Chapter 3 - The Golden Cage
The transition from Halsted Street to the Moretti estate on the Gold Coast was disorienting enough to feel like an abduction, except Sarah had signed the papers voluntarily.
It wasn't a house; it was a fortress disguised as a nineteenth-century limestone mansion, complete with wrought-iron gates, private security patrols, and manicured gardens that looked like they were vacuumed daily. When the black town car rolled up the circular driveway, Sarah’s hands were sweating against the fabric of her coat. Lily was asleep in the back seat, having been gently woken up, fed a warm meal by Marco’s wife, and carried out of the old apartment while wrapped in a blanket that smelled of lavender.
"She'll have her own room," Julian said quietly as the car doors opened. He stood beside the vehicle, shielding Sarah and Lily from the light mist falling over Lake Michigan. "A real room. With a bed that doesn't creak."
Sarah stepped out, her eyes taking in the massive double doors of the estate. "This is insane. I’m an accountant, not a prisoner. What happens when the custody hearing is over? What happens when I get Lily back?"
"Then you stay," Julian said simply. "Or you leave. But you won't leave empty-handed."
Inside, the estate was a museum of dark wood, marble floors, and priceless art, yet it felt strangely hollow. The emptiness was pierced immediately by a familiar, frantic sound echoing from the upper landing—a shrill, desperate wail.
Before the head housekeeper, an austere woman named Mrs. Gable, could even cross the foyer, Julian had already shed his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms corded with dark veins and old, faded scars.
"He's been crying for twenty minutes," Mrs. Gable said, wringing her hands. "The formula is the right temperature, but—"
"Give him to me," Sarah said.
She didn't wait for permission. She strode past the housekeeper, climbed the grand curved staircase, and followed the sound into a sprawling nursery painted in muted blues and silters. A young nurse was hovering over the crib, looking pale and terrified.
Sarah brushed past her, reached down into the crib, and scooped up the baby. She pressed Leo’s small, hot tummy firmly against her collarbone, locked her hips into that ancient, rhythmic sway, and began to hum a quiet, tuneless melody she used to sing to Lily when she was an infant.
Within fifteen seconds, the screaming hitched, turned into a ragged sob, and stopped.
Julian stood in the doorway, watching them. The harsh lines of his face softened, just for a fraction of a second, revealing a profound, exhausted vulnerability that no one in Chicago would ever believe existed.
"How do you do that?" Julian whispered from the doorway.
May you like
"You don't fight him," Sarah said without looking up, her hand gently patting the infant's back. "You listen to him. You're trying to fix him, Mr. Moretti. Babies don't need to be fixed. They need to be felt."
Julian stepped closer, his dark eyes fixed on Sarah’s face. "Call me Julian."
