Caged by the Prince, Saved by the Monster - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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The next heir must produce a child with the strongest, most desirable man available.
Sounds noble, almost romantic—until you realize it's less fairy tale and more The Bachelor meets a corporate blood oath.
In my last life, I drew Desmond Caldwell's name from the heirloom box of selection tokens.
Six-foot-two, golden-haired prince of the Caldwell dynasty. Heir to a billion-dollar empire, all sharp angles and sculpted cheekbones, with a jawline that sent socialites into vapors and an ego big enough to topple governments.
He once filled an entire garden with roses just for me. Whispered lines straight out of a romance novel until I actually believed in the fantasy—white picket fences, candlelit dinners, forever.
I let myself believe it.
Then, five months into my pregnancy, Desmond locked me in a cage.
A literal cage. Steel bars. Cement floor. Dog-sized.
He stood just outside it, staring me dead in the eyes while he fucked another woman.
"You know what happened the day you pulled my name?" His voice was eerily calm. "Gwen miscarried. She bled out. Her parents died in a car crash. You owe her this."
By day three, my family was bankrupt. My father was dead—a fall, they called it, though no one could explain it.
By day five, he sent ninety-nine of his private guards to "take turns" with me.
By day seven, I lost the baby.
By day nine, I was gone.
And right before the darkness swallowed me whole, I heard his voice—soft, almost tender, like we hadn't just ripped each other apart.
Holding Gwen Bentley in his arms, he murmured, "Don't worry. Cassandra's hundred-billion-dollar fortune is all yours now."
But this time?
I picked a different name.
The one nobody wanted: Terrence D'Angelo.
They called him the Madman of Metropolis.
Crippled. Disfigured.
Rumor was, he'd burned his own mother alive. People crossed the street to avoid him.
Later, when Desmond Caldwell—untouchable, invincible—found himself kneeling in front of that same dog cage where he'd humiliated me, he was a broken man.
Blood streaked his face. Nails torn. Beating his head against the concrete like he could rewrite a past that was already set in stone.
It all started at that long, gleaming mahogany table—the kind where futures are signed away and lives are traded like stocks.
Twelve men in dark suits sat around it, stone-faced. Titans of industry. Kingmakers.
My father sat at the head, wearing that polished smile he reserved for cameras.
"Cassie," he said, like this was just another item on the agenda. "Pick one. These men have waited long enough to see you settled."
On the table lay a bundle of selection tokens—each carved with the names of powerful heirs. Prestige etched into lacquered wood.
But one token stood out. Faded. Weathered. Like it had been gathering dust for years.
My eyes locked onto it immediately.
Terrence D'Angelo.
The name you didn't say in polite company. The one that made people lean in and whisper, "Poor thing," before quickly changing the subject.
They said he was ruined. Broken. Walked with a limp and a mangled leg. The D'Angelos hadn't even bothered to show up—just sent some distant relative to pull the token for him.
But I remembered.
I remembered bleeding in that cage, stripped of everything, while the people who'd once kissed my shoes snapped pictures and laughed.
Only one person knelt beside me.
Terrence D'Angelo.
And as I faded, he pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped the blood from my face.
That was all it took.
I reached out and, without hesitation, took his token.
The room went dead silent.
My father's face froze, like I'd just announced I was marrying a corpse.
"Cassandra," he said, voice dangerously low. "You—"
"I want him," I said, firm.
He stared at me for a long, weighted moment before leaning back with a slow, exhausted sigh.
"Fine. But if he ever lays a hand on you—"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to. The threat hung thick in the air.
As I left the suffocating room, I nearly collided with Desmond.
And Gwen.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, shoulders trembling like the world had crumbled around her delicate frame.
"Ms. Mercier," she whispered, voice shaking. "I know you hate me. But that studio… it was everything to me. Why did you destroy it?"
Before I could even breathe, Desmond stepped between us, shielding her like some priceless artifact.
"Cassandra," he snapped. "You really went this far just to force me to marry you?"
I met both their gazes, voice flat. "I didn't do anything."
I turned to leave, but Desmond grabbed my wrist, grip bruising.
"Apologize. Pay for the damages. Or forget ever setting foot in the Caldwell estate again."
Gwen tugged at his sleeve. "Desmond, don't! Cassie, it's all my fault—"
She turned to me, tears welling. "I'll kneel if I have to. Just… please give me back the studio."
Desmond's fury only burned hotter. "Apologize to Gwen. She's not well. Hand over that wellness center you own—she needs it."
And he wasn't done.
"Give her twenty of your best staff. Make sure they're top-tier professionals. And a private medical team on standby 24/7."
