NOIR FICTION

Prisoner in a Gilded Cage

“She roams the many rooms of the villa, surrounded by images of herself in the floor-length mirrors and the reflections of the crystal chandeliers, wearing dresses meant for evening galas and dancing to non-existent music.”

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The stiletto heel of Vanessa’s slipper got caught in the long train of her emerald ballroom gown. She trips on it, losing her balance. A large Grecian vase standing atop a marble plinth breaks her fall; she embraces it with her slender bare arms, steadying herself. But the champagne coupe she always carries in her manicured hand smashes to the floor, a puddle of Dom Perignon staining the chequered tiles.

The bodyguards by the door, solemn in their black suits like funerary birds, barely glance up at her, immobile in their watch in the entrance lobby where they are stationed. There is no undue concern in their eyes; used to her antics, they resume their stance by the door. They are not there to look after her. They are there to make sure she stays in.Vanessa leans against the balustrade at the top of the broad marble staircase and pirouettes around to avoid their sight, an unpleasant reminder of her situation. How she used to like to…