"Beyond that," he presses. "If our arrangement proceeds—which we both know it will—what would make it tolerable for you? What would you require to find some measure of contentment?"
The question is so unexpected that I answer honestly. "Control over my own schedule. Continuation of my business without interference. No pretense of romantic feelings or physical intimacy. A clear understanding that this is a business arrangement, nothing more."
He considers my terms without visible reaction. "The first two are easily granted. The third and fourth are... negotiable."
A chill runs through me. "Meaning?"
"Meaning that while I won't demand physical intimacy immediately, I do expect it. We will be married, Penelope, in every legal and practical sense. Continuing your business, maintaining your creative independence—these are concessions I'm willing to make. Permanent celibacy is not."
The blunt statement hangs between us, heavy with implication. "You can't force?—"
"Penelope." His interruption is sharp, almost angry. "I expect your eventual willingness, not your submission to force. There's a significant difference."
"And if that willingness never materializes?"
He studies me for a long moment. "Then we would have an unfulfilled contract, with consequences neither of us desires. But I don't believe that will be the case."
His confidence infuriates me. "You don't know me as well as you think you do."
"Perhaps not," he concedes. "But I know human nature. Given enough time, even arranged marriages often develop genuine attachment."
"Is that what you want?"
The question seems to catch him slightly off guard. "I want a partnership with clearly understood expectations and mutual benefits. Whether that includes emotional attachment is... secondary. Anything else?" he asks, returning to my list of requirements.
I consider what else might make this prison more bearable. "Information. Complete transparency about your expectations and the full scope of your agreement with my father. No more surprises or revelations designed to manipulate me."
He nods slowly. "Reasonable, within certain limitations. Some aspects of my business require discretion for legal and security reasons."
"The illegal parts, you mean."
A slight smile touches his lips. "The sensitive parts. Not all that requires discretion is illegal, Penelope."
The sun has nearly disappeared behind the mountains, painting the sky in dramatic streaks of orange and purple. In this light, with the valley spread below us, I can almost forget the circumstances that brought me here.
Almost.
"Why me?" I ask abruptly. "Out of all the women you could have chosen or arranged to marry, why select someone who clearly doesn't want the position?"
Gage is quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than I've heard before.
"When your father first suggested the arrangement, it was purely tactical—a means of securing his compliance and gaining certain social advantages through connection to the Everett name. But as I learned more about you over the years, watched you create something from nothing after leaving your family..." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Your determination impressed me. Your resilience. Your refusal to be defined by circumstances or expectations."
"Those are precisely the qualities that make me unsuitable for an arranged marriage," I point out.
"On the contrary," he counters. "They're exactly what I need in a partner. Not blind compliance or decorative presence, but intelligence, strength, and adaptability."
"For what purpose?"
His expression closes slightly, the brief glimpse of openness disappearing. "That's part of the longer conversation we'll have as our arrangement progresses."
The evasive answer heightens my suspicion. "More secrets, Mr. Blackwood?"
"Strategic information, shared when appropriate." He checks his watch. "Dinner will be served soon, if you've reconsidered joining me."
The abrupt shift in topic signals the end of his transparency, limited though it was. I shake my head. "I think I'll eat in my room tonight. I have a lot to process."
He accepts this without argument. "Of course. I'll have something sent up." He gestures toward the main house. "Shall I escort you back?"
