Page 37 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I swear I can feel him touching me. Even though I’m a thousand miles away, it’s like he’s right here. Between my thighs. Breath steaming against my neck.

I want to stay in this moment. It’s the only time in years I’ve felt free. Like I was in the right place.

But I have to face the facts: I’m not there.

I’m here.

Still stuck in my father’s hell.

Something yanks me back to the present moment: I missed a note.

It was a momentary lapse, a tiny mistake, something only I would notice.

But I felt as though the whole room stops what they’re doing to look at me. Like the proceedings came to a screeching halt and all those treacherous gazes swung in my direction.

I resume playing, but it’s too late. I know what will happen next.

Papa’s coming.

11

Esme

I sense him before I see him.

His shadow falls over my keys, blotting out the light of the chandelier. I don’t look up to meet his gaze.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

I tense instantly. My fingers falter again. I miss another note.

“Don’t you dare stop playing,” he hisses.

I swallow. Where is a dark-eyed savior when I need one?

Far away. Too far to help.

I’m on my own here—as always.

I keep playing like he wants. That’s the only way to survive in Joaquin’s world.

Obey or face the consequences.No other choices exist.

“That dress is hideous,” he continues.

He’s smiling the whole time, but his words are pure venom.

“I told you to dress to impress tonight. And you took that to mean that you should dress like a fat old woman whose pussy dried up a decade ago?”

I swallow hard for a second time. It’s painful.

I’d picked a billowing lilac dress for the party. It was pretty, but it did little to emphasize my shape. The hemline was long and the neckline was modest.

Of course, I hadn’t exactly picked the dress to be modest—though that didn’t hurt.

I had picked it because it was the only thing that allowed me to breathe. All my other cocktail dresses had made me feel constricted and claustrophobic. Far too tight, too confining.

“It’s Zuhair Murad,” I tell him. Mostly because I don’t know what else to say.

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