Chapter 1 The Canary's Cage

I've always found it fascinating how people perceive cages. Some see them as instruments of cruelty, while others view them as sanctuaries. For Gabriel Sterling, the cage was a symbol of his power—his ability to contain, to control, to possess. For me, it was merely the first stage of my plan.

Five years have passed since I first entered this mansion, a sprawling estate nestled in the hills, isolated from prying eyes. Perfect for a man who preferred to keep his secrets hidden. Perfect for me, too.

Today, as I sit in my "room"—a lavishly decorated prison cell with silk sheets and golden accents—I watch Gabriel through the two-way mirror he thinks I don't know about. He's reviewing patient files, his brow furrowed in concentration. Dr. Gabriel Sterling, renowned psychiatrist, mental health empire builder, and my captor. Or so he believes.

"Vivienne," his voice comes through the intercom system. "I'll be joining you for dinner in an hour. Wear the blue dress."

I smile at the mirror, knowing he can see me. "Of course, Gabriel. Whatever pleases you." My voice is soft, submissive—a perfect performance.

The blue dress hangs in my closet, a designer piece worth thousands. The irony isn't lost on me; a golden cage for his beautiful canary, complete with pretty feathers to wear. I slip it on, feeling the cool silk against my skin. The dress is cut low in the back, revealing the scars he gave me in the early days, before I learned to manage him better.

While I prepare, I think back to our first meeting. I was a promising young psychologist presenting my research on power dynamics in therapeutic relationships at a conference. Gabriel was the keynote speaker, a titan in the field. He approached me after my presentation, eyes glinting with interest that I mistook for professional admiration.

"Your understanding of psychological manipulation is remarkable," he had said. "But there are depths to the human mind that textbooks don't cover. I could show you."

Three months later, I was living in his home, supposedly as his protégée. Two weeks after that, I discovered the true nature of his interest when I woke up locked in this room.

The door to my quarters unlocks with a soft click. Gabriel enters, immaculate in his tailored suit, silver hair perfectly styled. At fifty-three, he still cuts an impressive figure—tall, broad-shouldered, with piercing blue eyes that miss nothing. Except, of course, what I want him to miss.

"You look lovely," he says, eyes traveling over me appraisingly. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better since you adjusted my medication." Another lie. I've been flushing the pills down the toilet for months, replacing them with supplements that look similar. Meanwhile, I've been slowly introducing my own concoction into his evening whiskey—just enough to make him suggestible, to plant seeds in his subconscious.

He smiles, satisfied. "Good. The new dosage should help with those troublesome thoughts." He offers his arm. "Shall we?"

I take it, feeling his muscles tense beneath my fingers. Gabriel craves control but fears closeness—a fascinating contradiction. We walk through the mansion's opulent corridors to the dining room, where crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the antique table. Two place settings, one at the head and one to the right. Never equal.

"Wine?" he asks, lifting a decanter of red.

"Please." I watch him pour, noting how his hand trembles slightly. The effects of my additions to his nightly drinks are beginning to manifest—subtle neurological signs that only a trained eye would catch.

Dinner is served by his housekeeper, Mrs. Chen, an older woman who avoids my eyes. She believes what Gabriel tells her: that I'm mentally unstable, that he's helping me, that my confinement is for my own good. Or perhaps she doesn't believe it but values her generous salary enough to ask no questions.

"Tell me about your day," Gabriel says between bites of perfectly cooked salmon.

"I read the books you brought me. The Freudian analysis was particularly interesting." I tilt my head. "Though I found his views on female hysteria rather limited."

His eyes narrow slightly. I've learned exactly how far I can push—a comment that's intelligent but not challenging, insightful but not threatening.

"Freud was a product of his time," Gabriel replies. "But his understanding of the power of repressed desires was revolutionary."

"Is that why you keep me here, Gabriel? To prevent my repressed desires from becoming dangerous?"

The question hangs in the air. His fork pauses midway to his mouth.

"I keep you here because you're not well, Vivienne. You know that."

"Of course," I smile. "I'm grateful for your care."

The tension dissolves, but I can see I've planted a seed of discomfort. Good.

After dinner, we move to his study. This is our ritual—dinner, drinks, conversation by the fire. It's where I do my best work, gently steering his thoughts, observing his reactions, adjusting my approach accordingly.

Gabriel pours himself a whiskey—his third of the evening. I've ensured this bottle contains my special addition. He hands me a glass of water; he never allows me alcohol, fearing it will interfere with "my medication."

"You've been very calm lately," he observes, settling into his leather armchair. "The treatments must be working."

