It's not emptiness. It's choice.
When I pull into the drive by the cabins close to the studio, the night is open and clear. I cut the engine and sit for a long moment, listening as the quiet settles over gravel and trees, over the shape of the place I carved out for myself.
The moon is full tonight, casting soft light over the cabin's edges, illuminating what I've worked for—not just the structure, but the life that grows inside it.
I do this every night now. Looking. Waiting. Breathing.
There's something grounding about it—an invisible tether that shrinks the distance between here and everywhere else.
Eventually, I turn toward the cabin.
CHAPTER 4
THE GILDED CAGE
NORA
The Hidden Hillsmansion stretches around me like a gilded cage, every polished surface reflecting moonlight that slices across the floor in silver shards, cool and sharp beneath my socks.
Outside, the pool glitters like liquid glass—perfect, untouchable, framed by hedges sculpted to the edge of perfection. Los Angeles sprawls beyond, glittering and endless. A city I can see but will never touch.
Somewhere in the hall, Wes's footsteps echo. Each step a subtle reminder that everything has to bend to him. Everything must be perfect. Everything must be his.
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering—not from the air, but from the thought of him. From the knowledge of what tonight will demand of me.
Seven years ago, I arrived in LA wide-eyed and fearless, wanting everything and not knowing I'd lose myself along the way.
Wes was kind then. Magnetic. Relentless in a way that made me feel like I mattered.
Flowers on random Tuesdays. Whispers that I was brilliant, that I could take on anything.
He was the studio executive who chased me across that crowded party two years ago, who made me feel like a story worth investing in. Who saw my book—my voice—and somehow made me believe the world might listen.
He signed the contract for my adaptation and it opened doors I hadn't imagined.
But only through him. Only on his terms.
Somewhere along the way, the man I fell for disappeared. Replaced by ambition sharpened into edges. Charm fused with claws. A constant reminder that love and control are not the same thing.
And I wonder, fleetingly, if I ever loved him. Or if I just let him make me visible to the world while leaving me invisible to myself.
He appears in the doorway. Armani sharp. Eyes appraising me as if I'm a piece of his collection.
"Why aren't you ready?"
His voice is low, precise, threaded with irritation. It slides over me like ice.
I haven't brushed my hair. My oversized band t-shirt and sweatpants are a surrender. At least my lips are glossed.
“Our dinner reservation is in twenty minutes,” he says, stepping closer.
My chest tightens. Stomach twisting.
"We can't be late."
“I still have twenty minutes.”
“Yeah but you still look like that.” His eye trace me up and down. "Come on, Nora. You're driving me crazy."
