Chapter 5 The Gilded Cage Closes

• (POV: Isabela Montoya)
• My heart jolted, then started hammering hard against my ribs—a desperate rhythm suddenly loud in the thick silence left behind by Quino’s voice calling my name. Papa wants to see you. Now. The impatience in his tone, the sharp edge of finality – it wasn’t just about finding brochures. This was something else. Something significant. Something dreadful.
• My fingers finally wrestled the floorboard back flush – click – just as Quino hammered on the door again, louder. "Isabela!"
• "Coming!" The word squeaked out, high and shaky. Not my voice. Hands trembling, I smoothed my dress, forced shaky legs to push me upright, towards the door. Caught my reflection in the big mirror—pale, eyes too wide, trying desperately to look blank. The mask snapping into place. Porcelain doll outside; shattered pieces inside.
• Quino stood stiffly in the hall; arms clamped across his chest. He wouldn't even look at me, just flicked his head towards the west wing. "Papa wants you. Study. Now." Curt. Cold.
• Walking beside him was torture. Each footstep on the marble seemed to boom, echoing the sick dread tightening in my gut. The air in this house always felt thick, heavy with secrets and old violence, but today it was crushing, pressing in. Even the guards looked sharper, eyes following us. Did they know? Was I the last to be informed of whatever awaited me?
• Quino strode slightly ahead, his silence a wall between us. There was no comfort to be found there, no brotherly solidarity. He was Papa’s heir, Papa’s enforcer-in-training. His loyalty belonged entirely to the Montoya name, to the preservation of our crumbling empire, not to the sister walking towards her doom behind him.
• We stopped before the huge, dark wood doors to Papa’s study. Were they always this tall? They felt bigger today, more intimidating somehow. Quino rapped once, sharply, on the wood, then shoved the door open without waiting, stepping aside just enough for me to pass. He was right behind me as he pulled it shut. The lock clicked—quiet, firm, and chillingly like a cell door slamming shut.
• Papa’s study was the heart of his power, designed to intimidate. Bookshelves stretched floor to ceiling, covering three whole walls. They were packed tight with leather-bound books that looked grand but mostly just collected dust. Pure decoration, really. Antique maps charting old territories and shipping routes hung alongside stark, modern abstract paintings Papa favored. His desk was a vast expanse of dark, polished mahogany, kept meticulously clear except for a single phone console and a heavy crystal ashtray, though Papa hadn’t smoked in years. The air in the study smelled stale—old leather, faint ghosts of cigars, undercut by the sharp chemical bite of Papa's antiseptic rub.
• He was behind the desk. Not slumped like at breakfast, but bolt upright now, strangely stiff, like he was steeling himself. That slight tremor in his hands was still there, betraying him. But his jaw was locked hard, dark eyes fixing on me the instant I entered. The shadowy light from the curtains hollowed his face, making the bones beneath his thin skin stand out starkly, almost skull-like. The effect was jarring: he looked so physically weak, yet the air around him still crackled with that cold, heavy force of command.
• "Sit down, Isabela," he commanded. The rough anger from before was gone. This was worse—a flat, cold tone that sent ice down my spine.
• My feet felt heavy as stones crossing the thick rug towards the leather chair facing his desk. Like walking the plank. I sank onto the cold surface, locking my shaking hands together in my lap. Quino stood near the door, relaxed but watchful—a silent warning this was serious.
• Silence stretched for a moment, heavy and charged. Papa steepled his trembling fingers, his gaze unwavering, assessing me. I held his gaze, willing my eyes not to betray the desperate prayer pounding away inside me. Don't show him you're scared.
• "Our situation," Papa began, his voice terrifyingly level, each word deliberate, "is..." A slight hesitation. "...delicate." He paused, letting the understatement hang in the air. "Alliances shift. Old enemies sense opportunity in perceived weakness." His eyes flickered briefly, perhaps acknowledging his own mortality without saying the words. "Stability must be ensured. The Montoya legacy must be protected. At any cost."
• My blood ran cold. I knew, instinctively, where this was going. It was the unspoken currency of our world, the grim trade-off for safety and power. Daughters were assets, bargaining chips used to forge alliances, seal deals, end feuds. I had always known this, intellectually. But knowing it and having it become my reality were two vastly different things.
• "Therefore," Papa continued, his voice dropping slightly, taking on the hard edge of finality, "an arrangement has been made. A necessary one. One that will solidify our position and deter our enemies." He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes pinning me in place. "You will marry Mateo Castillo."
• The name struck me with physical force. Mateo Castillo. Not an abstract concept, not a faceless ally. Him. The boy – the young man – from that day. Cold eyes. That's what I remembered first. The boy splattered with blood, standing there in the middle of the killing ground, making that vow with terrifying calm. The memory surged up, sharp and sensory overload: the gleam of the gun barrel, the sharp stink of gunpowder mingling with warm blood, the awful neatness of the executions, his shadow turning towards me under the table. And the chilling thought: back then, he wasn't much older than me. Just a boy. What was he like now, a decade later? Had that coldness intensified? Had the brutality become even more ingrained?
