Victoria’s life gleamed like a crown from the outside — the townhouse, the husband, the daughters, the velvet mornings dressed in polish and prayer — but perfection was only a cage with softer walls, and this morning the bars would begin to show.
Chapter 2: The Queen (Victoria’s Cage)
Intro:
Victoria’s life gleamed like a crown from the outside — the townhouse, the husband, the daughters, the velvet mornings dressed in polish and prayer — but perfection was only a cage with softer walls, and this morning the bars would begin to show.
Part One
Morning light sifted through the heavy drapes, and pale, laying soft bars across the room. The bedroom had the curated gravity of old money: a carved four-poster bed; a gilt mirror big enough to flatter a king; walnut dressers with lion-paw feet; a faint, expensive scent of lavender polish rising from the antiques. Velvet stools, a tufted chaise at the window, a tray on the marble-topped nightstand with a crystal carafe and a single cut glass. On the nightstand, too, a gilt-edged Bible with a ribbon marking last Sunday’s reading—open, as if it had fallen asleep waiting for her.
A soft, practiced knock broke the hush.
“Madam?” The maid’s voice—gentle, precise. “The girls have left for school. Are you well?”
Victoria startled, breath catching. The silk of her camisole clung to her skin. Sheets—crisp, expensive—were twisted around her thighs like seaweed. Her head felt thick, as if sound reached her through a wall. The ceiling came into focus first, then the chandelier, then the tall crown molding, each familiar detail placing her back inside the life she recognized.
“I’m fine,” she said, and even to her own ears the words sounded dry and cracked. She cleared her throat. “I’m—thank you.” A beat. “Did you… did you see the gentleman who brought me home last night?”
A small silence. “No, Madam. There was no gentleman. You arrived in a cab. You were… very unwell.” The maid’s tone softened. “Your dress was soiled. I’ve set them out for laundry service today.”
For a heartbeat the room swayed, then set. A breath tumbled out of Victoria—half laugh, half relief. Of course. Of course. The club, the lights, the car—her mind had stitched a feverish dream from too much alcohol and too little sleep.
“Thank God Richard never asked questions about these nights,” she half-laughed. Relief washed over her. And then, quieter, a thought she couldn’t shake: ‘Because he never had reason to.’
She pushed up against the headboard, let the cool wood steady her spine, and reached for the Bible. The gold letters flared in the morning light. She closed it gently and set it face-down, as if dimming a lamp.
“Thank you,” she called toward the door. “That will be all.”
“Yes, Madam.”
The hush returned. The ceiling waited. A thin ache pulsed behind her eyes. She let herself exhale a fragile laugh. A dream, she told herself. A sinful, ridiculous dream. The kind that blooms after midnight and dissolves by breakfast. Heat crept into her cheeks at the remembered edges—glossy lights, the hum of an engine, a voice pitched close to her ear—but the images frayed as soon as she reached for them.
She slid open the top drawer of the nightstand. The slim paperback lay where she’d left it, its cover tasteful enough to pass a casual glance, its contents something else entirely. She stared at it, then snorted softly at herself.
“Enough,” she murmured, and plucked it out by two fingers as if it might stain. Crossing the rug to the marble bin, she let the spine thump into the trash with a decisive little sound. A queen discarding a bad habit.
Back at the bed, she settled onto the edge and reached for her phone. The screen flared to life: ten missed calls across two threads; a scatter of unread messages from Emily, Hannah, Chloe, Sabrina. Her stomach dipped, then righted itself. She opened the group chat.
Photos first—Sabrina’s, of course. The five of them clinking glasses. Another of Victoria at the bar, laughing with a dark-eyed man, his profile turned politely toward her. One more: the same man, angled just so, a hand braced near the bar as if giving her space. Nothing compromising. She was smiling. She looked… happy. She pinched the screen wider, searching for something damning and finding only gloss and light.
