The Monaco Opera House glittered like a jewel against the night. Its Belle Époque arches glowed under golden spotlights, giving the building an almost otherworldly aura.
Emily stepped out of Alexander's Bentley and onto the red carpet. Cameras flashed instantly, blinding her, while voices hurled questions in a dozen languages.
"Ms. Chen! Is it true you're living with Alexander Drake?"
"Emily! How does it feel to be dating Monaco's most eligible bachelor?"
"Are you planning to marry into the Drake fortune?"
Alexander's hand found the small of her back. Firm. Possessive. He guided her through the chaos with the ease of a man who had lived his entire life beneath the spotlight. In his black tuxedo, perfectly cut to his form, he was devastating. Even here, among Europe's elite, he dominated the scene.
"Smile," he murmured, lips brushing her ear. His breath was warm. "You're on display."
Emily curved her lips upward. The expression felt as fake as the diamonds at her throat. Another one of Alexander's "gifts." Another set of glittering shackles.
The emerald gown clinging to her body was worth more than most people's cars. Silk. Beading. A second skin designed to showcase, not protect. She felt like a trophy—something to be admired, coveted, owned.
The thought curdled in her stomach. Still, she kept smiling as they mounted the marble steps into the grand foyer.
Crystal chandeliers spilled light like liquid rainbows. Nobility, magnates, and socialites mingled beneath them, each face polished with wealth and power. Tonight's charity gala for La Traviata was less about music and more about spectacle.
"Alexander, darling!" A silver-haired woman swept toward them, diamonds blazing at her throat. She kissed Alexander's cheeks with European precision. "How wonderful to see you. And this must be your mysterious companion I've been reading about."
"Duchess Montclair," Alexander said smoothly, blending warmth with formality. "May I present Emily Chen. Emily, the Duchess is one of Monaco's most devoted patrons of the arts."
Emily extended her hand. Alexander's etiquette lessons paid off. "Your Grace, it's an honor."
The Duchess studied her with piercing blue eyes. "Such beauty. And that gown—Valentino, isn't it? Exquisite." Her smile was polished, but her gaze was sharp. "Tell me, my dear, are you enjoying Monaco?"
"It's been… educational," Emily said carefully.
"I'm sure it has." The Duchess's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Come, you must join us for the champagne reception. I must introduce you to everyone."
The next hour blurred. Handshakes. Air kisses. Polite conversation. Beneath it all, curiosity hummed. Who was Emily Chen? What was her role? Girlfriend, mistress, conquest?
She played the part Alexander had groomed her for—graceful, reserved, mysterious. The outsider polished into an ornament. All the while, she felt the weight of judgment pressing down.
When they finally slipped into Alexander's private box, Emily exhaled. Red velvet. Gold leaf. The opera house itself seemed designed to remind guests of their place in the hierarchy.
"You're doing well," Alexander murmured, handing her a program.
"I'm a quick learner," she said, though the words tasted like survival, not pride.
His fingers brushed hers as he leaned closer. "Box three—Count Volkov. Oil money. Dangerous man. Box seven—Ashford family. Banking. Old money, older secrets. And box two…"
He froze.
Emily followed his gaze.
Across the theater, a woman with striking dark hair took her seat. Even from a distance, her beauty was undeniable. Classical. Timeless. A painting come to life.
"Who is she?" Emily asked softly, already fearing the answer.
Alexander didn't respond. His face drained of color. His fists clenched the armrests. Vulnerability flickered across him—for the first time since she'd known him.
The lights dimmed. The orchestra swelled. La Traviata began. But Emily barely heard the music. Her eyes flicked between the stage and Alexander, whose entire being seemed locked on the woman across the hall.
During the intermission, Emily accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter. That's when she heard it.
A sound from Alexander. Half-gasp, half-groan.
She turned.
The woman was walking toward them. Fluid. Radiant. Up close, she was breathtaking. Mediterranean complexion. Dark, expressive eyes. A smile that warmed the entire space.
"Alexander," she said. Her voice carried a hint of Italy. Music in itself. "I wasn't sure you'd be here tonight."
Alexander rose slowly. Hesitant. Almost reverent. "Isabelle." Her name left his lips like a prayer. Or a curse.
Emily's stomach knotted. Isabelle Rossi. Even she knew the name. A celebrated soprano. A voice that moved nations. And clearly, something far more to Alexander than just a famous acquaintance.
