotic mess of her room, the unmade bed, clothes thrown everywhere, food she refused to touch.

Normally, such disorder would disgust her.

But today... it chilled her instead.

"Where are those stupid maids?" she muttered.

Her voice sounded small in the eerie quiet.

Driven by annoyance with determination to give them a piece of her mind, she stormed out of her room.

...and stopped.

Because... the moment she stepped into the hallway, her irritation slowly shifted into confusion.

The villa felt... abandoned.

As though life had been drained out of it overnight.

She moved down the long hallway cautiously, a strange unease settling into her bones. Every step echoed too loudly against marble floors that should've been bustling with activity.

That was when she finally saw someone.

A lone figure seated near the living room corridor, a massive newspaper held up, covering their face.

For a moment, Ivanna felt relief, finally, someone to yell at.

"Excuse me!" she snapped. "Who are you, and where are the maids? Why is this place so deserted?"

The newspaper lowered, slowly.

Ivanna froze.

The woman behind it was no ordinary woman.

She was tall, towering, too tall for a woman, almost unnaturally so. Broad-shouldered. Strong-jawed. She should be in her mid-forties, built with the kind of musculature that came from years of discipline and training. Her aura felt like steel wrapped in silence.

For the first time in a long time, Ivanna felt genuinely... intimidated.

The woman's eyes held hers without blinking.

"And who," Ivanna whispered, "are you?"

The stranger crossed her legs with calm elegance, her posture poised and powerful.

"You must be Ivanna," she said, studying her like a puzzle.

"I am Lady Margaret. I'm the one in charge of this house now."

Ivanna's anger flared back to life.

"In charge of the house now? What does that even mean?"

"It means exactly what I said." Lady Margaret offered a cool smile.

"And since you will be staying here, you must obey the new rules. Rule number one: there are no maids. Which means you will make your own bed, cook your own meals, and carry out all basic cleaning duties."

Rules?

HER?

Ivanna's eyebrows flew up in disbelief.

Ivanna choked on her own breath.

"What?!"

Then louder, more furious,

"And who is the mad dog that came up with such a ridiculous rule?! Me? Doing chores? How absurd! And before anything else, who do you even think you are? And where is that son of a...Eugene or whatever his name is?! He needs to come out here right now or he'll regret ever-"

Lady Margaret simply smiled.

A calm, dangerous smile.

"Rule number two," she said softly, "you do not use foul language here... and you never-ever-raise your voice."

Ivanna's anger surged so violently that she didn't even think...

she simply moved.

She stormed toward Lady Margaret, arm raised, ready to deliver a vicious slap across that infuriatingly calm face.

But she never made contact.

A hand, large, calloused, and impossibly fast, caught her wrist mid-air.

The grip was iron.

Ivanna gasped, her eyes widening as she tried to yank her hand free.

She twisted, pulled, jerked...

but it was like trying to move a mountain.

Lady Margaret didn't even blink.

She simply looked at Ivanna with a lazy, unimpressed expression.

"Rule number three," she said, her voice disturbingly soft,

"you never raise your hand to strike anyone here. And if you ever attempt to hit me again... you may not live to see the next day."

Those words, calm, measured, deadly, sent cold terror shooting down Ivanna's spine.

That was when Ivanna realized something horrifying:

Margaret wasn't even trying.

No effort, no strain, no shift of muscle.

And yet Ivanna's wrist felt like it was about to snap in two.

A sharp pain exploded through her arm.

Sweat gathered instantly across her forehead as panic overtook her anger.

Then...

as casually as someone flicking away dust...

Lady Margaret released her, sending her stumbling back a few steps like discarded trash.

Humiliation washed over Ivanna in a wave so hot it burned.

Never in her entire life had anyone...anyone...handled her like that.

Not even her strictest teachers dared to touch her.

She was Ivanna Sean.

Spoiled. Revered. Untouchable.

And this... this brute had tossed her like she was nothing.

Rage blinded her.

Without thinking, she grabbed the nearest object...a flower vase, heavy and expensive-looking...from the decorative stand.

"If you want war," she hissed, "I'll gladly..."

The sound of something slicing the air made her freeze.

Lady Margaret stood holding a long, thick whip...where it came from, Ivanna didn't know.

But the cold fury in her eyes said everything.

"Rule number four," she said, her tone icy and emotionless,

"for every object you break, you will receive ten lashes."

Ivanna's jaw hung open.

"Wh-what? Who will flog me? You?" Her voice cracked with disbelief.

"This...this is insane! You're all lunatics! If Eugene is behind this madness, then someone should tell him he can forget about the marriage! I would rather die than marry a devil like him!"

Spitting fire, she stormed back to her room.

But the moment she stepped inside, the chaotic mess suffocated her.

Clothes everywhere.

Sheets tangles.

Her own scent of misery lingering in the air.

She couldn't breathe.

She fled to the next room over, collapsed on the bed, and finally...

broke.

Tears spilled fast, hot, uncontrollable.

Her pride shattered.

Her certainty dissolved.

Her world...one that used to revolve around luxury and parental affection...was crumbling beneath her feet.

How did it come to this?

How did she fall from grace to dirt so quickly?

She cried until her body trembled and her throat ached.

She screamed for her parents silently, over and over in her mind, wishing they would burst through the door and take her home.

But no one came.

Not that day.

Not the next.

By the third day, hunger clawed at her insides like a beast, dizzy spells hit her every few minutes, and she felt on the verge of fainting.

She had to eat something.

Anything.

So she dragged herself out of the room and down the silent hallway once again.

The villa was still empty of life.

Still far too quiet.

She headed to the dining room...

...and froze.

Lady Margaret sat at the head of the long dining table, silently eating a feast fit for royalty.

Rice, meats, fruits, soups...steaming, fragrant, abundant.

Ivanna's stomach growled so loudly she winced.

Margaret didn't even glance at her.

"Where... is my food?" Ivanna asked, voice hoarse.

Only then did Margaret turn her head, raising a brow.

"Are you truly this rude, or are you simply lacking brain cells?" she asked calmly.

"I told you yesterday...there is no one here for you to order around. When you're hungry, you cook your own food."

Ivanna looked at the feast again, desperate and close to tears.

"I... I don't know my way around the kitchen," she admitted in a trembling whisper she hardly recognized as her own.

"That can be fixed," Margaret replied, taking another bite.

"Today, you will begin learning to cook your own meals."

Ivanna stared at her in disbelief.

"Are you even listening to yourself? I have to learn to cook before I can eat? What kind of twisted place is this?!"

Whirling around, she stormed off...

but this time, there was no strength in her anger.

Only exhaustion.

In the kitchen, she found fresh fruits on the counter and various ingredients in the fridge.

She gathered what she could...bread, water, a few fruits, some basic snacks...and dragged herself back toward her room.

Her stomach still growled, her pride remained bruised, but at least she wouldn't collapse from hunger.

For now.