Beneath the photos, her own message from last night stared back at her:
Ethan’s driving me home. Only minutes away. Don’t wait up.
The words steadied her. See? she thought, relief lifting her shoulders. If there was a man, he only drove me. He must have dropped me off and gone—before anyone saw. The maid assumed a cab. A small flare of irritation brightened the thought. She shouldn’t assume. And he should have had the decency to walk me to the door.
“Lord,” she whispered, half scold, half prayer, “what a mess.”
She tapped Emily’s name and lifted the phone to her ear. It rang twice.
“Finally,” Emily said by way of greeting, her voice bright with forced lightness. “Chloe was five minutes from calling the National Guard.”
“I’m fine,” Victoria said, softer than she intended. “Honestly. I was… tipsy.”
“Tipsy?” Emily laughed. “Honey, you were ‘tipsy’ before you even left the coat check!”
Here is how it needs to flow. Thoughts?
Victoria stood, the sheet sliding off her knees, and padded across the plush rug toward the bathroom. “I know, I know,” she said, a smile tugging despite the ache behind her eyes. “It’s just… I had the strangest dream.”
Pulling the phone from her mouth, Victoria spoke loudly. “Alexa, turn on the shower. Hot,” she called, her voice matter-of-fact, as if commanding a servant.
“Oh no.” Emily’s delight was immediate. “Do tell.”
Victoria nudged the bathroom door open with her shoulder, steam-smudged light spilling across marble and mirror. She set the phone on speaker beside the sink; water thundered behind the glass of the walk-in shower.
“Are you already running the shower while I’m still talking to you? Rude!” Emily teased, laughter crackling through the speaker.
Victoria chuckled, scooping the phone back into her hand as if to defend herself in person. “I’m multitasking, thank you very much.” She balanced it against her shoulder, testing the spray with her palm until the steam thickened in the room.
“It was nothing,” she said, already regretting bringing it up. “Blame Sabrina’s photos and that awful little paperback in my drawer. I—” She paused, the memory flashing brief as a match: a steering wheel gliding through a turn; the smooth confidence of it; the way her breath had counted time with the road. She shook it off. “Ridiculous. I dreamt I met a man who knew exactly how to… drive.” The word caught, felt foolish. “Ridiculous.”
Emily laughed into the tile. “Confession Sunday is going to be lively.”
“Don’t,” Victoria said, laughing despite herself as she turned the shower hotter. “I’ve already thrown the book in the trash. You were right. Sinful nonsense. Corrupts the mind.”
“Corrupts the bored mind,” Emily corrected. Paper rustled faintly on her end; the comforting sound of ordinary life. “And for the record, you looked gorgeous last night. The photos are a public service.”
Victoria glanced back at her phone. The innocuous bar snapshots glowed on the screen—her smile, his polite distance, the easy angle of two strangers making conversation. A gentleman, she told herself. He drove me. That’s all. She opened her mouth to say it.
“I am fine,” she said instead. “Truly. I’ll shower, get coffee, and pretend I’m twenty-one again.”
“Please don’t,” Emily said dryly. “Twenty-one-year-old-you had terrible bangs.”
Victoria laughed, a small, grateful sound. The room brightened a fraction; the world tilted toward normal. She lowered the showerhead into the tub, tested the spray with her palm, and reached for a towel.
“Call me after you’ve eaten,” Emily said. “And drink actual water, not the holy kind.”
“I will.” Victoria’s smile lingered. “Thank you. For checking.”
“Always,” Emily said, the affection clear. “Go wash last night off. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of Sabrina’s DMs.”
“Promise.”
She tapped the screen and lowered it to the counter, its black reflection staring back at her. She exhaled, long and steady.
Silence swelled—just the hush of water and the faint tick of the old wall clock near the dressing table. The mirror caught her in soft morning light: braid loosened by sleep, mascara shadowed faintly under her eyes, the delicate armor of her nightwear slipping off one shoulder. She looked like herself. She was herself.
