Page 4 of The Tower (Billionaire Brothers Grimm #1)

Three

The Cage

T he princess costume lies crumpled on the Calacatta Gold marble floor, the deflated pink fantasy stark against the opulent gold and gray veins that run through the stone. I’d dropped it there hours ago after Ruby helped me escape its clasps and ties before heading off to check on her grandmother.

For a moment, I stand over it, fighting the urge to tear the gossamer fabric into satisfying ribbons. But what would be the point? Another gown would simply appear tomorrow.

I yank open my closet, then bypass the Victor Reed-approved outfits as I reach for the back corner where I keep my real wardrobe.

I pull out black leggings and an oversized NYU sweater that Ruby smuggled in for me last year.

But even after I’ve changed into the comfy, familiar clothes, I can’t seem to settle.

Instead, I find myself pacing my beautiful prison with its hand-painted murals and imported drapes that cover the line of windows overlooking a view I’m too terrified to see.

I’m edgy and antsy, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the meds working their way out of my system. Maybe it’s just the never-changing drudgery of a life lived almost exclusively in this room on the forty-second floor.

I don’t know. All I know is that I’m more antsy than usual, so I pick up the in-house phone and call Ruby.

By the fifth ring, I remember that Ruby had plans to go to a movie with some friends from college this evening. She’d invited me, but Father had said no. An evening out following a full day of work was too strenuous for someone with my conditions and phobias.

Bastard.

I pace the room, trying to decide if I’d rather paint or play in Elysium.

But neither is what I want. Not right now.

Honestly, I want to be out with Ruby, living the kind of life twenty-somethings live on television—out in the world, surrounded by friends, falling in love and kissing in dark corners.

That, however, isn’t on tonight’s agenda—or, most likely, the agenda planned out for, oh, the next seventy or so years.

When I can no longer stand the loneliness, I slip into the hallway and navigate the familiar route to the service stairs.

The penthouse residence occupies floors forty-one to forty-three of Reed Tower, with the forty-first floor dedicated to staff quarters, laundry, and the main kitchen.

It’s also where Ruby shares small but comfortable rooms with her grandmother Birgit, our head housekeeper.

I consider popping in to say hello to Birgit, who’s a surrogate grandmother to me, but it’s past ten, and I know she must be asleep.

Instead, I head straight to my goal—the express service elevator that goes directly from this lowest penthouse floor all the way down to the public lobby of Reed Tower.

This floor is quieter, more comfortable. And mostly free from the ornate touches that dominate the main living areas. Here, the building’s original details remain—geometric patterns in the woodwork, chrome and brass accents that gleam like forbidden treasures, and other charming details.

I pause at a window and force myself to look out at the city. I know the thick glass and bricks are protecting me. But even so, my stomach quivers as Manhattan’s lights form a glowing tapestry against the night sky.

Out there, people walk freely, unafraid of the vastness around them. People like Liam Grimm, who stood fearless at the edge of the roof today, as if daring the void to claim him.

Will I ever be strong enough to do that? Or am I truly as fragile as my father and doctors say I am?

I force the question out of my mind, afraid I won’t like the answer.

As I continue down the corridor, I pass one of the housekeepers. She nods respectfully, but I catch the sympathy in her eyes. The staff know more about life in Reed Tower than my father realizes. They see everything—including, I suspect, how he treats me when cameras aren’t rolling.

A few more corners rounded, and I reach the service elevator. As soon as it arrives, I get on, punch in my code, then press the button for the lobby.

The car doesn’t move.

I repeat the process, cursing Gerald, the head maintenance man who’s supposed to make sure the elevators are always working seamlessly. Again, nothing.

I’m about to press the call button when a voice pops out from the intercom. “May I help you, Miss Reed?”

“Hey, Edward.” I’m trying to get down to the lobby. I want to take a walk in the walled garden.”

“I’m sorry, Miss. The lobby’s restricted tonight.”

“I didn’t see a memo about a restriction. Are the floors being waxed?”

“No, Miss. Your father’s orders. He doesn’t want you outside this evening.”

“I see,” I say, reining in my temper. If I lose it, Daddy Dearest will hear all about it in under five seconds. “I just want to enjoy a bit of fresh air before I go to sleep. I’m not even going to the pond. Just the walled garden.”

