Chapter 2 Ghost in a Golden Cage
Elena: POV
How heartless he was!
After he left, I went straight to the restroom in the private resting room. I stood there for a long time, my reflection staring back at me from the mirror—hair mussed, lips swollen, blouse wrinkled despite my best efforts. I looked exactly like what everyone thought I was.
A mistress. A homewrecker. The girl who was warming the CEO's bed while his real love waited in Paris.
If only they knew the truth was so much worse.
While tidying up in the room, my gaze swept over that untouched glass of water and the pills beside it, a wave of bitterness surging in my heart.
I remember when it wasn't always like this. In those early years—before the yacht, before the wedding, before everything went wrong—he used to smile at me sometimes. Not often，but occasionally in the estate gardens or the library.
Those smiles were small things, gentle curves of his lips that would light up his face for just a moment. He'd ask how I was doing, comment on my book, make some casual observation that made me feel seen. Like I mattered.
I'd treasured those moments. Held them close like precious gems.
Because deep down, I knew his kindness wasn't special—it was just good breeding. Julian Sterling was raised to be courteous to everyone, from board members to servants. Those smiles, that gentle attention, he gave them to everyone.
But still, foolish girl that I was, I'd let myself believe there was something more in the way he looked at me. Some extra warmth when he said my name.
The memory hit me as I fixed my hair with shaking hands: Julian's twenty-fifth birthday, three years ago.
The yacht party off the Hamptons coast, all glittering lights and beautiful people I didn't belong among.
I'd only been there because Mom—the head housekeeper who'd raised me—had insisted the family include me.
I was an intern then, invisible among the real guests.
Someone pressed a glass of champagne into my hand. The world started spinning, tilting. I stumbled through a corridor, looking for somewhere to lie down.
Julian, stumbling through the cabin door where I was, his eyes glazed with something.
I'd tried to tell him to leave, that he had the wrong room, but then his mouth was on mine and nothing else mattered.
Then we descended into frenzied, burning passion.
We'd woken up tangled together in the morning light, and the look on his face when he'd realized it was me—
I would never forget that look—shock first, then disgust.
"You drugged me," he'd said, backing away from the bed like I'd burned him. "You fucking drugged me."
"No!" I'd scrambled for the sheet, for something to cover myself. "Julian, no, someone drugged us both—I didn't—"
"Don't lie to me." His voice had been ice. "You've always wanted this. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at me. You saw your chance and you took it."
I tried to explain, but he wouldn't listen. Wouldn't believe the girl who'd grown up in the servants' quarters, who'd loved him forever, could never do something like that.
He'd left me there, alone and ashamed, certain that was the end of it.
I'd been wrong.
His grandfather found out. I still don't know how. And then Arthur Sterling had a heart attack and was rushed into emergency surgery.
Julian was summoned to his grandfather's bedside, where the old man delivered his ultimatum:
‘Marry her, or I'll write you out of the will.’
I'd been in the hallway when Julian stormed out, his face a mask of cold fury. He'd looked at me like I'd orchestrated the whole thing. Like I'd somehow manipulated a 80-year-old man from his hospital bed.
The contract had arrived at my door two days later. Five years. Hidden marriage. No public acknowledgment. Fulfill his grandfather's wish, then walk away with a settlement and pretend none of it ever happened.
Julian had signed it without looking at me.
I'd signed it because I believed if I had time, I could make him see the truth. Could make him love me the way I loved him.
Three years later, and I was still a fool.
"There you are!"
Sarah from accounting's too-bright voice yanked me back to the present.
I'd made it back to my desk somehow, though I didn't remember the journey. She stood by the water cooler with Lisa from marketing, both of them wearing expressions of barely concealed glee.
"Rough meeting with Mr. Sterling?" Sarah asked, her eyes scanning my appearance in a way that made my skin crawl.
I forced a smile. "Just business."
"Sure." Her smirk said she didn't believe a word. "That's what they all say. Though I have to admit, you've got skills, Elena. Three years and he still can't keep his hands off you."
The words hit harder than they should have. Three years. Had it really been that long since I'd given up everything—my dignity, my self-respect, my heart—for a man who would never want them?
"I don't know what you mean—" I started, but Lisa cut me off.
"Oh please." She rolled her eyes. "We all know you're sleeping with him. Just have some self-respect and stop pretending. The man's clearly waiting for his real fiancée to come back from Paris."
Victoria Astor.
The name hung in the air between us, unspoken but heavy with meaning. The perfect society princess. The woman Julian had been engaged to before everything went to hell. The woman he still loved, if the way he flew to Paris to visit her every few months was any indication.
"Ladies." Marcus appeared at my elbow, his expression stern. "Perhaps we should focus on work rather than gossip?"
"Of course," Sarah said sweetly. "Though some of us don't need to seduce the boss to get ahead."
My hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. I wanted to scream at them that they had no idea what they were talking about. That I was his wife, not his mistress.
But I said nothing. Because what could I say? Revealing the truth would only make things worse. I was the hidden shame, the dirty secret, while Victoria remained the acknowledged love of his life.
Marcus walked me back to my desk, his voice low. "Ignore them, Elena. They're just jealous of your talent."
"Thanks, Marcus," I managed. "I appreciate it."
He squeezed my shoulder gently and walked away.
By the time I reached the penthouse that evening, exhaustion had settled into my bones like a weight. The sprawling apartment on Billionaire's Row stretched before me—all floor-to-ceiling windows and designer furniture and art worth more than most people made in a lifetime.
It was beautiful.
But it was cold. It felt like a mausoleum.
Julian rarely came here. Maybe once a week, when he needed release. The rest of the time, I lived here alone, a ghost haunting a golden cage.
I dropped my bag by the door and headed for the kitchen, thinking maybe food would help. Something simple—pasta, maybe, with garlic and olive oil.
But the moment the garlic hit the hot oil, my stomach lurched. The smell, which should have been appetizing, suddenly made bile rise in my throat. I barely made it to the bathroom before I was retching, my body heaving until there was nothing left but dry gasps and tears streaming down my face.
When I finally lifted my head, wiping my mouth with a shaking hand, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.
Pale. Exhausted. Haunted.
And then the thought crystallized, sharp and terrible and undeniable.
My period was late. Over a month late.
"No," I whispered to my reflection. "Please, no."
