Some cages don’t come with locks. They’re built from control—subtle, suffocating. You don’t see the walls closing in until your world feels smaller, your choices no longer your own, and freedom is just a memory.

I know this because I’ve lived it.

Though, it didn’t start as a prison.

It never does.

In the beginning, it felt like safety. Like love. He was charming and attentive and knew exactly how to make me feel like I was the only person in the world. I believed it—believed him—convinced that his devotion meant something that would become my happily ever after. Love. Forever.

I should’ve seen the signs. The way his hold lingered a little too long when I tried to step away. How his voice was gentle in public but sharp behind closed doors. The rules started small—skip that dress. It’s too revealing. Don’t stay out so late. Maybe avoid talking to him. Warnings wrapped in concern, slowly closing in until there was no room left. Until I was trapped.

Then came the first time.

Not a punch. It never starts that way. It was his fingers tightening around my wrist, squeezing until I wondered if something might break. Then, there was a rough tug of my hair when I said something he didn’t like. A shove against the counter, his voice dripping with venom. And, of course, there were the apologies, the gifts, and the whispered promises that it would never happen again.

But it did.

Again and again, until I stopped counting the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves and carefully blended makeup. Until, I learned to recognize the warning in his eyes, and the shift in his mood before he lashed out. Until I started believing it was my fault.

Because that’s what he told me.

If you didn’t provoke me, I wouldn’t have to do this.

If you just listened, I wouldn’t get so angry.

If you didn’t push me, Henrietta, I wouldn’t have to remind you.

Last night, he reminded me.

That I was nothing.

That he owned me.

That my fate—whether I lived or died—was his decision to make.

My jaw aches where his palm struck, a dull throb matching the bruise blooming beneath my collarbone. My skin stings where his fingers wrapped around my throat, squeezing just long enough to prove how easily he could take everything.

And that was it.

That was the moment something inside me fractured beyond repair. Because if I stay, one day, he will take everything.

Which is why I’m standing on the edge of something terrifying. Something I never thought I’d be willing to do. But I have to. There’s no other choice.

This might be my only chance to escape, to . . . survive.