After hours of pacing my room, the walls had begun to close in. Pride had kept me from accepting Mrs. Henderson's repeated offers to show me the grounds, but practicality eventually won out. If I'm to find any way out of this situation, I need to understand my surroundings.
"This section was designed by the original owner's wife," Mrs. Henderson explains as we walk along a curved path. "Mr. Blackwood has maintained her vision while adding modern elements."
I nod politely, studying the layout of the estate rather than admiring the plantings. The main house sits at the center of approximately twenty acres, surrounded by formal gardens that give way to more natural landscaping toward the perimeter. A high stone wall topped with discreet security measures encircles the entire property. Guards patrol at regular intervals, theirmovements carefully choreographed to appear casual while maintaining complete surveillance.
No obvious weaknesses present themselves. No easy escape.
"The conservatory is Mr. Blackwood's particular project," Mrs. Henderson continues, gesturing toward a gleaming glass structure at the far end of the formal garden. "He finds it relaxing after difficult days."
I try to imagine Gage Blackwood—cold, calculating, manipulative—finding peace among flowers. The image doesn't reconcile with the man who's systematically dismantled my independence.
"How long have you worked for Mr. Blackwood?" I ask, searching for any information that might prove useful.
"Nearly fifteen years now," she answers without hesitation. "Since his father passed and he took over the family interests."
"And what were those interests, exactly?"
Mrs. Henderson's expression gives nothing away. "Mr. Blackwood oversees diverse holdings across multiple industries. I'm sure he'd be happy to discuss them with you directly."
Another dead end. Every staff member I've encountered has been politely unhelpful, clearly loyal to their employer and unwilling to provide any useful information.
We continue walking, passing a tennis court, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and what appears to be a small art gallery housed in a separate building. Everything is immaculate, expensive, and utterly impersonal—like a luxury resort rather than a home.
"This path leads to Mr. Blackwood's private wing," Mrs. Henderson explains, indicating a stone walkway bordered by cypress trees. "The remaining buildings are maintenance facilities and staff quarters."
I make mental notes of each location, constructing a map in my mind. Knowledge is power, limited though that power might be in my current situation.
"And the security system?" I ask casually. "I noticed cameras throughout the property."
"State of the art," she confirms. "Mr. Blackwood values privacy and safety above all else."
I bite back a retort about whose privacy and safety he truly values. Instead, I change tactics. "Does Mr. Blackwood entertain often?"
"Occasionally. Business associates primarily, though he hosts a formal charity gala each spring."
"And does he... bring women here?" The question is uncomfortable but potentially valuable. If he has a pattern with other women, it might reveal weaknesses in his approach.
Mrs. Henderson studies me for a moment, her expression softening slightly. "Mr. Blackwood is a private man, Miss Everett. His personal life is his own affair. But I will say that you are the first woman he has invited to stay at the main residence in the ten years I've managed this household."
The information is unexpected and disturbing in equal measure. What makes me different from whatever other women might have passed through his life? What role does he truly envision for me beyond the marriage arrangement with my father?
"I'm not a guest," I remind her, my voice hardening. "Guests can leave when they choose."
Her expression remains neutral. "As I understand it, your situation is temporary while security concerns are addressed."
The convenient fiction again. I don't bother challenging it.
We complete our circuit of the grounds as the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the manicured lawns. Mrs. Henderson checks her watch discreetly.
"Dinner will be served at seven in the small dining room. Mr. Blackwood asked me to remind you that your attendance is requested but not required."
The illusion of choice again. "I'll consider it."
"Very good, Miss Everett. Would you like to return to your room now, or continue exploring on your own?"
I glance around the garden, considering my options. "I think I'll stay out a bit longer. The fresh air is... helpful."
"Of course. Someone will be available at the main entrance when you're ready to return inside." Her meaning is clear—I'm free to roam the grounds, but my movements will be monitored.
