She was never trapped by her husband, nor by her home.
The bars were made from the story she told about herself — the good wife, the
dependable woman, the one who never strayed.
 
But mirrors do not lie.
 
In the quiet rooms of her suburban life, a different self began to surface: the one
who stayed awake when others slept, who searched for attention in the glow of a
phone, who lingered too long over another woman’s body in a library, who
walked into hotel rooms as though into confessionals.
 
Every chapter is a testimony: silence in a bathroom, procession through a
nightclub, service in a stranger’s flat, the stillness of being laid out on a table.
 
What she called marriage was only the decoy; what she called sin was the only
place she felt whole.
 
The Caged Heart is not a romance, but a witness — a mythic account of duplicity,
desire, and the ritual truth that no cage is locked from the outside.