"Start talking," I say. "Why have you been following me?"
Gage doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies me with those piercing blue eyes, as if measuring my capacity for truth.
"Your father and I have an arrangement," he finally says. "One that involves you."
Cold dread pools in my stomach. "What kind of arrangement?"
"A marriage arrangement." His voice is matter-of-fact, devoid of emotion. "Formalized when you were sixteen, to be fulfilled when you turned twenty-six."
The room spins slightly. I grip the back of a chair to steady myself. "That's ridiculous. This isn't the Middle Ages. You can't arrange marriages like—like business deals."
"And yet, it happened." He remains perfectly calm. "Your father needed something from me ten years ago. I required something in return. You were the agreed-upon payment."
A hysterical laugh escapes me. "And you expect me to just accept this? To marry a stranger because my father made some deal?"
"Not a stranger." Gage steps closer, his presence filling the room. "I've been monitoring your life for years, Penelope. Your education, your friendships, your business... None of it has been a mystery to me."
The implications of his statement hit me like a physical blow. "You've been watching me since I was sixteen?"
"Not personally, at first. My organization kept tabs on your development, your potential. When you left your family, we increased surveillance."
"That's—that's stalking. It's illegal. It's?—"
"It's protection," he interrupts. "The world is dangerous for a woman alone, especially one with your background and connections. Tonight proved that."
I shake my head, disbelieving. "The man tonight was a random mugger."
Gage's expression flickers with something I can't quite identify. "Was he?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implication. My mind races back through the attack—how the man had appeared so suddenly, how he'd specifically mentioned my necklace rather than just demanding my purse, how quickly Blackwood's men had responded.
"You staged it," I whisper, the realization washing over me like ice water. "The whole thing was orchestrated."
Gage doesn't confirm or deny, which is confirmation enough.
"Why?" My voice breaks on the word. "To what end?"
"To bring you here." He moves to the window again, giving me space. "Your father has been increasingly... insistent about completing our arrangement. The timeline had to be accelerated."
"So you traumatized me? Had someone pretend to attack me, then killed them to—what? Make me feel indebted to you?"
His shoulders stiffen slightly. "That wasn't the plan. The man wasn't supposed to be eliminated, merely subdued. Victor made a judgment call when the situation escalated."
"A judgment call." I drain my glass, welcoming the burn. "You're talking about a human life."
"I'm talking about your safety," Gage counters, turning to face me again. "The details of tonight's operation are regrettable, but the outcome remains the same. You're here now, where you belong."
"I don't belong here," I snap. "I belong in my apartment, in my shop—the life I built for myself."
A cold smile flickers across his face. "Did you? Build it yourself?"
Something in his tone makes my stomach clench. "What do you mean?"
"Wildflower. Your apartment. Your so-called independence." He approaches slowly, like a predator stalking prey. "How do you think you secured such prime retail space at twenty-one, with no credit history and limited funds? How did you obtain business licenses so quickly? Why did your landlord approve extensive renovations on a five-year lease?"
I shake my head, unwilling to follow his implication. "I saved. I planned. I worked hard."
"Yes, you did," he acknowledges. "But none of that would have mattered without my intervention."
