Chapter 4 Gilded Bars And Paper Wings

• (POV: Isabela Montoya)
• I watched the sunlight spill, thick and warm, through the big arched window, pooling across the soft grey carpet. It always caught the tapestry just so, highlighting the silken scene of peaceful shepherds under trees—so ridiculously peaceful compared to reality. My whole bedroom suite tried hard to be calmly expensive: the heavy cream curtains bound with gold rope, the dark gleam of polished antiques, even the forest of crystal perfume bottles on the dressing table that I mostly ignored. Anyone looking in would see the pinnacle of Montoya wealth, the cherished daughter cocooned in luxury.
• They wouldn’t see the bars.
• Not literal iron bars, not anymore – Papa had deemed those too crude after my sixteenth birthday. Instead, delicately scrolled, reinforced wrought iron formed an elegant, near-invisible pattern across the lower half of the shatterproof glass. Decorative, Papa had called them. Protective. But to me? They were just gilded bars on a very expensive cage built of silk and fear. And watching over it, tucked way up in the fancy plasterwork above the door, was the tiny dark eye of a camera lens, catching just a faint gleam of morning light if you looked hard enough. Part of the cage, really. Always watching.
• I pushed back the heavy silk duvet – impossibly soft, obscenely expensive – and swung my legs over the side of the high bed. The cool smoothness of the polished floorboards met my bare feet. Camila, my assigned maid since… well, since forever, it seemed… had already laid out my clothes for the day on a chaise lounge: a demure linen dress in a pale, unassuming blue, suitable for breakfast with Papa. My entire life was curated, scheduled, anticipated. Freedom was choosing between Earl Grey and chamomile tea, not deciding my own future.
• That soft, musical chime drifted in from the hallway. Breakfast time. I sighed, the tiny puff of air barely stirring the heavy quiet in the room. Right on time, like everything else. Another performance was due to begin.
• Plastering a neutral expression on my face – the one honed over years of careful practice – I allowed Camila to help me dress, her movements efficient and impersonal. She was older now, lines etched around her eyes that hadn’t been there when she’d first tried to coax a traumatized eleven-year-old out from under furniture. Did she pity me? Did she resent me? Or was I just another piece of the elaborate, dangerous household machinery she navigated daily? It was impossible to tell. You didn't show real feelings here. Wasn't safe.
• The walk to breakfast was silent, my slippers quiet on the polished marble. Two guards, impassive as ever, stood watch at the west wing hall entrance, where Papa kept his study. Routine. They nodded almost imperceptibly as I passed. More watchers. More bars.
• The dining room was already occupied. My brother, Quino, occupied his customary spot opposite Papa’s throne-like chair at the table's head. Sunlight blared through the wall of windows, making the opulent silverware and crystal glitter – giving the room that signature bright, sterile, expensive feel. He acknowledged my entrance with a quick up-nod, lips pressed thin. About as warm as he ever got. He was broader now, his boyish features hardened into the sharp lines of Montoya authority, mirroring Papa’s in his prime. You could see the weight Quino carried just in that worried line etched between his brows.
• But my eyes went straight to Papa, and my stomach did that familiar clench—part pity, part something like fear. Santiago Montoya... the name still whispered with power outside these walls. But here? He looked... smaller. Hunched down a bit in his chair, the expensive suit seeming too big now, hanging off shoulders that used to look so broad. His hair, once jet black, was thin silver combed carefully over his scalp. He reached for his water, and his hand gave a tiny shake, making the ice clatter against the glass—startlingly loud in the quiet. I flinched.
• "Isabela." His voice sounded thin, raspy with illness, weaker than I remembered, but you could still hear the order beneath the rasp. "Sit."
• "Papa," I breathed, sliding into my usual seat beside him. The rich coffee smell warred with the sharp, clean sting of the antiseptic hand rub he always used now.
• Staff materialized, served breakfast without a word, then vanished again—ghosts with downcast eyes who knew what you needed before you did. The conversation, as always, was stilted, transactional. Quino reported briefly on some shipment issue – vague details only, Papa hated being bothered with minutiae unless absolutely necessary. Papa listened, his gaze sharp despite his physical frailty, occasionally interjecting with a terse question or a curt command that still held the power to make Quino visibly stiffen.