The pond is exactly what it sounds like, a lovely pond that houses ducks and turtles and any number of other creatures.

It’s surrounded by well-tended grass with a walking path.

And Edward is right—it’s not someplace I can go by myself, especially not at night, with that endless black void hanging over my head as I try to keep myself whole and sane, even as the empty space around me tries to pull me apart.

I shiver just thinking about it. Definitely not on tonight’s menu.

“I’m sorry,” Edward says. “But you know I can’t authorize it.”

“But it’s a room. It was literally built for me. Flowers. Plants. A table and chair I picked out when I was ten, and all of it set up behind a wall.”

“I understand,” he says again, and this time I’m certain I hear pity. “But I can’t let you come down tonight. Not against your father’s orders.”

I want to jam my hand right through the damn speaker panel, but I don’t. I also don’t say another word to Edward, which is bitchy since it’s not his fault, but I’m in an edgy mood and I just don’t give a fuck.

It occurs to me that I’m usually much more chill. The meds .

Makes sense. Why would my father want to fight with his bitchy daughter when he can keep her mellow?

Oh, God.

Is this really my life?

I stomp back up to my room, but since I’m in my bare feet, the stomping is less than satisfying. I’m about to flip on the television just to have the company of human voices, but for some reason, the campaign’s catchphrase echoes in my head: Make your dreams come true.

What about my dreams? The ones that will never become reality if I’m trapped in this suite, in this tower? If my father is feeding me drugs?

And what will happen if Father learns that I’m not taking them anymore? Because as of today, I am officially done.

He’ll put them in your food. Your water. If he figures out you’re defying him, you’ll never have a choice again.

For a moment, it occurs to me that maybe I’m spinning out. Maybe I really do need all these drugs, and if I stop taking them, the world will crash around me and swallow me whole.

But I have to try. I have to at least take a shot at making my dreams come true.

Back in my suite, I hurry to the far window, the one that opens onto the fire escape. Reed Tower is an architectural landmark, completed during the last great surge of Art Deco construction in Manhattan and renamed by my father. A monument to his ego disguised as respect for history.

The wrought iron fire escape is an original feature. Ornate. Sturdy. And a potential route to freedom.

It takes a moment for my trembling fingers to pull aside the drape and unlatch the window. Then another few moments as I take five deep breaths, rush to raise it, then take two protective steps back.

Cool night air rushes in, carrying the distant sounds of the city below—honking horns, fragments of music, and the constant ambient hum of millions of lives being lived beyond these walls.

I desperately want to be among them.

Do it.

I inch forward

Do it now.

I hold my breath, moving fast as I force one leg through the opening, then the other, until I’m sitting on the windowsill, the metal grating of the fire escape just inches below my feet and my heart pounding so hard my chest aches.

But I’m here. I’m halfway outside. Halfway into becoming part of the world.

All I have to do is step out.

One simple step.

Then I look down.

The city sprawls beneath me, a glittering void. My breathing accelerates, but I can’t get enough air. Spots dance before my eyes as the familiar grip of panic tightens around me.

Central Park stretches northward like a deep, dark, mouth, ready to consume me. Buildings rise on all sides, the emptiness between them vast and consuming.

The void whispers to me, the awful vastness ready to swallow me whole.

My body freezes. I’m locked in the space between imprisonment and freedom, utterly paralyzed.

You’re not strong enough for freedom.

My father’s words slither through my mind. I want to shake them off, but he’s right. I’m weak. I’m broken. I’m exactly what he’s made me.

With a strangled sob, I wrench myself back through the window, slamming it shut before sinking to the ground.

I stay there, knees pulled to my chest, until my breathing steadies and the panic fades to a familiar background hum. Then I haul myself up and retreat to the one place where I still have some control. The only place in the whole damn tower that is truly—mostly—mine.

My studio occupies the northeast corner of my suite, where the morning light is best. Canvases and paint dominate one half, while my custom-built computer system commands the other.

I stand before my easel, where an unfinished cityscape waits.

It’s a view of Manhattan from above, but unlike the actual view from my windows, this one doesn’t terrify me.

On canvas, I control the perspective, the depth, the vastness.

On canvas, I can look down at the world without fear of falling into it.