Steam curled up the marble. She reached for the shower door—then paused.
Her left hand hovered in the light. Bare.
No engagement diamond. No platinum band. No reassuring weight at the base of her finger—just pale skin where two circles had lived for years.
The room seemed to tip, the air thinning as if she’d stepped too close to a cliff.
Victoria stared at her naked hand, her breath caught halfway to a prayer.
Part Two
Victoria burst from the bathroom, hair damp with steam, bare feet whispering against the rug. Her pulse drummed in her throat, too loud, too hot. She went first to the dresser, yanking open drawers with sharp, graceless pulls. Silk scarves tangled in her hands. Velvet-lined trays clattered against wood. Empty. No rings.
“Where are they!” The panic in her voice was clear.
She whirled to the vanity, clawing through crystal dishes, the shallow bowls where earrings and bracelets slept. Nothing. The jewelry box, mahogany with little brass clasps—she threw it open. Rows of necklaces glittered like smug witnesses. But no platinum, no diamond.
Her chest seized. A sound tore out of her throat before she meant it:
“Anna!” Her voice cracked, frantic as she called the maid. “Anna!”
The maid’s footsteps were too far away. She spun back to the bed, flinging pillows, peeling back sheets, scattering them like shrouds. She dropped to her knees, searching the carpet, her hair falling loose in strands. The nightstand drawer banged as she pulled it open again, hands shaking. Bottles rattled, pens rolled. The Bible toppled with a thud against the rug, the gilt edges flashing once before the cover bent against the floor. She didn’t notice.
“Anna!” Louder now, shrill. Her throat burned.
A single chime cut through her ragged breath. Her phone.
Victoria froze, heart vaulting into her mouth. She snatched it up from the marble counter, the screen glowing with a new message. A name burned at the top.
Ethan
Her skin went cold. She hadn’t saved him. She couldn’t have.
The photo loaded first: her rings, unmistakable, their familiar weight made cruelly foreign, resting atop a fold of red silk lace—her panties, folded neat as a gift.
Beneath it, the words:
Lost something? Why don’t you come over after your shower.
Her legs weakened; she staggered back until the bedpost caught her spine. The room tilted, chandelier swimming above her like a great, jeweled anchor threatening to fall.
Another chime. Another message.
She didn’t want to look. She couldn’t not.
Red dress. The one you bought for Autumn’s recital.
Her breath vanished. A violent rush of nausea rose in her throat. He knew. He knew her daughter’s name. Her plans. Her life. He was inside it, staining it, rearranging it.
“Madam!” Anna’s voice, hurried, alarmed, footsteps running the hall.
Victoria’s phone shook in her hand. Her lips moved but no sound came. Tears welled, spilling warm and unchecked.
“Madam, what’s wrong?” The maid burst through the door, cheeks flushed, chest heaving.
Victoria couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The words tangled, refused to leave.
Anna reached her, laid a hand gently on her shoulder.
Victoria turned, eyes wide, mouth trembling. “I… I hurt my—” Her mind scrambled, searching for ground, for something that could hold. “My foot.”
The lie was thin as paper, already wilting between her teeth.
But it was all she had.
Part Three
Her knuckles stung from pounding the townhouse door, but she didn’t stop. Each strike was sharp, fueled by the storm in her chest.
Three houses down, her own home glimmered across the street — blinds drawn, neat hedges standing at attention, everything in its proper place. Safe. Untouchable. And here she was, trembling with rage, demanding entrance to the lair of the man who dared to touch her life.
The lock clicked.
Ethan opened the door without hurry, as if he’d expected her all along. The calm curve of his mouth sent heat crawling up her neck.
“You bastard.” She shoved past him into the foyer, words spilling before he could speak. “Where are they? My rings. You took them.”
His townhouse was immaculate — chrome, glass, the faint smell of espresso — but she barely noticed any of it. Her voice echoed sharp against the clean walls.
