"Your skepticism is understandable." He leans back slightly, studying my profile. "I thought perhaps we could speak more informally here instead."
I resist the urge to move further away. "What is there to discuss that wasn't covered this morning?"
"Your immediate concerns, for one. You mentioned your shop, your employees. I understand Wildflower is important to you, regardless of who ultimately owns the building or provides financial backing."
The reminder stings. "It's more than important. It's mine—the one thing I created myself."
"And it will remain yours," he says, surprising me. "I have no interest in dismantling what you've built, regardless of how our personal situation resolves."
I turn to face him, suspicious. "Meaning?"
"Meaning that while I expect your agreement to our arrangement, I don't intend to strip you of your identity or passion. Wildflower continues, with you at its helm, whether you become my wife or not."
The offer is unexpected. "Why?"
He considers the question carefully. "Because destroying something you love would create resentment that serves no purpose. Because your talent should not be wasted. Because I respect what you've accomplished, even if I facilitated certain aspects of it."
"How generous of you," I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
"It's not generosity, Penelope. It's pragmatism. Happy wives make better partners than resentful prisoners."
"I'll never be happy with this arrangement."
"Perhaps not initially," he concedes. "But contentment often grows from acceptance of reality."
"Is that how you see marriage?"
The question seems to genuinely interest him. "In many ways, yes. Two individuals with separate desires and goals finding the most efficient compromise to achieve mutual benefit."
"There's nothing mutual about our situation," I point out. "You hold all the power."
"Currently, perhaps." His gaze is steady, assessing. "But power dynamics shift over time. You're intelligent, resourceful, and determined. Those qualities don't disappear simply because you find yourself at a disadvantage."
I study him, trying to understand his angle. "Are you suggesting I might eventually gain leverage over you?"
"Relationships evolve and your perception of powerlessness may be more temporary than you currently believe." He rises from the bench, extending a hand to help me up. "Shall we walk? The sunset view from the western terrace is worth seeing."
I ignore his offered hand, standing on my own. "Why are you doing this?"
He drops his hand, accepting my rejection without comment. "My purpose is to help you adjust to your new reality with minimal trauma. To begin creating whatever relationship is possible between us, given the circumstances."
"A relationship requires consent," I remind him. "Something notably absent from our arrangement."
"You have more choice than you acknowledge, Penelope." He begins walking along the garden path, slow enough that I can easily keep pace without feeling led. "You're choosing your family's welfare over your immediate freedom."
"A choice between a rock and a hard place is hardly a choice at all."
"Few choices in life are without significant constraints or consequences." He gestures toward a path leading to a stone terrace overlooking the valley below. "The western view."
I follow, partly out of curiosity and partly because continuing the conversation feels more productive than returning to my isolation. The terrace offers a stunning panorama of mountains bathed in the golden light of sunset, the valley below transitioning from day to evening.
"Beautiful," I murmur despite myself.
"Yes." But when I glance over, he's watching me, not the sunset. Something in his gaze makes my pulse quicken—not fear, exactly, but awareness of something unpredictable beneath his controlled exterior.
"Tell me what you want," he says suddenly.
I blink, caught off guard by the direct question. "What I want? Freedom. To return to my life. To never have heard the name Blackwood."
