His Gilded Cage: A Husband's Escape

His Gilded Cage: A Husband's Escape

Gavin

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It was our tenth wedding anniversary, but the party felt exactly like the nine humiliating ones before it. My wife, Vanessa Thorne, a dazzling socialite to the world, was my warden, and tonight, she paraded her newest "toy," a young model named Liam. "Show him the ropes," she purred, her eyes alight with cruel amusement, forcing me, her husband, to mentor her latest conquest in how to "please her." As the guests snickered, the subtext was clear: "Show him how to be my pet, just like you." For ten years, I had been her gilded prisoner, my father's mounting medical bills the chain around my neck, paid for by the Thorne family. But tonight, something inside me snapped. "No," I whispered, then louder, "No. I won't." I met her eyes and declared, "Vanessa, I want a divorce." The room erupted in laughter, and Vanessa sneered, "You always come crawling back. You have nothing. You are nothing without me." She was right; ninety-nine times, I had failed, but this was the hundredth. I pulled out a printed divorce agreement, a symbol of my resolve. In response, she snatched my champagne and flung it in my face, hissing, "Have you forgotten what you are? You belong to me." Then, for her audience, she commanded, "Get on your knees, Ethan. Crawl to me. Bark like the dog you are." Soaked, shaking, and utterly broken, I knelt, the marble cold beneath me, and whimpered, "Woof." That night, locked in my studio, the phone rang: my father was dying. I pounded on the door, screaming, "Vanessa! Let me out! He's dying!" Her reply, cynical and cold, echoed through the wood, "Another trick? It's pathetic." She left me there, and a primal fury ignited. I smashed the window, cut myself on the glass, and fashioned a rope from canvas. I barely made it down, landing hard and breaking my ankle, but I crawled through hedges, alarms blaring. On the street, a sleek black sedan pulled up. A woman, Sarah Jenkins, offered, "You look like you're in trouble." I gasped, "I need to get to the hospital. My father..." "Get in," she said, her voice calm and steady. At the emergency room, I heard it: "Mr. Miller... just passed a few minutes ago." My father was gone. The chain was broken. A strange, terrifying sense of freedom washed over me, a feeling of nothing left to lose. I clutched Sarah's card, a lifeline in my hand, and whispered, "I'm so, so tired of fighting."

Introduction

It was our tenth wedding anniversary, but the party felt exactly like the nine humiliating ones before it.

My wife, Vanessa Thorne, a dazzling socialite to the world, was my warden, and tonight, she paraded her newest "toy," a young model named Liam.

"Show him the ropes," she purred, her eyes alight with cruel amusement, forcing me, her husband, to mentor her latest conquest in how to "please her."

As the guests snickered, the subtext was clear: "Show him how to be my pet, just like you."

For ten years, I had been her gilded prisoner, my father's mounting medical bills the chain around my neck, paid for by the Thorne family.

But tonight, something inside me snapped.

"No," I whispered, then louder, "No. I won't."

I met her eyes and declared, "Vanessa, I want a divorce."

The room erupted in laughter, and Vanessa sneered, "You always come crawling back. You have nothing. You are nothing without me."

She was right; ninety-nine times, I had failed, but this was the hundredth.

I pulled out a printed divorce agreement, a symbol of my resolve.

In response, she snatched my champagne and flung it in my face, hissing, "Have you forgotten what you are? You belong to me."

Then, for her audience, she commanded, "Get on your knees, Ethan. Crawl to me. Bark like the dog you are."

Soaked, shaking, and utterly broken, I knelt, the marble cold beneath me, and whimpered, "Woof."

That night, locked in my studio, the phone rang: my father was dying.

I pounded on the door, screaming, "Vanessa! Let me out! He's dying!"

Her reply, cynical and cold, echoed through the wood, "Another trick? It's pathetic."

She left me there, and a primal fury ignited.

I smashed the window, cut myself on the glass, and fashioned a rope from canvas.

I barely made it down, landing hard and breaking my ankle, but I crawled through hedges, alarms blaring.

On the street, a sleek black sedan pulled up.

A woman, Sarah Jenkins, offered, "You look like you're in trouble."

I gasped, "I need to get to the hospital. My father..."

"Get in," she said, her voice calm and steady.

At the emergency room, I heard it: "Mr. Miller... just passed a few minutes ago."

My father was gone.

The chain was broken.

A strange, terrifying sense of freedom washed over me, a feeling of nothing left to lose.

I clutched Sarah's card, a lifeline in my hand, and whispered, "I'm so, so tired of fighting."

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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