"You look well," Isabelle said, studying his face. Intimate. Knowing.
"As do you." His voice was careful, but Emily heard the undercurrent. Pain. Longing. "I read your tour sold out in record time."
"Music has always been my refuge," she replied softly. "You know that."
The words hung heavy. Too private. Too intimate. Emily felt like an intruder in her own seat.
"Oh." Isabelle's eyes turned to her, as though only now noticing her presence. "Forgive me, I didn't realize you had company."
"Emily Chen," Emily said quickly, extending her hand.
Isabelle's grasp was warm. Genuine. A shocking contrast to the icy politeness of everyone else in Alexander's world.
"A pleasure," Isabelle said. Her gaze flicked between Emily and Alexander, measuring. "Are you enjoying the performance?"
"It's beautiful," Emily admitted. "Though I'm still learning to appreciate opera."
"A newcomer." Isabelle's eyes lit with real passion. "Then what an introduction. La Traviata is one of Verdi's most tragic works. A woman who sacrifices everything for love… only to lose it all." She glanced at Alexander. "Quite tragic indeed."
None of them missed the implication.
The chime signaled the end of intermission. Yet Isabelle lingered.
"It was good to see you, Alexander," she said, voice low with history. "Take care of yourself."
She turned to Emily with a softer smile. "Lovely to meet you. Perhaps we'll meet again."
Then she was gone. A vision disappearing into the crowd.
Emily turned back to Alexander. His expression—naked longing. It stole her breath.
"Who is she?" Emily asked, though she already knew the answer mattered too much.
"Someone from a long time ago," he said, retreating behind his mask.
"Not just someone." Emily's voice was quiet, firm. "Someone important."
His knuckles whitened on the armrest. On stage, Violetta sang of love and loss, her aria slicing through the silence.
"Who is Isabelle Rossi to you?" Emily pressed.
Alexander's answer came low, ragged. "She's the woman I was going to marry."
The words hit her like a blow.
"What happened?"
His laugh was bitter. "I happened. Ruthless. Controlling. Incapable of loving without trying to own. I nearly destroyed her trying to keep her."
Emily's chest tightened. The pattern was clear. Isabelle hadn't been the first woman caged by Alexander's love. Emily wouldn't be the last.
"She left you," Emily whispered.
"She ran," he said flatly. "In the night. Left me a note. Said loving me was like drowning in silk." He gave a sharp laugh. "Poetic. Only a soprano would break a man in verse."
The opera swelled. Violetta's tragedy mirrored their own. Emily barely heard the applause. Her focus stayed locked on Alexander—the man stripped bare, haunted by his past.
"Do you still love her?"
For a moment, silence. Then his lips curved, bitter. "What I felt for Isabelle was the closest I've ever come to love. And the most destructive."
His fingers traced Emily's jaw. Gentle. Dangerous. "You remind me of her sometimes. But you're stronger, Emily. You don't run."
"Maybe I'm just more stubborn."
"Maybe." His thumb brushed her lip. Desire warred with dread inside her.
"Or maybe," he added, eyes hardening, "you understand something she never did. Sometimes the cage is the only thing that keeps you safe."
The house lights rose for the final intermission, but Emily hardly noticed. She was caught in his gaze, in the push and pull of fear and desire.
Across the theater, Isabelle sat serene. Untouchable. Free.
Emily sat trapped in silk and diamonds.
Alexander's phone buzzed. His face darkened as he read the message.
"What is it?" Emily asked.
"Vincent Blackwell," he said, voice like steel. He turned the screen to her.
A photo. Her and Alexander on Vincent's yacht. Angled, shadowed, made to look far more intimate than it had been. Beneath it, a single line:
Every man has his weakness. Some are just more beautiful than others.
Emily's blood ran cold.
"He's going to use this against you," she whispered.
"Against us," Alexander corrected. His tone was lethal. "Vincent just declared war. And he's chosen you as his weapon."
Emily stared at the image. At the trap tightening around her. At the cage that glittered but locked tighter each day.
On stage, Violetta sang her farewell to love and life. Emily felt the echo in her bones.
Tragic. Beautiful. Doomed.
Alexander's hand closed around hers. Possessive. Desperate.
And despite everything, she didn't pull away.
Sometimes the cage was the only safe place left.