Caged by the Prince, Saved by the Monster - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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I held his gaze without flinching. "The name I chose... wasn't yours."
Something flashed in Gwen's eyes—there and gone in an instant before she masked it with an exaggerated blink.
"What did you just say?" Desmond's pupils constricted, but he quickly twisted his face into that infuriating smirk. "Give it up. You're just jealous because I treat Gwen the way you always wanted me to treat you. That's all this is."
I didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, I turned my back on him and walked away.
It felt good. Like finally slamming a door shut and turning the key for good.
For the first time, I'd chosen someone else. Someone who wasn't Desmond Caldwell. Just the thought sent a slow, sweet warmth spreading through my chest.
The next day, I went to Gallery71—my gallery. I needed to find something meaningful for Terrence, something symbolic of our first meeting.
But the moment I stepped inside, my blood ran cold.
Every wall was covered with portraits of Gwen.
She looked down demurely in each one, delicate and fragile, cheeks glistening with carefully painted tears before glancing up with a timid smile. The paintings were framed like priceless relics, bathed in soft, reverent light.
"Do you like them?" Desmond's voice floated across the room—smooth, warm, as if it had never once been used to cut me down. He stood beside Gwen, brushing his fingers along her cheek.
"Every year on your birthday," he murmured, "I'll give you something extraordinary."
Gwen flushed, her voice dripping honey. "Desmond, you spoil me too much."
Then she rose onto her toes and kissed him. Just a quick peck at first—until it wasn't.
Within seconds, they were tangled together like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
I rapped my knuckles against the doorframe.
They jerked apart like I'd electrocuted them.
Desmond's expression darkened. "What the hell are you doing here?"
I kept my voice flat. "This is my gallery. Do I need an invitation to enter my own space?"
My chest tightened, pressure building behind my ribs.
This place—this gallery—was one of the last things my mother left me. In my last life, I'd handed it over to him. I'd trusted him with everything.
And this was how he repaid me.
Desmond's mouth curled into that crooked smirk. "What's with the attitude?"
He let out a low laugh—the kind that always made my fingers itch to slap it off his face. "You've been chasing me since we were kids, Cassie. Is this your new game? Playing hard to get?"
"Cut the crap," he snapped, voice turning sharp. "We both know you're obsessed with me. You'll never let go."
I didn't blink.
"Security," I called, loud and clear. "Remove them. And take down every one of these paintings. Trash them."
"No!" Gwen shrieked. "You can't! They're Desmond's gifts to me!"
She lunged at me, grabbed my wrist—then collapsed.
Her body hit the coffee table with a crash, glass shattering beneath her. A jagged edge sliced her leg, blood welling in a bright red line.
"Cassandra!" Desmond roared.
He shoved me—hard.
I stumbled back, slamming into a metal easel. Something warm trickled down my cheek. I touched it numbly, my body still buzzing from the impact.
Then Desmond grabbed a bucket of paint and hurled it at me.
"You've crossed a line!" he shouted.
He scooped Gwen into his arms like some tragic hero and stormed out.
I sank to my knees in the wreckage—torn canvases, shattered glass, the gallery in ruins.
"Where's my mother's 'Spring Bloom'?" My voice sounded hollow.
A staff member pointed to the corner, hand shaking.
I followed his gaze.
There it was.
My mother's final masterpiece, the painting she'd poured her soul into before she died—ruined. Smeared with red paint like a bloody wound, the vibrant colors buried beneath the sludge. Twisted. Defaced.
I crawled over and clutched the ruined canvas to my chest, ignoring the glass biting into my palms. Blood from my forehead dripped onto the painting, mixing with my tears.
A soft sound of wheels rolling across tile.
I looked up.
There, just beyond the light, someone sat watching me. The sharp edge of a silver mask glinted coldly, but behind it—his lashes trembled.
Terrence D'Angelo.
"Stop crying," he said. His voice was low. Steady. Not unkind.
His gaze flicked to the cut on my forehead before darting away.
"Here."
He held out a small tube of ointment. His hand was steady, but when our eyes met, his fingers twitched slightly before withdrawing.
"If you don't use it," he murmured, "it'll scar."
I stared at the ointment, stunned. Then it clicked.
The D'Angelo family. Of course.
They practically owned the city's medical industry—hospitals, research, pharmaceuticals. Their influence was everywhere.
As I reached for it, I felt the slightest tremor in his fingertips before he pulled back completely.
"I know you were forced to choose me," Terrence said, his voice rough.
He spoke slowly, as if each word pained him.
"I'll cancel the engagement. You don't have to force yourself."