• Air snagged sharp in my throat. My mind screamed no while ice flooded my veins. It couldn't be. Not him. Please, not him.
• "Papa…?" The name was a strangled whisper, and I saw annoyance instantly flicker in his eyes.
• "Nothing to discuss, Isabela," he cut back sharply, that hard edge returning to his voice like a blade drawn. The frail old man vanished, replaced by the unyielding patriarch. "This is not a request. It is a decision. Final." He gestured dismissively with a trembling hand. "The Castillo connection is vital. Mateo is young, ruthless, ambitious. He controls the southern routes now, consolidating power faster than anyone anticipated after his own father’s… retirement. This union serves us both. It ends the simmering tension that has lingered between our families for years. It presents a united front."
• "But—" I tried again, desperation making me push past the fear, the sick taste of panic sharp in my throat. "Papa, please, listen—"
• "Silence!" The word whipped across the desk, sharp and stinging. He lunged forward, leaning over the polished wood, frail body forgotten, eyes suddenly burning with a fierce heat that shocked me. "Do you actually think you have a choice in this? Do you think your childish dreams matter in the face of our survival?" His words hit me like stones, referencing the university brochures he must surely know about, know I hid. Had this been planned all along, a cruel countermove to my pathetic hopes? "You are a Montoya. You have a duty. This duty involves securing our future. Mateo Castillo understands duty. He understands necessity. You will learn from him."
• Tears prickled hotly behind my lids, blurring my sight for an instant. Stinging. But I blinked hard, pushing them away. Would not cry. Held it together. Not now. Crying would just prove him right—prove I was still a child. Show weakness. I risked a quick look at Quino, searching for... something. Anything. His face was a mask, eyes fixed hard on the opposite wall. His jaw was clamped tight. No help there. No help there. He wouldn't defy Papa, not for me, not for this. He accepted the decree as necessary, perhaps even logical from his perspective. My isolation felt complete, absolute. I was utterly alone in this.
• My mind frantically cast back, searching for leverage, for any memory of a time Papa had been swayed, had listened. A fleeting image surfaced: me, perhaps seven or eight years old, pleading desperately for a kitten I had found sheltering in the stables during a storm. Papa had been imposing even then, but Mama had been alive, a softening presence beside him. He had listened to my breathless arguments about responsibility, about loneliness, his expression stern but… considering. He had eventually, grudgingly, allowed it, with a gruff warning about diligence. That man, the one who could occasionally be reached, felt like a phantom now, buried beneath layers of paranoia, illness, and the harsh necessities of his world. That door was closed. Permanently.
• The brochures felt like ashes in my memory now. My paper wings had just been violently torn away. My carefully nurtured spark of hope was extinguished, drowned in the icy reality of this decree. I wasn’t Isabela Montoya, the person who dreamt of libraries and autumn leaves. I was a commodity. A bridge between two powerful, dangerous families, handed over to a man whose name conjured images of death and cold control. My future wasn't my own to shape; it had just been signed away in a deal brokered for survival. The gilded cage hadn’t just been reinforced; its door had slammed shut and the lock had clicked firmly into place.
• "The engagement will be announced next week," Papa stated, sinking back slightly, the burst of anger seemingly costing him. "The wedding will follow swiftly. Preparations are already underway. Quino will handle the security details." He looked from me to my brother, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer, hard, expectant. He was daring me to argue further, challenging me to display any more futile resistance. "You understand your responsibilities, Isabela?"
• The question hung in the air, demanding not just comprehension, but acceptance. Submission.
• My throat was tight, raw. I couldn't speak, couldn't force the words out. But the slight, almost imperceptible nod I managed to give seemed to satisfy him.
• "Good," he said, his tone clipped. "That will be all. You may go."
• He waved a dismissive hand, turning his attention to some unseen papers on his desk, the audience clearly over. I rose on legs that felt numb, unsteady. Turning, avoiding Quino’s gaze which I felt slide towards me now, filled perhaps with a sliver of pity he couldn't voice, I walked towards the door. Each step felt heavier than the last. My fingers closed around the cold, polished doorknob, pulling the heavy panel open.
• Leaving the study was like breaking the surface after being submerged deep underwater, but the corridor air felt just as thick and heavy as the silence inside Papa's room had been. No escape. It tasted stale, bitter. My future, which only moments ago held the fragile, secret possibility of flight, now stretched before me as a narrow, terrifying path leading directly into the hands of Mateo Castillo. The silence I walked into wasn't empty; it screamed with the finality of Papa's decree. The gilded cage had closed, and the key, I suspected, was now firmly in Mateo's possession.