Chapter 1 Waking Up In The Golden Cage

• The air in the room was too warm, heavy with the scent of expensive white lilies and lemon-scented marble cleaner.
• I opened my eyes, expecting the sterile white ceiling of the private hospice ward in Ramathibodi Hospital—the place where I had spent the last four months of my previous life watching my body waste away while my lungs slowly filled with fluid. I expected the rhythmic, artificial beep of the heart monitor and the smell of antiseptic.
• Instead, I was looking up at a high-gloss, dark wood ceiling panel.
• I sat up so fast my head spun. The sheet covering my legs wasn't the thin, scratchy cotton of a hospital blanket; it was four-hundred-thread-count Egyptian silk in a deep shade of charcoal grey.
• I looked down at my hands. They were smooth, pale, and completely unblemished—no purple bruises from IV drips, no paper-thin skin showing brittle blue veins, no physical weight of a twenty-eight-year-old body ruined by systemic liver failure.
• I scrambled out of the king-sized bed, my bare feet hitting the cold, polished Italian marble floor, and ran into the adjoining bathroom.
• The woman standing in the floor-to-ceiling mirror wasn't the sunken, dying ghost I remembered. She had dark, vibrant eyes, smooth collarbones, and thick, healthy black hair falling past her shoulders. Her skin was flushed with youth.
• I was twenty-two years old again.
• My mind raced through the dates. Twenty-two was the year my father’s export company went bankrupt after his foreign partners defaulted on a thirty-million-baht shipment. It was the year my family was forced to swallow their pride and agree to an arranged marriage with the Kittisiri family—one of Thailand's most powerful retail and real estate conglomerates—to clear our debts.
• And it was the year I moved into this exact penthouse with Phaidra Kittisiri.
• "Lita."
• A cold, crisp voice cut through the quiet room, breaking my train of thought.
• I turned around slowly, gripping the edge of the marble sink so tightly my knuckles turned white.
• Phaidra—Phai—was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, holding a thin black leather folder in her left hand. She wore a tailored charcoal-grey pantsuit, her sharp jawline and dark, calculating eyes giving her the appearance of a corporate executive ready to sign a hostile takeover. She was twenty-four, newly appointed to her family’s board of directors, and radiated the quiet, suffocating arrogance that had made my first life an absolute living hell.
• In my previous life, I had spent four years cowering under that exact look. I had spent four years trying to please her, trying to be a good, obedient wife, hoping that if I cooked enough meals, attended enough high-society charity galas, and kept my mouth shut, she would eventually look at me like a human being instead of a bought commodity.
• She never did. When I got sick at twenty-seven, her mother paid my hospital bills out of a corporate charity account, while Phai visited me exactly twice in four months—spending both visits looking at her phone while her assistant handled the paperwork.
• "You're awake," Phai said, her tone completely flat as her eyes swept over my pajamas. "The driver is bringing up your remaining luggage from your father's house at two o'clock. My mother left these on the dining table for you."
• She stepped forward and tossed the leather folder onto the counter next to my sink.
• "What is this?" I asked. My voice sounded different—younger, stronger, devoid of the raspy wheeze that had plagued my last months of life.
• "The cohabitation agreement," Phai said, crossing her arms over her chest. "My family cleared your father’s thirty-two-million-baht bank liability this morning. In exchange, you will live here for two years, attend four mandatory public events a year with me for press coverage, and keep your personal life out of the news. You have your own bedroom across the hall. Do not enter my home office, do not bring guests over without forty-eight hours' notice, and do not call my private office during market hours unless it's a genuine emergency."
• She paused, looking down at me with a cool, detached indifference. "Do you have any questions?"
• In my past life, when she handed me this exact document, I had cried. I had stood in this exact bathroom, swallowed my tears, and whispered, “Thank you, Khun Phai. I’ll be careful.”
• I looked down at the leather folder sitting next to my sink. Then I looked back up into her eyes.
• "No," I said, my voice steady, cold, and entirely flat. "I don't have any questions."
• Phai frowned slightly, her dark brows drawing together in a brief, subtle micro-expression of confusion. She had clearly expected tears, an argument, or at least a timid, nervous plea for reassurance.
• "Good," she said, recovering her composure instantly. "My assistant will transfer your monthly allowance of five hundred thousand baht into your account on the first of every month. Dinner is at seven. Don't wait up for me."
• She turned on her heel and walked out, her high heels clicking loudly against the marble floor before the heavy front door of the penthouse shut with a sharp click.
• I stood alone in the bathroom for a long time, listening to the silence of the massive, empty apartment.
• I picked up the leather folder, opened it, and flipped straight to the signature page. My signature was already there, signed in crisp black ink three days ago when the contract was finalized.
• Two years. Five hundred thousand baht a month. Thirty-two million baht of my father’s debt cleared.
• I looked at my reflection in the mirror again. My face was pale, but my eyes were sharp.
• In my first life, I had let this golden cage destroy my spirit, my self-respect, and eventually my health. I had spent four years waiting for a woman who didn't care about me to offer a crumb of affection.
• I reached out, grabbed the leather folder, closed it, and tossed it straight into the metal trash bin under the sink.
• "Not this time," I whispered to the empty room. "This time, I'm getting out alive."
• ***