Sounds noble, almost romantic—until you realize it's less fairy tale and more The Bachelor meets a corporate blood oath.
In my last life, I drew Desmond Caldwell's name from the heirloom box of selection tokens.
Six-foot-two, golden-haired prince of the Caldwell dynasty. Heir to a billion-dollar empire, all sharp angles and sculpted cheekbones, with a jawline that sent socialites into vapors and an ego big enough to topple governments.
He once filled an entire garden with roses just for me. Whispered lines straight out of a romance novel until I actually believed in the fantasy—white picket fences, candlelit dinners, forever.
I let myself believe it.
Then, five months into my pregnancy, Desmond locked me in a cage.
A literal cage. Steel bars. Cement floor. Dog-sized.
He stood just outside it, staring me dead in the eyes while he fucked another woman.
"You know what happened the day you pulled my name?" His voice was eerily calm. "Gwen miscarried. She bled out. Her parents died in a car crash. You owe her this."
By day three, my family was bankrupt. My father was dead—a fall, they called it, though no one could explain it.
By day five, he sent ninety-nine of his private guards to "take turns" with me.
By day seven, I lost the baby.
By day nine, I was gone.
And right before the darkness swallowed me whole, I heard his voice—soft, almost tender, like we hadn't just ripped each other apart.
Holding Gwen Bentley in his arms, he murmured, "Don't worry. Cassandra's hundred-billion-dollar fortune is all yours now."
But this time?
I picked a different name.
The one nobody wanted: Terrence D'Angelo.
They called him the Madman of Metropolis.
Crippled. Disfigured.
Rumor was, he'd burned his own mother alive. People crossed the street to avoid him.
Later, when Desmond Caldwell—untouchable, invincible—found himself kneeling in front of that same dog cage where he'd humiliated me, he was a broken man.
Blood streaked his face. Nails torn. Beating his head against the concrete like he could rewrite a past that was already set in stone.
It all started at that long, gleaming mahogany table—the kind where futures are signed away and lives are traded like stocks.
Twelve men in dark suits sat around it, stone-faced. Titans of industry. Kingmakers.
My father sat at the head, wearing that polished smile he reserved for cameras.
"Cassie," he said, like this was just another item on the agenda. "Pick one. These men have waited long enough to see you settled."
On the table lay a bundle of selection tokens—each carved with the names of powerful heirs. Prestige etched into lacquered wood.
But one token stood out. Faded. Weathered. Like it had been gathering dust for years.
My eyes locked onto it immediately.
Terrence D'Angelo.
The name you didn't say in polite company. The one that made people lean in and whisper, "Poor thing," before quickly changing the subject.
They said he was ruined. Broken. Walked with a limp and a mangled leg. The D'Angelos hadn't even bothered to show up—just sent some distant relative to pull the token for him.
But I remembered.
I remembered bleeding in that cage, stripped of everything, while the people who'd once kissed my shoes snapped pictures and laughed.
Only one person knelt beside me.
Terrence D'Angelo.
And as I faded, he pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped the blood from my face.
That was all it took.
I reached out and, without hesitation, took his token.
The room went dead silent.
My father's face froze, like I'd just announced I was marrying a corpse.
"Cassandra," he said, voice dangerously low. "You—"
"I want him," I said, firm.
He stared at me for a long, weighted moment before leaning back with a slow, exhausted sigh.
"Fine. But if he ever lays a hand on you—"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to. The threat hung thick in the air.
As I left the suffocating room, I nearly collided with Desmond.
And Gwen.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, shoulders trembling like the world had crumbled around her delicate frame.
"Ms. Mercier," she whispered, voice shaking. "I know you hate me. But that studio… it was everything to me. Why did you destroy it?"
Before I could even breathe, Desmond stepped between us, shielding her like some priceless artifact.
"Cassandra," he snapped. "You really went this far just to force me to marry you?"
I met both their gazes, voice flat. "I didn't do anything."
I turned to leave, but Desmond grabbed my wrist, grip bruising.
"Apologize. Pay for the damages. Or forget ever setting foot in the Caldwell estate again."
Gwen tugged at his sleeve. "Desmond, don't! Cassie, it's all my fault—"
She turned to me, tears welling. "I'll kneel if I have to. Just… please give me back the studio."
Desmond's fury only burned hotter. "Apologize to Gwen. She's not well. Hand over that wellness center you own—she needs it."
And he wasn't done.
"Give her twenty of your best staff. Make sure they're top-tier professionals. And a private medical team on standby 24/7."
End of Caged by the Prince, Saved by the Monster Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Caged by the Prince, Saved by the Monster book page.