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Chapter Twenty-Three: Gilded Cages
The engagement dinner was a perfectly orchestrated performance of familial bliss. Silverware gleamed under the chandelier, crystal glasses were filled with sparkling elderflower cordial, and polite laughter echoed in the Snows' formal dining room. Amaya sat stiffly in a pale pink dress her mother had chosen, feeling like a mannequin propped up for display.
Richard, seated beside her, was the picture of a modern gentleman. His smile was calibrated—warm enough to seem genuine, cool enough to maintain an air of professional detachment. He poured her water before she could ask, complimented her mother on the lamb, and discussed market volatility with her father with an easy confidence.
"We're so thrilled for you both," Richard's mother beamed, her gaze sweeping over Amaya with the satisfaction of an art collector acquiring a coveted piece. "Amaya has blossomed into such a lovely young woman. And so bright! Psychology, isn't it? Such a useful background for understanding corporate stakeholders."
"Thank you," Amaya murmured, her eyes fixed on the intricate pattern of her plate.
"I've already been looking at apartments near the university," Richard said, his hand finding hers on the tablecloth. His touch was dry and cool, possessive. "Something with a study for you, of course. We'll want you to have every advantage to finish your degree."
The words were meant to be supportive, but they felt like a sentence. He was already planning the dimensions of her cage. She forced a smile, the muscles in her face aching with the effort.
"That's very thoughtful, Richard," her father said, nodding his approval.
Later, as the families lingered over coffee, Richard led Amaya out to the porch for "a bit of air." The summer night was soft, but Amaya felt chilled.
"It's all happening rather fast, isn't it?" he said, leaning against the railing, looking down at her. The appraisal in his eyes was back. "But I've always known, you know. That we'd be good together. Our families, our temperaments… it's a logical match."
"Logical," she repeated, tasting the word.
"The best foundations are." He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture felt rehearsed. "We'll have a good life, Amaya. A comfortable, respectable life. You won't want for anything."
Except freedom, she thought. Except choice. Except love. But she said nothing, her spirit folding in on itself like a paper flower in the rain.
The next morning, the gilded cage gained another bar: the wedding planner arrived. Swatches of fabric, floral catalogs, and timelines spread across the living room like an invading army. Amaya's opinion was solicited on everything—the shade of ivory for the napkins, the font for the invitations—but her answers were met with gentle corrections. "Darling, that's a bit modern for a winter wedding." "Richard's mother prefers peonies."
She felt herself disappearing, smoothed into a pleasant, agreeable shape that would fit seamlessly into the tapestry of their joined families.
The only crack in the facade came from an unexpected source. Elara Rowon appeared at their door one afternoon, her usually serene face etched with concern. She asked to speak with Amaya's parents privately.
From the top of the stairs, Amaya listened, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs.
"Elara, how lovely to see you!" her mother trilled.
"Margaret, Charles," Elara's voice was uncharacteristically direct, lacking its usual melodic warmth. "Forgive my intrusion, but I've heard… about the engagement."
"Oh, yes! Isn't it wonderful? Such a perfect match for Amaya."
There was a beat of heavy silence. "Margaret… she is eighteen. She has just finished her school and is about to begin university. Her whole life is ahead of her. Why this rush to marriage?"
Amaya's father's voice, defensive, rumbled in response. "It's a strong alliance for the family, Elara. Richard is an exceptional young man. He'll provide for her, protect her. She'll want for nothing."
"But will she want him?" Elara's voice was sharp now. "Will she have the chance to discover what she wants? To make her own mistakes, find her own path? You are giving away a brilliant, vibrant girl before she's even had a chance to become a woman. This isn't the last century."
"We know what's best for our daughter," Amaya's mother said, her tone frosty. "This is about security, about legacy. Sentiment has no place in these decisions."
"Sentiment?" Elara's voice dropped, thick with emotion. "This isn't about sentiment. It's about her soul. You are trading her future for a business merger. Please, I beg you, reconsider. Let her breathe. Let her live a little."
The pleading was met with a wall of polite, immovable resolve. "The decision is made, Elara. We appreciate your concern, but this is a family matter."
Amaya heard the front door close with a soft, definitive click. Elara had fought for her, and lost. The last potential ally had been turned away. The silence that followed was absolute.
Two days later, Amaya finally snapped. The pressure, the powerlessness, the silent screaming in her chest—it needed a target. And the only target within reach was the origin of her heartbreak. She waited until she saw him return home, then marched across the lawn, ignoring the chill of the evening dew on her bare feet.
He was on his porch, as if waiting for the confrontation, a book closed in his lap. He looked up as she approached, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
She stopped before him, her chest heaving. All the practiced calm of the engaged young lady was gone, stripped away to reveal the raw, furious, hurt girl beneath.
"Why?" The single word tore from her throat.
He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Amaya…"
"No!" She cut him off, her voice trembling with the force of her emotion. "All of it. The tutoring, the carnival, the necklace, the book… Why did you do any of it if you were just going to… to look through me? To walk away when I was falling apart on my own lawn?"
He stood up slowly, his tall frame imposing. "I was your tutor. I performed a function. The other things… were minor gestures. You read too much into them."
"Minor gestures?" A hysterical laugh escaped her. "You gave me a piece of jewelry! You came to a carnival for me!"
"It was a neighborly gift. I was in the area." His voice was low, controlled, and it made her fury burn hotter.
"Liar!" she spat. "You're a terrible liar, Aris! I've spent two years watching you. I know when you're being clinical and when you're… not. I saw you. At the coffee shop. With Lily." The name was acid on her tongue. "You smiled at her. A real smile. You never smile at me like that."
Something shifted in his eyes then. A flicker of… something. Not guilt, but a stark, painful acknowledgment. He didn't deny it.
"Is that it?" she whispered, the fight draining out of her, leaving only a hollow, aching need to know. "Do you love her? Is that why I'm just a 'minor gesture'? A distraction you have to manage?"
He was silent for a long moment, looking at her as if she were a complex, unsolvable equation. The night air hung between them, thick with everything unsaid.
"Love is not a useful diagnostic category," he said finally, his voice stripped bare of all its usual clinical certainty. It just sounded tired. "It is a subjective, irrational variable that disrupts focus and compromises objectives."
"That's not an answer," she pleaded, tears spilling over. "Just tell me. Please. Do you have feelings for someone else? Do you have feelings for her?"
He looked away, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the dark. The silence stretched, agonizing. In that silence, she found her answer. His refusal to deny it was as good as a confession.
Her heart, which had been clinging to a cliff's edge by a single, frayed thread, finally let go. It didn't shatter; it simply went dark, a cold, heavy stone in her chest.
"I see," she said, her voice flat, empty. "Thank you for your honesty."
She turned to leave, the fight utterly gone.
"Amaya." His voice stopped her, just once. It sounded strange. Almost ragged.
She didn't turn back. She couldn't bear to see his face, to see the confirmation in his eyes.
"Congratulations," he said, the word sounding foreign and brutal in his mouth. "On your engagement."
She walked back to her house, to her gilded cage, to her logical, respectable future. The man next door had just handed her the final brick, and with a quiet, desolate certainty, she knew she would spend the rest of her life walling herself in with it.