"I feel... clearer," I say. "Though sometimes I have these flashes of memory that confuse me."

His interest piques visibly. "What kind of memories?"

"From before. I remember a conference... you were there. You said I had special insights into manipulation." I look down, appearing vulnerable. "But then other times, I remember being your patient. It's all so muddled."

Gabriel leans forward. "That's because your mind created false memories as a defense mechanism. You were never a psychologist, Vivienne. You were my patient who suffered a psychotic break. Your delusions about being a mental health professional were part of your condition."

I widen my eyes, allowing them to fill with tears. "But it feels so real."

"Mental illness often does," he says softly, reaching out to touch my cheek. His fingers are cold. "That's why you need me. Only I understand what you're going through."

I lean into his touch, playing my part perfectly. "I'm trying so hard to get better, Gabriel."

"I know you are." He finishes his whiskey in one swallow. "You're my good girl."

The condescension would make me laugh if I weren't so focused. I watch as he pours another drink, his movements becoming slightly less coordinated. The drug is taking effect.

"Gabriel," I say softly, "do you ever worry about your own mind? The stress of your work, the responsibility of caring for me..."

He frowns, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I'm perfectly capable of managing my responsibilities."

"Of course you are," I soothe. "It's just that sometimes, when you look at me, your eyes seem... distant. Like you're not fully here."

"Nonsense," he snaps, but there's a flicker of uncertainty in his expression.

"Maybe I imagined it," I concede. "My perception isn't always reliable, as you remind me."

He nods, but the seed is planted. Over the next hour, I observe as the drug takes greater hold. His speech slows, his eyelids grow heavy, and his normally rigid posture softens.

"I think I'll retire early tonight," he says, struggling slightly to stand.

"Let me help you," I offer, moving to his side. This is unusual—he never shows weakness before me—but the combination of alcohol and my additives has lowered his defenses.

He leans on me as we walk to his bedroom, a space I'm rarely permitted to enter. It's masculine and austere, with dark wood and leather, nothing like the feminine softness of my gilded cage.

"You should lie down," I suggest, guiding him to the bed.

He sits heavily on the edge, looking up at me with unfocused eyes. "You're very beautiful, Vivienne. Do you know that? Like a porcelain doll."

I smile, helping him remove his shoes. "Thank you, Gabriel. You should rest now."

"Stay," he murmurs, gripping my wrist with surprising strength. "Stay with me tonight."

I hesitate, calculating. This isn't part of tonight's plan, but adaptability is key. "Are you sure? You've always said it wouldn't be appropriate."

"I make the rules," he slurs, pulling me closer. "And I want you here."

I slide onto the bed beside him, maintaining a careful distance. Gabriel's breathing deepens as the drug pulls him toward unconsciousness. When his eyes finally close, I wait ten minutes, counting each second, before I'm certain he's deeply under.

Carefully, I extract myself from his grip and move to his desk. The key to his private office—the one place in the house that remains locked to me—sits in his jacket pocket. I retrieve it silently, slip out of the room, and make my way down the hall.

The office is dark, but I know exactly what I'm looking for. His computer, his files, his records of other "patients" who might have preceded me. I have thirty minutes at most before I need to return to his side, maintaining the illusion that I never left.

As the computer boots up, I can't help but smile. Gabriel's face when he had collapsed earlier tonight, when he realized he wasn't in control, was everything I had hoped for. The confusion, the fear—emotions he so often inspired in others, now reflected in his own eyes.

"You think you're the puppet master," I whisper to the empty room, fingers flying across the keyboard as I search his files. "But you've been dancing on my strings all along."

The screen illuminates my face as I find what I'm looking for—evidence of his past, records of others he's kept, proof that will be my insurance policy if things go wrong. I quickly transfer the files to the small drive I've kept hidden in my room.

Twenty minutes later, I'm back at Gabriel's side, the key returned to his pocket, my presence beside him as if I never left. As I watch him sleep, vulnerable and unaware, I think about power—how it shifts, how it conceals itself, how it can be wielded like a scalpel or a sledgehammer.

Gabriel stirs, mumbling in his sleep. His hand reaches out, finding mine, and he calms. Even in unconsciousness, he seeks to possess. I allow it, for now.

Tomorrow, we'll begin the next phase. Tomorrow, I'll push a little harder, unravel him a little more. After five years of patience, my revenge is finally taking shape, and I find myself savoring each moment of his undoing.

Because he's right about one thing: I am not well. But not in the way he thinks. My sickness is a coldness that settled in my bones the day he locked that door, a calculated patience that has allowed me to wait for the perfect moment to strike.

And that moment has finally arrived.