A Canary's Cage of Gold

In my life, I have been a rich man’s canary twice.

The first time, it was for a Miami nightclub tycoon. When I discovered I was nothing more than a beautiful plaything for him to show off, I flew the cage.

The second time, I was smarter. I married Julian Blackwood, a cold, ascetic titan of Wall Street. For three years, he showered me with such extravagance that I became a legend, the wild spirit everyone whispered he had finally tamed. I, too, believed I had won his singular, all-consuming love.

Until a late summer weekend, when I accompanied Julian to his family’s estate in the Hamptons. Standing on the terrace, I overheard his grandmother's voice drifting from the house. She spoke of his past—of a woman named Scarlett Montgomery who had scorned him, of a near-drowning, and of the vow he’d made to one day make her kneel.

"That Montgomery princess looked down on you for being an illegitimate son and left you for dead in the ocean. You swore back then you'd make her life a living hell. No one holds a grudge like you."

"And what came of it? This wife you have now—isn't she just a substitute you found? A stand-in for the real thing?"

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1

The man was silent for a long, weighted moment. "Grandmother, don't let Avalon hear this."

I stood on the other side of the glass doors, my fingertips digging into the cold stone of the balustrade.

"What are you doing out here in the cold? You'll catch a chill."

Julian's gentle voice wrapped around me from behind.

He draped a cashmere shawl over my shoulders and encircled my waist with his arms.

My entire body went rigid.

His grandmother's words echoed, a relentless poison in my mind.

Julian took my hand. "Avalon, why are your hands so cold?"

He lifted my fingers to his lips, kissing them softly.

I turned, subtly pulling my hand from his grasp.

"Julian, who am I?"

Staring into his deep, affectionate eyes, my mind replayed a highlight reel of the past three years.

He would carefully prepare a glass of warm milk for me every single night.

He once canceled a multi-billion-dollar merger just to stay home and soothe my cramps, his hands a warm, constant presence on my stomach all night.

...

So, all of this… it was for another woman?

He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

"What kind of question is that? You're Avalon. You're my wife. My only wife."

I opened my mouth to argue, but his phone vibrated.

He glanced at the screen, his expression unreadable.

"Avalon, something's come up. An urgent call I need to take in the study."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"Go on to bed. You don't have to wait up for me."

I watched him walk away, a profound numbness spreading through me.

I returned to our bedroom alone.

On the bedside table, the screen of the laptop Julian used for work suddenly flickered to life.

An anonymous Instagram chat box materialized.

A single photo had been sent.

The background was one of New York City's most exclusive hotels, renowned for its discretion.

In the picture, a woman wore a deep purple silk nightdress, her gaze hazy, seductive.

Her features were stunning.

But I could still see it—the unmistakable resemblance in her profile. A resemblance to me.

The little princess of the Montgomery family, Scarlett.

Before I could fully process it, the photo and the chat history vanished, as if set to self-destruct after being read.

Less than a minute later, I heard the soft, deliberate retreat of footsteps down the hall.

Then, the distant sound of a car engine fading into the night.

My hands clenched the bedsheets, knuckles white.

After a moment, I took a deep, shuddering breath.

Following the hotel logo I’d glimpsed in the photo, I called a car and followed him into the city.

I didn't storm in. I didn't cause a scene.

It was a special kind of masochism, booking the room right next to theirs.

The room wasn't very soundproof.

Or perhaps they made no effort to be quiet.