Something flashed in Gwen's eyes—there and gone in an instant before she masked it with an exaggerated blink.
"What did you just say?" Desmond's pupils constricted, but he quickly twisted his face into that infuriating smirk. "Give it up. You're just jealous because I treat Gwen the way you always wanted me to treat you. That's all this is."
I didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, I turned my back on him and walked away.
It felt good. Like finally slamming a door shut and turning the key for good.
For the first time, I'd chosen someone else. Someone who wasn't Desmond Caldwell. Just the thought sent a slow, sweet warmth spreading through my chest.
The next day, I went to Gallery71—my gallery. I needed to find something meaningful for Terrence, something symbolic of our first meeting.
But the moment I stepped inside, my blood ran cold.
Every wall was covered with portraits of Gwen.
She looked down demurely in each one, delicate and fragile, cheeks glistening with carefully painted tears before glancing up with a timid smile. The paintings were framed like priceless relics, bathed in soft, reverent light.
"Do you like them?" Desmond's voice floated across the room—smooth, warm, as if it had never once been used to cut me down. He stood beside Gwen, brushing his fingers along her cheek.
"Every year on your birthday," he murmured, "I'll give you something extraordinary."
Gwen flushed, her voice dripping honey. "Desmond, you spoil me too much."
Then she rose onto her toes and kissed him. Just a quick peck at first—until it wasn't.
Within seconds, they were tangled together like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
I rapped my knuckles against the doorframe.
They jerked apart like I'd electrocuted them.
Desmond's expression darkened. "What the hell are you doing here?"
I kept my voice flat. "This is my gallery. Do I need an invitation to enter my own space?"
My chest tightened, pressure building behind my ribs.
This place—this gallery—was one of the last things my mother left me. In my last life, I'd handed it over to him. I'd trusted him with everything.
And this was how he repaid me.
Desmond's mouth curled into that crooked smirk. "What's with the attitude?"
He let out a low laugh—the kind that always made my fingers itch to slap it off his face. "You've been chasing me since we were kids, Cassie. Is this your new game? Playing hard to get?"
"Cut the crap," he snapped, voice turning sharp. "We both know you're obsessed with me. You'll never let go."
I didn't blink.
"Security," I called, loud and clear. "Remove them. And take down every one of these paintings. Trash them."
"No!" Gwen shrieked. "You can't! They're Desmond's gifts to me!"
She lunged at me, grabbed my wrist—then collapsed.
Her body hit the coffee table with a crash, glass shattering beneath her. A jagged edge sliced her leg, blood welling in a bright red line.
"Cassandra!" Desmond roared.
He shoved me—hard.
I stumbled back, slamming into a metal easel. Something warm trickled down my cheek. I touched it numbly, my body still buzzing from the impact.
Then Desmond grabbed a bucket of paint and hurled it at me.
"You've crossed a line!" he shouted.
He scooped Gwen into his arms like some tragic hero and stormed out.
I sank to my knees in the wreckage—torn canvases, shattered glass, the gallery in ruins.
"Where's my mother's 'Spring Bloom'?" My voice sounded hollow.
A staff member pointed to the corner, hand shaking.
I followed his gaze.
There it was.
My mother's final masterpiece, the painting she'd poured her soul into before she died—ruined. Smeared with red paint like a bloody wound, the vibrant colors buried beneath the sludge. Twisted. Defaced.
I crawled over and clutched the ruined canvas to my chest, ignoring the glass biting into my palms. Blood from my forehead dripped onto the painting, mixing with my tears.
A soft sound of wheels rolling across tile.
I looked up.
There, just beyond the light, someone sat watching me. The sharp edge of a silver mask glinted coldly, but behind it—his lashes trembled.
Terrence D'Angelo.
"Stop crying," he said. His voice was low. Steady. Not unkind.
His gaze flicked to the cut on my forehead before darting away.
"Here."
He held out a small tube of ointment. His hand was steady, but when our eyes met, his fingers twitched slightly before withdrawing.
"If you don't use it," he murmured, "it'll scar."
I stared at the ointment, stunned. Then it clicked.
The D'Angelo family. Of course.
They practically owned the city's medical industry—hospitals, research, pharmaceuticals. Their influence was everywhere.
As I reached for it, I felt the slightest tremor in his fingertips before he pulled back completely.
"I know you were forced to choose me," Terrence said, his voice rough.
He spoke slowly, as if each word pained him.
"I'll cancel the engagement. You don't have to force yourself."
End of Caged by the Prince, Saved by the Monster Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Caged by the Prince, Saved by the Monster book page.