Chapter 3 - THE GILDED CAGE ON THE THIRD FLOOR
The suite on the third floor of the east wing did not look like a prison.
It was carpeted in plush cream wool that muffled every footstep.
A king-sized bed with carved walnut posts sat against the far wall, draped in heavy goose-down duvets and pale gray Egyptian cotton.
A marble fireplace crackled softly in the corner, throwing warm orange light across oil paintings of coastal landscapes.
Yet, as Emily stood in the center of the room, listening to the heavy brass lock turn with a definitive click from the outside hallway, she knew she was a captive.
She rushed to the tall double doors and grabbed the bronze handles.
She pulled with all her strength.
The doors did not budge an inch.
"Open the door!" Emily shouted, banging her fists against the thick wood.
"You can't keep me here! This is kidnapping! Let me out!"
Her voice echoed uselessly through the vaulted ceiling of the suite.
From the other side of the heavy oak, a low, composed voice replied.
"Save your energy, Miss Carter. Those doors are solid cherry with reinforced steel cores. You’ll only bruise your knuckles."
Logan.
Emily pressed her forehead against the cool wood, panting, her hands trembling against the polished grain.
"Please, Mr. Russo," she pleaded, tears slipping down the bridge of her nose.
"I have to go to work tomorrow. I have a cat in my apartment. My landlord will throw away everything I own."
"Your rent was paid in full an hour ago," Logan’s voice came back, flat and devoid of emotion.
"Your landlord was given an extra month’s deposit to hold your lease. Your cat was picked up by one of my drivers twenty minutes ago and is currently at an animal clinic in Midtown receiving a veterinary checkup."
Emily blinked, stunned into temporary silence.
"You... you broke into my apartment?"
"I don't break into places, Miss Carter. I bought the building."
A cold shiver raced down Emily’s spine.
In less than two hours, this family had erased her entire independent existence with a stroke of a pen.
She was no longer an invisible girl struggling to survive in the city.
She was a possession inside their fortress.
"Why are you doing this?" Emily cried, her voice cracking.
"You said you didn't even know if the baby is Daniel's! If you think I’m a con artist, just kick me out onto the street! Why lock me in here?"
There was a long silence on the other side of the door.
When Logan spoke again, his voice was closer, as if he had leaned his forehead against the wood opposite hers.
"Because if you’re a fraud, I will deal with you myself," Logan said, his tone chillingly quiet.
"And if you are telling the truth... if you are really carrying my brother’s blood... then you are the last piece of Daniel left on this earth."
The handle clicked, and the heavy door slowly swung inward.
Emily stepped back instinctively, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Logan stood in the doorway.
He had taken off his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to his elbows.
Dark, intricate tattoo ink covered his left forearm—runic symbols intertwined with thorns and Roman numerals.
In his right hand, he carried a silver tray with a bowl of warm chicken broth, sliced sourdough bread, and a tall glass of ice water.
Behind him, two armed men in dark suits stood like statues at the end of the corridor, their hands folded neatly over their waistbands.
"Eat," Logan commanded, stepping into the room and setting the tray down on a small round table near the fireplace.
"I’m not hungry," Emily said defensively, crossing her arms over her chest and pressing her back against the opposite wall.
Logan glanced at her, his amber eyes scanning her pale face and dark circles beneath her eyes.
"You fainted forty minutes ago because your blood sugar crashed," he said, pulling out a chair.
"You haven't eaten a full meal in at least twenty-four hours. If you don't eat for yourself, eat for the child."
Emily bit her lower lip.
The mention of the baby broke down her stubborn pride.
Her stomach let out a loud, hollow rumble that betrayed her completely.
Slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on Logan as if he were a wild predator, she walked toward the table and sat down on the edge of the chair.
Her hands were shaking so hard that the porcelain spoon rattled against the bowl as she lifted the broth to her lips.
It was warm, rich, and perfectly seasoned.
The warmth spread through her chest, easing the cold knot in her stomach.
Logan pulled up a second chair and sat down opposite her.
He leaned back, resting his elbows on the armrests, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin.