• Picking at a piece of melon, I felt completely detached, like I was watching strangers. The silence between words felt stretched thin, tight with unspoken things, while we all pretended this was just another breakfast. Papa's fading strength wasn't just in his hands shaking; it sent tremors through the delicate, dangerous structure of our lives, unsettling everything. Everyone knew it. Everyone felt it. The uncertainty was a constant, low hum beneath the surface of our lives. Was today the day something snapped? Would Quino rise to the challenge, or would rivals sense the vulnerability, circling like sharks that smelled blood in the water?
• Papa suddenly slammed his weakened hand flat on the table, making the silverware jump and Quino flinch. "Idiots!" he rasped, his face flushing slightly. "Am I surrounded by incompetent fools? This should have been handled weeks ago, Quino!"
• "It is handled, Papa," Quino replied, his voice tight, controlled. "There was a complication. It’s resolved."
• "Complications cost money. Complications show weakness," Papa retorted, his breath coming a little short. He glared at Quino, the old fire flickering briefly in his faded eyes. But the anger seemed to drain him quickly, leaving him looking tired, deflated. He waved a trembling hand dismissively. "Just… see it doesn't happen again." He slumped back in his chair, spent, like even that brief flash of anger had cost him too much.
• I dropped my eyes to my plate. Pretend I hadn't seen it. Pretend that familiar knot wasn't twisting tight in my gut. This was just how we lived – walking this tightrope of quiet tension, waiting for the snap of brittle rage, all of us living under the shadow of losing control.
• The second breakfast ended, I practically bolted, mumbling some safe lie about menus. The relief hit me the moment I stepped out of the dining room; my chest actually loosened, felt like I could finally draw a real breath. I walked fast back to my rooms, purposefully ignoring the guards' eyes I felt tracking me, ignoring the silent bows from staff who melted out of the way.
• Inside, I nodded Camila out, listened hard for the solid click of the lock securing me in. The heavy click of the lock sealed the room. Alone. And in that instant of privacy, I finally exhaled. Then, purposefully, I crossed the room straight to the corner by the window, where the antique wooden chest waited, and knelt down beside it. The rug here was thick, plush. My fingers deftly found the edge of a particular floorboard, one slightly looser than the others. Using a fingernail, I pried it up carefully.
• Beneath it lay my secret. My rebellion. My impossible dream.
• A small, flat oilskin pouch held several thin, glossy brochures. University brochures. Oxford. The Sorbonne. Heidelberg. Places of history, of learning, of stone archways and autumn leaves and students bustling between classes, arguing about poetry and politics, utterly oblivious to the dark, violent world I inhabited. I pulled them out, handling them with reverence, the smooth paper cool against my fingertips.
• Their pages were slightly worn at the edges from countless times I’d unfolded and refolded them in secret over the past few years. I traced the photographs: ivy-covered walls, sun-dappled quads, lecture halls filled with focused faces. Normal faces. Young people excited about exams, planning weekend trips, falling in love without the looming threat of family alliances or sudden, brutal violence. A life where worth wasn't measured in bullets dodged or fortunes acquired through fear. A life where I could decide who I wanted to be.
• The longing was a physical ache deep inside me, sharp and persistent. To walk those pathways, to read those books under my own name, to breathe air that didn’t constantly smell of secrets and impending danger… it felt like yearning for the moon. Impossible. Laughable, even. Papa would never allow it. Quino would see it as utter betrayal. And yet… clinging to these paper wings was the only thing that kept me from suffocating completely in this luxurious prison. It was a tiny spark of defiance in the all-consuming darkness.
• I was lost in a photograph of a library – endless rows of books, readers bent studiously over tables – when the sound jolted me back to reality.
• Thump-thump-thump-thump.
• Footsteps. Rapid. Heavy. Coming down the corridor, directly towards my door.
• Panic seized me, cold and immediate. My heart slammed against my ribs. Oh god—the brochures! Still scattered all over the floor, like proof of what I'd been doing. Scrambling, fingers suddenly thick and useless with fear, I scooped up the glossy pages, shoving them blindly back into the pouch. Footsteps—closer now, right outside the door! Quick! I fumbled with the loose floorboard, trying desperately to jam it back into place, my breath locked tight in my chest.
• They stopped right outside my door. A sharp, authoritative knock rattled the heavy wood.
• "Isabela?" Quino's voice. Sharp. Impatient. "Papa wants to see you. Now."