Morning arrived without warmth.
Light filtered into the east wing in narrow beams, slipping through the heavy curtains like pale ribbons, illuminating dust motes in the air. The room was serene in a clinical way—too tidy, too clean, too symmetrical. Everything about the space broadcasted a deliberate neutrality. Nothing stimulating, nothing sentimental, nothing personal.
Designed, in a grim way, for someone unstable.
Designed… for her.
Seraphina sat stiffly at the small sitting area near the window, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were vacant in that frightening, glassy way of someone who had cried until tears dried up somewhere deep inside. She didn't bother smoothing her hair or fixing her rumpled sleepwear. Time didn't feel real this morning. She drifted in and out of thought like a person watching their life through someone else's eyes.
The door clicked open.
Two security personnel—silent, stone-faced—remained stationed outside, as they had been since dawn. And now a third presence stepped inside.
A therapist.
Middle-aged, soft-spoken, carrying a leather satchel and a clipboard. He moved with the careful steps of a man briefed on a delicate case—on a fragile girl who had attempted to jump out a window the night before; on a billionaire chairman who would destroy himself if another death touched the estate; on the situation's volatility.
"Good morning, Mrs. Harrington," the therapist said gently, as though the air might shatter if he raised his voice.
The title made her flinch.
Mrs. Harrington.
A name that once symbolized luxury and social elevation now felt like a chain coiled tightly around her throat.
She didn't reply. Her gaze remained on her hands.
"That's all right," he said softly when she stayed silent. "We can talk when you're ready."
He took the chair across from her—not too close, not too far, trained subtly, positioned to give her personal space while still keeping her in sight.
A caged bird.
A ticking time bomb.
An heiress unable to walk freely in her own home.
She felt the back of her throat burn.
He began gently. "How did you sleep last night?"
Seraphina almost laughed, but her face didn't move. "…I didn't."
"Would you like to talk about what kept you awake?"
She shook her head once—sharp, defensive. She didn't want to talk about the man sleeping on the opposite side of the mansion, the man who married her because she tried to kill herself, the man who used to worship her yet now moved through life like a ghost carved into flesh.
She didn't want to talk about how she destroyed herself in front of him.
Didn't want to talk about the shame, the fear, the disgust she felt for her own actions.
Didn't want to talk about the cage she built around herself through desperation and emotional starvation.
The therapist didn't press her. Professionals rarely pressed in the first session.
"Your husband asked me to evaluate your stress levels," he continued calmly. "He's concerned for your safety."
Seraphina's fingers curled slightly.
Concern.
No—this wasn't concern. It was fear.
Fear of another corpse. Fear of another guilt that would rot him from the inside out. Fear of carrying another death into his nightmares.
"Of course he is," she murmured bitterly, unable to stop the words from spilling into the room. "If I die, he'll blame himself."
The therapist studied her carefully. "And how do you feel about that?"
She dragged her hands up into her hair, pressing her palms to her temples. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."
He didn't react, didn't scribble on the clipboard, didn't look at her with judgment or pity. He simply waited.
But the waiting itself felt suffocating.
She swallowed hard.
"I feel like I'm… stuck," she whispered. "Like I walked straight into a cage and locked it myself."
"Can you tell me what that cage is?"
She gestured weakly around the room. "This wing. This house. Him. Me."
She said the last word with almost violent self-disgust.
The therapist didn't flinch. "You feel trapped."
"I am trapped."
"By your circumstances?"
"By myself."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Outside the door, she heard the quiet shuffle of guards adjusting their stance. Always watching. Always stationed. They weren't inside, but the message was clear: she wasn't allowed to leave. Not without supervision. Not without clearance. She was a risk factor. A liability. A porcelain doll cracked at the edges, too fragile to leave unattended.
"You're not a prisoner, Mrs. Harrington."
She lifted her eyes slowly, meeting his with a hollow stare that made his breath hitch ever so slightly.
"Aren't I?"
He hesitated—a single second, but enough for her to see it.
Enough for her to know that even he wasn't sure.
He tried to reframe. "Your husband put restrictions in place for your safety."
She almost laughed again—quiet, sharp, self-loathing. "He married me because he was afraid I'd die."
The therapist's hands folded calmly on his lap. "Fear can be a protective instinct."
"It wasn't love."
"Does that matter to you?"
Her chest tightened. It was a question she hadn't wanted to confront.
Did it matter?
Once—yes.
Before—yes.
When she wanted the validation of being adored endlessly by a man she barely respected—yes.
But now…
"It shouldn't matter," she whispered. "Not anymore."
"You sound unsure."
She closed her eyes, inhaling shakily. "I don't know what I want anymore. I just… I don't want to feel like this. I don't want to be watched constantly. I don't want to be treated like I'm made of glass."
"You're not glass," he assured her gently. "But you're under extreme pressure. It makes sense that you'd feel fragile."
She shook her head. "No. I feel like a burden."
"A burden?"
She sucked in a breath. "He already carries so much. More than anyone should. I saw him collapse from exhaustion. I saw how he looks at his company like it's the only thing left keeping him alive. And I… I just keep adding to that. I'm another weight. Another problem."
"You think your existence harms him."
"I know it does."
The therapist waited again—allowing her the space to feel the weight of her own admission.
She continued, voice thinner. "I tried to force myself into his life when he didn't want me. When he needed peace, I disturbed him. When he needed focus, I pulled him off balance. When he needed rest…" Her cheeks burned with shame. "…I hurt him."
Her breath hitched, and she pressed a trembling hand over her mouth to stop the sob clawing up her throat.
"He should've let me leave," she whispered through her fingers. "He should've annulled the engagement."
"But he didn't."
"Because he didn't want me to die."
"That's still a kind of care."
"No." Her voice cracked. "It's guilt."
"And does guilt make him treat you badly?"
She froze.
"No," she admitted reluctantly. "He keeps me safe. He gives me everything I need. He—"
Her voice faltered.
"He protects me more than I deserve."
The therapist softened his voice. "Then you're not a burden. You're someone he's trying not to lose."
The words struck her like a blow.
She couldn't respond—not because she didn't understand them, but because some part of her clung to them, terrified to let them sink too deeply.
But before she could speak, a soft chime sounded.
Her meal hour.
The therapist glanced toward the door where a tray waited—monitored, checked, supervised.
Because she couldn't be trusted alone.
Because she was a risk to herself.
Because the east wing was as much a treatment zone as it was a gilded cage.
He rose. "We'll continue tomorrow. You're safe here, Seraphina."
Safe.
The word twisted.
Safe inside a cage.
Safe under watch.
Safe because freedom meant danger.
He left, and the door shut with a muted but absolute click.
Seraphina stared at the breakfast tray mechanically delivered to her.
And she realized—
She was being rehabilitated and monitored.
Protected and confined.
Cared for and imprisoned.
She was a bird with clipped wings—
An heiress with nowhere to run—
A wife in name only—
And the most dangerous thing in the manor…
Was her own mind.
A ticking time bomb.
Waiting.
Trembling.
Caged.