“You think I don’t know what you did? You tricked me.” The words rose to a near scream.
“I was drunk—too drunk to consent—and you knew it.”
“If you try to use this against me, I’ll go to the police.” She broke off, chest heaving.
“My husband will destroy you. His attorneys will bury you.”
Her hand shook as she jabbed a finger toward his chest. “You hear me? Give me my rings—and then stay out of my life.”
He didn’t smile, not yet just spoke calmly, unnervingly even.
“This isn’t about your precious rings, Victoria.”
Her anger flared again. “Then prove it. Give them back!”
Silence pressed in, sudden and suffocating.
Ethan didn’t flinch. He didn’t shout back. He only regarded her with an almost patient stillness, the kind that made her fury feel theatrical, childish. He gestured lightly toward the living room.
“Sit,” he said. Not a command, not quite. An invitation sharpened by the assurance that she would.
“I’m not sitting”
Don’t shake. Don’t let him see you shake her mind screamed.
“Sit,” he repeated, velvet over steel.
Her knees betrayed her, bending before her pride could stop them. She dropped onto the edge of a leather chair, gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles ached.
Ethan crossed to the console table. A small remote lay waiting. He pressed a button.
The television flared to life.
Victoria’s breath jammed in her throat.
On the screen — her own face, lit by soft glow of streetlights. Her braid loose, her lips parted in a laugh she didn’t remember giving. The image changed as if taken by another camera: her stepping across a threshold, into this very house. A new camera, a new set of images, of her. In a strange bedroom. Standing on her own, walking on her own. Her voice, warm and alive, carried across the room: “Make me feel.”
As the video played, Victoria watched in shock and horror as she moved across the bed like a shameless harlot, spreading her legs for him.
Then later, her lustful voice filled the room: “Fuck Ethan… it’s too big… slowly…”
“No,” she whispered, the word tearing out of her like glass.
The recording played on, enough to strip the denial bare. Enough to show her laughter, her hands reaching, her willing steps into shadows she couldn’t now deny. She shot to her feet, shaking her head hard enough to rattle her earrings.
“That—no. I was drunk.”
“You manipulated me. That doesn’t count.”
“It isn’t what it looks like.”
Ethan paused the screen. Her own frozen image stared back at her, eyes lit with hunger she didn’t recognize as her own.
“Your rings are safe,” he said simply. “And so are you. As long as you accept that your part in this game is over.”
If I get the rings, I can still fix this she assured herself.
Her throat closed. She stumbled back into the chair, shaking.
“My husband will—”
“Richard will see what I show him.” Ethan’s calm was a blade. “You signed a prenup. You know what that means. If this reaches a courtroom, you won’t just lose him. You’ll lose everything. Even your children.”
Not the girls. Please—anything but the girls she whimpered.
Her breath fractured. The room spun.
“You won’t break me,” she spat suddenly, voice ragged.
“I will find a way.”
“I’ll fight you.”
“You don’t own me.”
Ethan leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Victoria,” he said evenly, “you’re already fighting ghosts. And losing.”
Her words faltered, pride unraveling into sobs. The weapons she had armed herself with — rape, attorneys, Richard — lay broken at her feet, useless as toys.
“Stand,” Ethan said. His tone was quiet, unhurried, as if the word had been waiting on his tongue for years. “And strip.”
The room tilted. Victoria’s throat tightened. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head so hard her braid slid over her shoulder.
“I won’t.”
“I—can’t.”
Her legs curled tighter against the chair; arms locked across her chest like frail armor. Tears pricked at the edges of her vision.
“Please,” she stammered.
“I’ll never stray again, I swear it.”
“Last night was a mistake.”
“I’ve learned.”
“Just give me back my rings, let me go home.”
“To my girls—to my husband—”
Say Richard’s name. Make him real she pleaded with herself.
Ethan didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The faintest curve touched his mouth, not amusement but satisfaction.
