WALTZ IN A CAGE
CHAPTER 1: THE BUTTERFLY'S WALTZ
The air smelled of white lilies—cool, formal, almost funereal.
Sterile, surgical sunlight cut long strips across the Italian marble floors, where each of Elara's steps echoed with a lonely click. The penthouse was a monument to minimalism, an impossibly vast space at the top of the world, walled by floor-to-ceiling glass.
They offered a panoramic view of the city below, a glittering carpet she could see but never touch.
One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days defined by this opulence. By this silence.
A soft chime drew her eyes. The tablet on the smoked glass coffee table was glowing. The words on the screen were simple, but sharp as a shard of broken glass.
Le Corsaire. Royal Opera House. Tonight.
A familiar ache flared in her calves, a ghost of a thousand pliés. The scent of rosin and sweat, a memory so sharp it stung. Le Corsaire. It was meant to be her role. That stage was meant to be her world.
Her finger traced the cool surface of the glass. An unconscious, instinctive touch.
She would go. Tonight. She would sit in a dark corner of the balcony, just to breathe that air again. Just to feel.
The thought, bold and dangerous, made her heart give a single, hard thump. She rose, the disciplined muscles of a dancer making her movements fluid and silent. The closet was the size of a small room, filled with designer dresses she had never chosen. All of them were white, grey, or black. His colors.
She ignored them, her hand finding the deep, midnight-blue silk dress she had hidden in the back. The color of freedom. The color of the sky just before dawn.
The soft ding of the private elevator arriving directly in the penthouse pulled every muscle in her body taut.
The polished steel doors slid open.
Kian Huo stepped out, his presence filling the room, sucking the air from it. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, so dark it seemed to absorb the light, a man carved from shadows and control. He didn't have to speak. His silence was heavier than any words.
His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, swept over her, then landed on the tablet. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips.
"You look restless," he said. His voice was a low, smooth velvet, but with a cold steel edge beneath it.
"I want to go out," Elara stated, her voice steadier than she felt.
Kian moved closer, each step deliberate. He stopped in front of her, so close she could smell the subtle, expensive scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something cold, metallic. He didn't touch her. He didn't have to.
"The world outside is... complicated, Elara. You're safer here."
"This isn't safety. This is a cage."
The words escaped her, a defiant whisper.
Kian's expression didn't change. His smile didn't falter. He pulled out his phone, his long fingers a blur across the screen. He raised it to his ear.
"Liam," he said. "Are you on your way to pick her up?"
The blood froze in Elara's veins. Liam Feng. Her childhood friend. He was in on it, too? He was part of... this?
Kian listened for a moment, his gaze still locked on her, analyzing her every micro-expression.
"A change of plans," he said, his tone still calm, a silk cord tightening around her last thread of hope. "Yes... She won't be going. Cancel the tickets."
He ended the call. The air rushed out of Elara's lungs in a choked gasp.
"Why?" she whispered, the defiance gone, replaced by raw desperation.
Kian pocketed his phone. For the first time, he reached out, but not to touch her. He took a single strand of her hair, twisting it around his finger. The gesture was almost gentle, but it carried the weight of absolute ownership.
"Because a butterfly is most beautiful in a glass box, not flying into a storm," he said. "And because you have a more important performance to prepare for."
He released her hair.
"I've established an arts fund. A foundation to find and cultivate talent like yours. I want you to be its face."
A tiny, fragile flicker of hope. A stage. A purpose.
"What's it called?" she asked.
Kian's smile finally reached his eyes, but it held no warmth. It sent a chill down her spine.
"The Phoenix Foundation."
Phoenix.
The word hung in the air, beautiful and monstrous. It meant nothing.
And at the same time... it felt like the key turning in a lock she never knew existed. Her cage had just been given a name.