When the heavy door closed behind them and the distant echoes of the wedding celebration finally faded, Ivan Sergeyevich turned to her with an expression she could not read.

“Tell me honestly,” he said quietly, “how much did your parents receive for this marriage?”

Anna froze in the middle of the vast room. All evening she had braced herself for indifference, for entitlement, perhaps even humiliation. But not for this. The question struck deeper than any harsh word could have.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

He removed his jacket slowly and placed it neatly over the back of a chair. There was no anger in his movements, no sarcasm in his tone. Only exhaustion.

“You are not the first young woman whose family has introduced her to me with hopeful smiles,” he continued. “But you are the first who cannot even pretend to be happy.”

The words pierced her. Throughout the ceremony she had smiled mechanically at guests, accepted congratulations, endured whispers about how fortunate she was. Fortunate. The word echoed bitterly in her mind.

“No one was paid directly,” she replied after a pause. “But my family had debts. Serious debts. This seemed like the only way out.”

“So you were exchanged for security,” he said calmly.

Tears welled up in her eyes. For weeks she had listened to anxious conversations at home—about unpaid loans, about losing the house, about her younger brother’s future. Then came the proposal: a wealthy widower, stability, protection.

No one had asked what she wanted.

“I thought it didn’t matter to you,” she murmured.

He looked at her for a long moment.

“It does matter. I did not intend to purchase a body. I thought I could secure peace… perhaps companionship. But I do not want resentment living under my roof.”

Silence settled heavily between them.

“What exactly is expected of me?” Anna asked, her voice trembling.

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Your parents were very clear. They hope for a child. An heir. That was their condition.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“A child? No one told me that.”

“Because the negotiation was not truly about you,” he replied.

Anna understood then: it was not just her hand in marriage that had been promised, but her future, her motherhood—her entire life woven into an agreement.

“And you?” she asked softly. “Do you want a child?”

His gaze darkened.

“I once had a family. A wife. A son. I lost them both years ago. Since then, this house has been too large and far too quiet. I convinced myself that a new beginning would fill the emptiness. But loss cannot be replaced with money.”

For the first time she saw not a powerful, wealthy man, but someone profoundly alone.

“Then why agree to this?” she asked.

“Because I was a coward,” he answered without hesitation. “It is easier to sign a contract than to risk building something real.”

The honesty in his voice unsettled her.

“What happens now?” she asked.

He raised his eyes to hers.

“I will ask you one final question. Your answer will decide everything.”

She held her breath.

“Do you love someone else?”

The question struck straight at her heart. She thought of her university days, of modest dreams shared with a young man who believed they could build a life together without wealth—only trust and effort.

After a long silence, she nodded slightly.

“Yes… I think I do.”

Ivan Sergeyevich closed his eyes briefly.

“Then you are free to leave.”

She stared at him in disbelief.

“Leave?”

“Tomorrow I will settle your parents’ debts. Without conditions. The marriage can be annulled. I do not want a wife who feels imprisoned beside me.”

Tears streamed down her face—this time not from fear, but from overwhelming relief.

“Why would you do that?” she asked.

A faint, sad smile touched his lips.

“Money can buy a ceremony, a house, even silence. But it can never buy a heart.”

The night she had feared as the beginning of a gilded prison became instead a moment of truth.

The real shock was not the question he had asked—but the choice he gave her.

And sometimes, freedom is more terrifying than any golden cage.