Page 134 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

But even sleep can’t keep me safe.

My dreams are plagued with images from my past.

I see my father.

I see my brother.

I see my unborn child.

I see all the people I’ve lost, staring back at me through the walls of a new gilded cage.

Just like always, I’m the one trapped on the inside.

36

Esme

I wake up when we touch down, but before I can get my bearings, I’m ushered off the plane and pushed towards a black sedan by more faceless men in suits.

I turn, expecting Artem to follow behind me. He doesn’t even look up before stepping into a second black sedan parked behind the first.

Someone shuts my door. Moments later, we pull away from the plane and cruise onto the streets of Los Angeles.

I recognize the building we pull up in front of. It’s Artem’s apartment.

I recognize the two men waiting on the sidewalk, too.

If they recognize me, they don’t show it. Crew Cut and Blue Eyes say nothing as the driver opens my door and helps me out.

They still don’t say anything as I approach. They just turn and lead me inside—one in front, one behind, as always.

We take the private elevator up to the penthouse. It’s so eerily silent that I want to scream, to shout, to fight. I want somebody to say something to make it all make sense.

But it’s just quiet.

So fucking quiet.

The moment the elevator doors open, I rush through the foyer and head straight for my room.

Slamming the door behind me, I throw myself down on the bed and cry for the lost hope that I allowed to blossom the last few days.

I was a fool for thinking that this relationship—if you could even call it that—could be salvaged.

That it was anything other than a beautiful lie.

* * *

Half an hour later, I hear a knock on the door. I sit up, my eyes puffy and swollen from all the crying.

I don’t particularly care about my appearance as I walk to the door and open it angrily.

“What?”

Crew Cut stands there, holding a tailored black outfit.

“Your car arrives in half an hour,” he tells me. The same way he always has—in a flat, toneless monotone. Like this day is no different from all the days before it or all the days I have left in this hellhole of a life.

“Where am I going?” I demand. “And don’t even fuckingthinkabout not answering me.”

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