Chapter 4 - The Golden Cage
By the end of her first week, Wren realized the Castellan estate was not just a home—it was a gilded fortress designed to keep the world out and keep its dark secrets buried within.
The staff moved like ghosts through the cavernous hallways, speaking in whispers. Mrs. Higgins, the ancient, stern housekeeper who had served the Castellan family for forty years, initially eyed Wren with deep suspicion. But by day four, after seeing Wren patiently spoon-feed soup to Leo while singing silly nursery rhymes, Mrs. Higgins' icy exterior melted. She began sneaking extra plates of homemade pastries to the east wing.
Yet, outside the estate walls, the storm was brewing.
Delphine Rousseau did not take rejection lightly. Humiliated by being thrown out of the Castellan mansion in favor of an "ordinary bakery truck," she weaponized her connections in the Boston tabloids. Within days, gossip columns were flooded with sensationalized stories: “Mafia Boss Hides Mystery Woman in North Shore Mansion!”, “Who is the Plump Nanny Ruling the Castellan Estate?”
One morning, while walking with Leo in the manicured gardens near the iron gates, Wren spotted a group of paparazzi clinging to the fence, long-lens cameras flashing furiously.
"Miss Calloway! Is it true you're Julian Castellan’s new mistress?" one reporter shouted through the iron bars.
Wren froze, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She quickly scooped Leo up into her arms, burying his face against her shoulder so he wouldn't see the flashing lights or hear the aggressive shouts.
"Stay back!" Wren called out, her voice trembling.
Before the paparazzi could push further against the gate, two black SUVs roared down the private drive. Uniformed security guards swarmed the gates like a tactical unit, pushing the reporters back and confiscating memory cards with ruthless efficiency.
The back door of the lead SUV swung open, and Julian stepped out. His suit jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing taut, corded muscles and dark tattoos wrapping around his wrists—hidden symbols of his syndicate authority that he rarely showed in public.
His eyes locked onto Wren standing by the rosebushes, shielding a trembling Leo against her chest.
In three long, furious strides, Julian closed the distance between them. He didn't look at the paparazzi. He looked only at Wren and his son.
"Are you hurt?" Julian demanded, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with suppressed fury.
"No," Wren whispered, her breath catching in her throat as she stared up into his dark, storm-grey eyes. "We're okay. But the reporters..."
Julian turned to his head of security, barking orders that made the guard flinch. "I want every single one of those vultures identified, their equipment smashed, and if I see so much as a shadow of them near this property again, drop them in Boston Harbor. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Castellan!" the guard shouted, scrambling away.
May you like
Julian turned back to Wren. Without a word, he reached out, gently taking Leo from her arms and pulling Wren close against his side with his free arm, shielding her from the lingering flashes.
"Inside," Julian commanded, his voice softening just a fraction as he looked down at her flushed face. "Now."
