Gage is silent for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reflective. "Because a marriage built entirely on coercion creates a prisoner, not a partner. And contrary to what you may believe, Penelope, I don't want a prisoner."
"What do you want, then?"
"A wife who understands her position. Who recognizes the benefits of our arrangement as well as its constraints. Who brings her intelligence and strength to our partnership rather than wasting it on futile resistance."
"That's not going to happen," I say firmly.
He smiles slightly. "We'll see. You have two weeks to consider your options before I expect an answer."
"And in the meantime? Am I a prisoner here?"
"You're a protected guest." That careful reframing again. "You're welcome to explore the grounds, use the facilities. There's a garden I think you might appreciate—the previous owner was something of a botanist."
"But I can't leave."
"Not at present, no. The situation with your attacker requires caution. We need to ensure no further threats exist."
The convenient fiction of the staged attack continues to serve his purpose. I don't bother challenging it.
"What about my shop? My employees?"
"Sandra has been informed that you're taking a personal leave due to a family emergency. The Morgan account has increased its orders to offset any financial impact of your absence."
Of course. The Morgan account—his shell company. Another strand in the web he's woven around my life.
"You've thought of everything," I say bitterly.
"Planning is essential in any significant venture." He moves back to his desk, a subtle dismissal. "Mrs. Henderson will show you the grounds whenever you're ready. I have meetings for most of the day, but we'll dine together this evening."
"And if I refuse dinner?"
His expression remains neutral. "That would be your choice. Though isolation rarely improves difficult situations."
I walk to the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. "You think you know me, Mr. Blackwood. You've studied me like a specimen, tracked my movements, compiled data points. But you don't know me at all."
"Perhaps not entirely," he concedes. "But I know enough to recognize that you're practical beneath your passionate exterior. You'll make the rational choice, Penelope. In time."
I leave without responding, finding Mrs. Henderson waiting discreetly in the hallway.
"Would you care to see the grounds now, Miss Everett?" she asks politely.
"No." My voice cracks slightly. "I'd like to return to my room."
"Of course." She leads the way without comment, her professional demeanor giving no hint of judgment or pity.
Back in my luxurious cage, I sink onto the edge of the bed. The morning's revelations swirl in my mind—my father's callous disregard, the extent of Gage's manipulation, the impossible choice before me.
The door isn't locked this time. A small concession that changes nothing about my fundamental situation. I'm trapped not by physical barriers but by the elaborate web of consequences Gage has constructed around me.
I cross to the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass. In the distance, beyond the pristine lawns and security fencing, lies the city—my shop, my apartment, my friends. The life I built that was never truly mine.
I had believed I'd escaped that control, built something that was truly mine. Now I know better. I've simply exchanged one controller for another, more subtle one.
The tears come without warning—hot, angry tears that blur my vision and burn my cheeks. I don't try to stop them.
CHAPTER 6
The garden is beautiful, I have to admit. Late afternoon sun filters through ancient oak trees, dappling stone pathways with golden light. Beds of exotic flowers create a riot of color against meticulously trimmed hedges. A small pond reflects the sky, water lilies floating on its surface like tiny perfect worlds.