“Victoria,” he said again, “you have no more lies to hide behind. I told you to stand. And strip.”
Her body shook. She buried her face in her hands, sobs muffled, shoulders quaking like a child caught in sin. Every word scraped raw out of her throat.
“Mercy,” she begged.
“Please—I’ll do anything.”
“Don’t take my family.”
“Don’t destroy me.”
Ethan said nothing. Silence stretched. He only watched, eyes steady, savoring her collapse the way a chess player savors the inevitable checkmate.
Her sobs deepened. She tried to resist, to cling to the shreds of dignity left to her. But the silence pressed down, unbearable, suffocating. Slowly — as if each movement was a betrayal of her soul — Victoria’s hands slid from her face. Her fingers gripped the chair arms, whitening, then let go.
Her knees wavered as she pushed herself up. A queen, stripped of her board, forced into obedience.
It was then her gaze lifted — and she saw it.
Near the ceiling, black and glassy, a camera stared back. Red light pulsing, unblinking, watching. Recording.
“Oh God.” barely a breath “You’re recording me now.”
Her sob broke sharper, louder. “Please,” she gasped, words stumbling.
“I will sell the jewelry. The car. All of it.”
Her voice frantic, pleading, “just name it.”
Ethan’s smile flickered, sharp as glass. He flicked his wrist, and the rings hit the marble with a clink. Priceless once — now nothing but bait on a hook.
“I told you,” he said softly. “This isn’t about money. It’s about owning you. And I already do.”
Her sobs collapsed into shaking silence.
Her hands rose, trembling, to the back of her dress. Fabric whispered under her fingers.
And she wept harder, knowing there was no more room to run.
Victoria sobbed, her breath hitched. Her fingers trembled as they froze on the zipper of her red dress, her sobs echoing in the silent room. Her eyes pleading for mercy from a man she knew who would never offer it. Finally, she started to pull the zipper down.
The fabric slid off her shoulders, revealing her black lacy bra and panties. Her large breast barely covered. Ethan's eyes never left her, his gaze piercing through her, making her feel more naked than she was. He saw her neatly well-kept pubic hairs.
"Everything," he said, his voice stern. Victoria hesitated for a moment, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of her bra. She felt exposed, vulnerable, she hated it. She hated how this made her feel so helpless. She removed her bra, her breasts bouncing free, her nipples hardening in the cool air. She hesitated again at her panties, her sobs turning into full-blown crying. Slowly, she pushed them down her long-toned legs.
“Toss them to me,” Ethan ordered.
Victoria continued to cry as she bent down and picked them up and tossed them over to him.
"On your knees," Ethan demanded, his voice firm.
Victoria obeyed, her knees hitting the cold marble floor. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, but his expression was unyielding.
He didn’t speak; he only motioned her between his legs. She started to move on her knees, but he pointed to the ground. She dropped to her hands and crawled towards him.
He watched her through uncaring eyes, “unzip me.” His voice was low and commanding.
Her hands were shaking as she reached towards his crotch. Her sobs grew louder as she slowly unzipped his pants.
She didn’t need to be told what to do next. She reached into his pants and pulled his cock free. It was large in her trembling hands. “Please,” she whispered through her sobs. As her eyes shifted to the camera watching her. That sinister red flashing light, mocking her suffering.
"Open your mouth," Ethan commanded.
Victoria hesitated, her lips trembling, but she obeyed. She gently placed a hand over her crucifix and held it to her chest.
Ethan grabbed her hair, guiding his large cock into her mouth.
She gagged, her eyes watering, but he didn't stop. He thrust into her mouth, his dick hitting the back of her throat.
Victoria's free hand gripped his thigh, her nails digging into the fabric of his pants. She could feel his dick growing harder, feel his grip tightening in her hair.
Her mouth stretched painfully wide as she watched while his cock moved in and out of her mouth. It continued to hit the back of her mouth while a small amount remained beyond her lips. It terrified her.
