Chapter 2 - THE GOLDEN CAGE
The transition from a damp sidewalk to the penthouse at Bellevue Heights was violent in its luxury.
Mila stood in the center of a living room larger than her entire former apartment, clutching her torn blue backpack as if she were afraid the polished oak floors might swallow her whole. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, glittering like a circuit board in the midnight smog.
"This is your room," Gideon said, pushing open a double door down the hall.
It was a nightmare of pastel pinks and plush velvet, put together in less than four hours by a terrified interior designer dragged out of bed at midnight by Gideon’s executive assistant. There were stuffed animals bigger than Mila herself, an electronic keyboard, and a bed draped in silk.
Mila didn't step inside. She stood on the threshold, her small shoulders tense.
"It's too big," she whispered.
"You'll get used to it," Gideon replied, his tone clipped, masking a profound, terrifying awkwardness. He was a master of hostile takeovers, but parenting a traumatized six-year-old was a war he had no strategy for.
"My old room smelled like rain and old paper," Mila said, her voice small. "This smells like nothing."
Gideon’s chest tightened. He turned away, walking over to the bar to pour himself a finger of scotch, though he didn't drink it. He just held the crystal glass, watching the ice cube melt.
"Your mother..." Gideon started, then stopped, clearing his throat. "Clara never told me about you."
"She didn't want you to ruin me," Mila answered simply, sitting down on the edge of the velvet mattress—not because she liked it, but because her legs gave out. "She said rich men love things until they get bored, and then they trade them in for newer models. She said you traded her for a skyscraper."
The words struck Gideon like a physical blow. He set the glass down so hard it cracked the base.
"She was wrong," he growled, though even to his own ears, it sounded defensive.
"She was never wrong," Mila countered, looking up at him with those devastatingly familiar eyes. "She coughed every night until her pillow turned red, and she still painted. She painted you, you know. On scraps of cardboard when we didn't have canvas. She said you had eyes like a winter storm."
Gideon walked to the window, staring out at the neon veins of the city. He had spent twelve years telling himself Clara was a chapter he had successfully closed. Now, looking at Mila, he realized he hadn't closed the book at all—he had just torn out the pages and pretended they didn't matter.
Suddenly, a sharp chime echoed through the penthouse.
It wasn't the doorbell. It was the private security intercom downstairs.
Gideon’s personal security chief, Marcus, appeared in the doorway, his face grim.
"Mr. Vale, you have an unannounced visitor in the lobby. Refuses to leave."
"At two in the morning?" Gideon’s eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Marcus hesitated, shifting his weight. "It’s Arthur Vance. Clara Hart’s uncle. And he’s brought a camera crew from the City Herald."
May you like
Gideon’s blood turned to ice. The media had already caught wind of the child found outside the mall, but they didn't know her name yet. If Arthur Vance—a notorious tabloid leech and failed real estate speculator—got his hands on Mila, they would tear her apart to get to the Vale name.
"Lock down the building," Gideon ordered, his voice dropping an octave into pure, lethal executive ice. "And bring him up. Let's see what the vulture wants."
