Page 4 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

For several minutes, my fingers dance across the piano.

For several minutes, I’m free of this ugly cage I’m trapped in.

It ends far too soon.

Don’t forget the mask, I remind myself when I finish. I plaster my good-daughter smile back on my face as I rise and turn to face my father and his colleagues. They applaud. I offer a small curtsy.

“Didn’t I tell you, gentlemen? Isn’t she a marvel?” Papa boasts, turning away from me. “Esme, you may be excused.”

I nod and escape into the hallway. My fingers twitch again as I close the door on the sitting room.

Retreating to my room, I pull off the Prada dress and leave it crumpled on the floor of my closet. I crawl under the silk sheets and try to fall asleep, praying that at least my dreams will transport me somewhere different.

But sleep never comes. I end up staring at the ceiling above my bed for an hour. Maybe I’m just too depressed to dream.

After a while, I give up. I pull back the sheets and get out of bed to trade my pajamas for a pair of leggings and a sports bra.

Then I sneak downstairs, through the French doors, and out into the moonlit garden.

Fresh air fills my lungs. It makes me feel better—just barely.

A voice in the darkness calls my name. “Señorita Esme?”

I turn to find Miguel, one of our home’s security guards, standing a few feet away from me.

His features are hidden by shadow but I can sense from his tone that he’s concerned for me. Then again, he’s always concerned about me. He’s sweet like that.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

He steps into the light and grins. Miguel is a rough-featured man, all blunt nose and bushy eyebrows, but there’s a tenderness to him that I always appreciate. It stands in stark contrast to my father’s cruelty.

I give him a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Miguel. How’s your wife?”

A smile transforms his face. It strikes me that, despite the black suit and the massive rifle slung across his chest, he’s not much older than I am. Like a big brother looking out for his kid sister.

He knows he’s not supposed to be casually chatting with me—that’s strictly against my father’s orders—so he glances around to make sure no one else is in sight before stepping closer and pulling out his cell phone.

“She gave birth last week,” Miguel tells me excitedly. “Look, look—I have a daughter now!”

My heart thrills for him. The warm glow in his eyes, the happiness radiating off of him—thisis how a father is supposed to talk about his baby girl. Not like an item to be sold to the highest bidder.

“Here!” he says as he pulls up the picture on the phone and hands it over to me with reverence. “Her name is Selena. We named her after my abuela.”

I look down at the round-faced baby girl, wrapped up tight in a yellow blanket with pink flowers embroidered around the edges.

My chest squeezes tight. “She’s beautiful, Miguel.”

He nods and winks. “She looks like her mother, thankfully.”

“I’m so happy for you. For both of you,” I say, handing the picture back to him.

“What are you doing up so late?” Miguel asks hesitantly.

I gnaw my lip anxiously. “I was planning on going for a run.”

His dark eyes turn nervous. “I can accompany you around the grounds if you’d like,” he offers.

I put a hand on his forearm. “Please, Miguel,” I beg. “I need to get off the compound, just for an hour or two. I want to run by the ocean.”

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