He watched her eat with an intensity that made the hair on the back of Emily’s neck stand up.
"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" Emily asked between spoonfuls of soup.
"Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to pull a gun on you."
A faint, grim smirk touched the corner of Logan’s mouth, though it never reached his eyes.
"In my line of work, Miss Carter, the people who smile at you are usually the ones carrying the poison. The ones who look like victims are usually the bait."
"I’m not bait," Emily said firmly, setting the spoon down.
"I’m a twenty-three-year-old orphan who grew up in foster homes in South Jersey. I worked thirty hours a week to get a vocational certificate in bookkeeping. I have never had a speeding ticket. I have never stolen a pack of gum."
"I know," Logan said calmly.
Emily paused, her eyes narrowing.
"What do you mean, you know?"
Logan reached into his back pocket and tossed a thin manila folder onto the table beside her plate.
It landed with a soft slap.
Emily looked down at it.
Stamped on the cover in bold red ink was her name: CARTER, EMILY ROSE.
With trembling fingers, she opened the folder.
Inside were high-resolution photographs of her.
Photos of her walking out of her apartment building on 4th Street.
Photos of her buying groceries at the corner bodega.
Photos of her standing in line at the free medical clinic two weeks ago, holding a plastic prescription bag.
Her bank statements, her credit score, her high school transcripts, even the medical records from her foster care physicals—everything was laid out in cold, clinical black-and-white.
"You had someone follow me?" Emily gasped, horrified.
"Before tonight?"
"No," Logan said, his voice tightening.
"My team compiled that dossier in the last thirty-five minutes. That’s what Russo resources look like when we need answers."
He leaned forward, tapping the edge of the folder.
"Your record is clean. Too clean. No debts except your overdue rent and four thousand dollars in student loans. No boyfriends on file for the past two years until Daniel showed up in March."
Logan’s eyes narrowed into slits.
"Which brings us back to the real mystery, Miss Carter."
"What mystery?"
"How did you end up applying for a maid position at the Russo estate four weeks ago?"
Emily frowned, confused by the question.
"I saw the listing on a local hospitality board. A private agency in the city was recruiting temporary event staff for large private estates. The pay was twenty-five dollars an hour—double what the diner paid. I applied online."
"There was no public listing," Logan said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper.
Emily stared at him.
"What?"
"The Russo family has not used an open hospitality agency in twenty years," Logan explained, his words deliberate and sharp.
"Every single member of the domestic staff inside this house is vetted through a private security firm in Chicago. Their backgrounds are checked for three generations. We don't hire off internet message boards."
Emily felt the room tilt once more.
"But... I filled out an application. A woman named Mrs. Gable called me for an interview at an office downtown. She gave me the uniform and told me to report to the service gate on Thursday morning."
Logan leaned back, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
"Mrs. Gable retired from this estate six months ago. She moved to Florida. Her replacement has been handling domestic hiring since February."
Logan stood up, towering over Emily once more.
"Someone used a retired manager’s credentials to slip your application into the system. Someone bypassed our security screening, forged your clearance badges, and placed you inside this dining room tonight."
Emily’s breath caught in her throat.
The realization hit her like an icy plunge into winter water.
"You think... you think Daniel arranged it?" she whispered.
"Daniel was already dead when you were hired, Miss Carter," Logan replied coldly.
"Daniel died eleven weeks ago. You were hired four weeks ago."
Emily looked at the dossier, then at the locked doors, her mind spinning in complete terror.
"Then who hired me?"
"That," Logan said, turning toward the double doors, "is what I am going to find out before the sun comes up."
Before he could reach the handle, a frantic knocking rattled the wood.
"Mr. Logan!" a voice called out through the keyhole.
"It’s Marcus. Dr. Sterling is here. But there’s a problem."
Logan unlocked the door, his face instantly setting into hard stone.
"What problem?"
May you like
The guard, a burly man with a pale face, leaned in and spoke in a harsh whisper that Emily could still hear.
"Vincent Russo just arrived at the front gate. He brought three of his own lieutenants. He heard about the scene in the ballroom, and he’s demanding to see the girl."