Her eyes moved up to Ethan’s hoping that maybe, just maybe, she might find some measure of mercy, compassion. She only saw coldness glaring back at her.
Ethan's thrusts became more urgent, his breathing heavy. Her mouth becoming sore from the abuse.
Victoria could feel her pussy getting wet, her mind screamed at the betrayal. Her hand coiled around her crucifix as her eyes closed. She hated Ethan. She hated this situation. But most of all, she hated herself. Hated herself for allowing this.
Ethan finally pulled out of her mouth, his dick glistening with her saliva. He looked down at her, his eyes filled with desire.
"Turn around," he commanded. Tears still lining her face, Victoria obeyed, turning around and presenting her ass to him.
He slid from the chair and pushed his pants down. He grabbed her hips, pulling her towards him. She could feel his dick pressing against her anus, threatening her with its invasion.
She shook her head, “please not that. It’s sinful,” she said softly not even convincing herself.
“So is adultery,” Ethan said forcing his monstrous cock into her ass. He pushed into her, as he pulled her hips back. His dick filling her up.
Victoria screamed loudly, “Fuck!” Her fingers stretching outward across the marble floor. Her body shook as her head arched backwards.
“Such language from a pious woman.” Ethan mocked, “less like the godly woman this morning.”
His drive into her was intentionally slow, his mockery continued, “and more like the woman I fucked last night.”
She collapsed, her chest resting on the cold marble floor as her head turned to the side. Her breathing raw, short gasps as she felt his grip gently pulling her back. Forcing his cock deeper into her anus.
To her relief she felt him pull back. Then without warning ramming forward again. This sudden force ripped a new scream from her lungs.
Ethan's thrusts were relentless, her mind overwhelmed by the fire and pain of his intrusion. Then her head shot back up as she felt his fingers toying with her clit.
It wasn’t long before Victoria's moans filled the room, her body trembling with every thrust. She could feel her orgasm building, her body tensing.
In one fluid motion, he pulled his cock from her abused anus with a humiliating popping sound. Then without any patience, or delay, he rammed nearly its full length into her pussy.
Shamefully, Victoria moaned. ‘Oh God, why does it feel so good.
Ethan's thrusts didn’t slow. His grip on her hips didn’t loosen. He rode her like a cheap whore. And he made every effort to ensure she knew what she was to him.
As her moans grew louder. The message wasn’t lost on her. His words, his actions all made her feel just like that, a cheap whore. She hated it, being used by this man that she just met yesterday.
Ethan’s thrusts became more urgent, his dick growing harder. He groaned, his dick twitching inside her.
Victoria's orgasm hit her like a wave, her body convulsing around his dick. “I’m coming,” she screamed before she could stop herself.
Ethan followed, his hot cum filling her up. Each pulse of his cock sending more waves of his cum into her.
They collapsed on the floor, their bodies slick with sweat.
Her mind raced. Because of the lack of interest by her husband, she had stopped using birth control over a year ago. “Why, why do you cum inside me,” she whimpered.
Ethan held her tight, “I told you last night.” Her broken memory of last night echoing as he spoke, “you will carry my child.”
Victoria looked at the white and black marble floor, her eyes filled with tears. She had never felt this way before, used, abused, broken.
She hated herself for allowing this to happen again. For not knowing how to escape it.
Ethan slowly turned her head to look into her eyes. his eyes filled with satisfaction. He had broken her, owned her, and she was starting to learn her new place.
"You're mine now," he said, his voice filled with possessiveness.
Victoria’s eyes lowered in submission. She slowly nodded. “My husband can never find out.” Her voice a whimper, “no one can.” She was his, and she couldn’t change it. “Please,” her voice trembling as she spoke. “You said, I…I would be safe.”
Ethan nodded, “you keep obeying me, and your perfect world remains unchanged.”
Above them, the black eye of the camera watched, recording her downfall, another entry in what Ethan knew would be a long road towards his revenge.