Chapter 42 The Golden Cage
Becca’s POV
“Wake up, Becca.”
The voice was soft, familiar , but it came from somewhere far away, like through glass.
My eyes fluttered open. The light hit too hard, gold and blinding.
For a second, I thought I was still dreaming. The ceiling above me shimmered faintly, carved with thin golden vines.
Everything around glowed in polished warmth marble floors, silk drapes, soft music playing from nowhere.
It was beautiful.
Then I remembered the last thing I saw before everything went black , Mark’s face through the smoke, shouting my name as someone dragged me backward.
My throat went dry. “Mark…”
The word cracked out of me. I sat up too fast, the sheets sliding off. My arms ached, faint bruises lining my skin. There were no windows.
No clock. Just golden light spilling from chandeliers and the heavy scent of roses that didn’t belong here.
“Good, you’re awake.”
I turned.
Milla Anderson stood near the door, her silhouette framed by the soft light.
Elegant as ever , gray suit, hair pinned with surgical precision, a cigarette balanced lazily between her fingers. Smoke curled around her face like a crown.
“Milla?” My voice wavered. “What… where,”
She smiled, the kind that never reached her eyes. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters for now.”
Safe.
The word pressed against my chest like a bruise.
I looked around again, at the gilded mirrors, the velvet armchair, the tray of untouched fruit on a silver stand. The air itself hummed with quiet control.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
“I know.” Milla walked closer, each step unhurried, measured. She exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Confusion is natural after what you’ve been through.”
I blinked hard, trying to catch fragments of memory, the fight, the scream, the fire.
The sound of Mark’s voice fading into chaos. Then nothing.
“What happened?”
“You were rescued,” she said simply.
“Rescued?” I laughed
“From who, Milla? From Mark?”
Her eyes softened, almost pitying. “From the man who would’ve burned half a city for you. Tell me, does that sound like love or possession?”
The air thickened between us.
I stared at her, at the woman who’d once told me Mark was dangerous, that his kind of love left nothing standing.
She’d sounded protective then, like an older sister. Now, she looked like someone who’d already decided what was best for me.
“This isn’t right,” I said quietly.
“Maybe not. But it’s necessary.”
She moved toward the gold-framed window. It wasn't a real one, just a painting of sunlight over the sea.
An illusion
“You’re not a prisoner here,” Milla continued, tapping ash into a crystal bowl.
“You’re our helper.”
“Helper?” The word scraped my throat.
She turned back to me. “There’s a meeting soon. Davenport’s holding a vote to decide who takes Mark’s seat at the company. Daniel has to step in.”
Daniel.
The name hit me like ice water.
“He’s alive?”
“Was he supposed to be death, people don't die that easily,”
My stomach twisted. “You’re helping him?”
“I’m helping you,” she corrected gently. “You just haven't seen it yet.”
I stared at her, trying to read what game she was playing.
Milla’s words always had two meanings; one dressed in silk, the other dripping with blood.
I wanted to ask a hundred things, but my mouth wouldn’t move. Something about the room drained your will , its perfection. Even the air-conditioning hummed in rhythm with your heartbeat.
Milla crushed out her cigarette, leaned down, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. Her touch was oddly tender. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
“I want to see Mark.”
She paused. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Then she turned and left, her perfume lingering like smoke.
The lock clicked softly.
The silence afterward was unbearable.
No ticking clocks. No sound from outside. Just the low hum of electricity and my pulse thudding in my ears.
I sat still for a long time, counting breaths, until something caught my eye, a faint red dot on the far wall.
A camera.
Tiny, nearly invisible, its lens glinting through a flower carving.
They were watching.
My chest tightened. I swallowed down panic, forcing my face into something fragile. Then, I let the fear bloom deliberately.
I began to cry.
At first, softly , trembling shoulders, hands clutching the sheets. Then louder, broken. I whispered his name again and again, like prayer or punishment.
“Mark… please…”
I knew what they wanted to see , a woman helpless. They’d think I was giving up
But my tears were only camouflage.
I tilted my head slightly, letting my hair shield my mouth, and whispered so faintly the mic almost missed it:
“Mark, I’m here. Vault 17.”
My heart hammered so hard I could barely breathe. I forced another sob to cover the whisper.
Then I lay back down, shaking, half from fear, half from hope.
Would he hear it?
Would he even know where Vault 17 was?
Somewhere else, in another room of that estate, a wall of monitors glowed. One of the guards leaned forward, rewinding the footage.
“She just said something,” he muttered. “Do you want me to delete it?”
Milla stood behind him, her reflection caught in the screens. She took another slow drag of her cigarette, eyes fixed on Becca’s trembling figure.
“No,” she said finally, exhaling smoke.
The guard hesitated. “Ma’am?”
Milla’s lips curved faintly, dangerous and knowing. “Let him watch.” She crushed the cigarette out, eyes glinting gold in the monitor’s light.
“Let him come.”