"No one is forcing you to marry me, Penelope."
I stare at him incredulously. "You've locked me in a room in your home after staging a violent attack to get me here!"
"I've provided secure accommodations following a traumatic incident," he corrects smoothly. "The door is locked for your safety, not your imprisonment. As for marriage..." He shrugs elegantly. "You have options."
"What options?"
"Marry me willingly, and your life continues much as before—your shop, your creative work, your independence withindefined parameters. Refuse..." His expression hardens. "Refuse, and I withdraw all financial support from Wildflower, expose the subsidies that have kept you afloat these five years, and allow your father's legal troubles to resume—troubles that will inevitably entangle you as his daughter and likely heir."
My stomach drops. "You'd destroy everything I've built."
"I'd stop protecting what you mistakenly believed you built alone," he corrects. "The distinction matters, Penelope."
The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thin. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold together the pieces of my life that seem to be crumbling around me.
"I'll give you two weeks," Gage continues, his voice softening slightly. "Time to process this change, to review your options, to come to terms with your new reality."
"And if I still refuse?"
His expression shows nothing but calm certainty. "You won't. You're practical beneath your rebellious exterior. You'll choose the path that preserves what matters most to you."
He moves to the door, producing a key from his pocket. "Rest now. We'll continue this discussion tomorrow, when you're more... amenable to reason."
"I'll never be amenable to this," I say, but my voice lacks conviction even to my own ears.
Gage pauses in the doorway, studying me with those unsettling blue eyes. "I don't need your love, Penelope," he says quietly. "But I will have your obedience."
The door closes behind him, the lock engaging with a soft click that somehow sounds like finality.
I stand frozen in the center of the room, my mind racing. Outside the window, security lights illuminate grounds surrounded by high walls. Beyond those walls lies my shop, my apartment, my friends—the life I thought I'd built but apparently never truly owned.
And beneath it all, the most disturbing realization—that Gage Blackwood has been watching me for years, learning my habits, my preferences, my weaknesses. Preparing for this moment when he would finally claim what he believes is rightfully his.
Claim me.
I curl onto my side, still fully dressed, and stare at the moonlight casting patterns on the wall. Sleep will not come easily tonight—not with my mind replaying every moment of the past five years, searching for the signs I missed, the strings I didn't see, the cage I never realized was being built around me, bar by invisible bar.
CHAPTER 5
Morning arrives with cruel clarity. I've slept perhaps two hours, my mind refusing to quiet despite exhaustion. The room—my prison—is bathed in soft light filtering through sheer curtains. Everything is tasteful, expensive, and utterly impersonal, like a luxury hotel suite designed to please everyone and reflect no one.
I sit up, running a hand through tangled hair. My ruined dress is gone from the bathroom floor, removed while I slept by unseen staff. The violation of my space while unconscious sends a fresh wave of anger through me.
A knock at the door precedes Mrs. Henderson's entrance. She carries a breakfast tray, her expression professional but not unkind.
"Good morning, Miss Everett. I've brought some breakfast and fresh clothing." She sets the tray on a small table by the window. "Mr. Blackwood requests your presence in his study at ten o'clock."
I glance at the clock—8:30 AM. "And if I refuse?"
Mrs. Henderson's expression doesn't change. "That would be your choice, of course. Though I believe there are matters regarding your family that require discussion."
My family. The arrangement. The deal my father made using me as currency.
"Fine." I don't bother hiding my bitterness. "Tell Mr. Blackwood I'll be there."
"Very good." She moves to the closet, which now contains several outfits in what appears to be my size. "These should fit. If there's anything else you require, please use the house phone by the bed."
After she leaves, I force myself to eat despite my lack of appetite. The food is excellent—fresh fruit, yogurt, warm pastries—but tastes like ash in my mouth. I shower again, trying to wash away the lingering feeling of violation from last night's revelations.
