"I can find my way."
He nods, maintaining the illusion that I have choices, control. "Tomorrow, perhaps you'd like to see the conservatory. I have several rare orchid species that might interest you, given your professional background."
The invitation is clearly an attempt to normalize our situation, to establish a routine that includes civil interaction. Part of me wants to refuse outright, to maintain clear opposition to his control. But the rational part recognizes that building rapport, gathering information, and searching for leverage requires engagement.
"Perhaps," I say noncommittally.
"Good night, then, Penelope." He remains on the terrace as I walk away, his tall figure silhouetted against the darkening sky.
I follow the path back to the main house, where a staff member waits to escort me to my room. The meal that arrives shortly after is exquisite—roasted salmon with fresh vegetables, crusty bread, and a glass of white wine. I eat mechanically,barely tasting the food, my mind replaying the conversation with Gage.
His willingness to preserve Wildflower is significant—the first real concession in what has otherwise been a completely one-sided power dynamic. And his unexpected honesty about expecting physical intimacy eventually, while disturbing, provides valuable insight into his expectations.
Two weeks, he said. Two weeks to "accept the inevitable" and agree to his terms. Two weeks to find some alternative that doesn't destroy everything and everyone I care about.
CHAPTER 7
I'm released from my golden cage the following morning. After a tense breakfast with Gage—during which he outlines a schedule for the coming week that maintains the pretense that I'm a guest rather than a prisoner—he announces that I can return to my apartment and shop "to settle my affairs."
"Victor will drive you," he says, watching my reaction over the rim of his coffee cup. "You'll have three days to organize your business, pack essential belongings, and prepare for a more extended stay here."
"Three days," I repeat, struggling to keep my voice neutral despite the surge of hope at even this temporary freedom. "And I suppose I'll be under surveillance the entire time?"
"Victor will maintain a discreet distance," Gage confirms without apology. "For your safety, of course."
The fiction continues, both of us aware of its falsity. "Of course."
"I expect you back here on Friday evening for dinner." His tone makes it clear this isn't a request. "We have matters to discuss regarding the timeline of our arrangement."
I resist the urge to argue that three days is insufficient to "settle my affairs"—that dismantling a life takes longer than a weekend. Instead, I nod, already calculating how to use this unexpected opportunity.
"Will my father be joining us for this discussion?"
Something like distaste flickers across Gage's expression. "No. William's role in this arrangement is essentially complete."
The statement surprises me. "I thought this was primarily about your agreement with him."
"The initial arrangement was," Gage concedes. "The implementation is between you and me alone."
An hour later, I'm in the back of a luxury SUV—not the black surveillance vehicle I've come to dread, but a silver Range Rover with tinted windows. Victor drives in silence, his broad shoulders and military bearing somehow more intimidating in casual clothing than in his formal suit.
"The rules are simple, Miss Everett," he says as we approach the city. "You may visit your apartment and your shop. You may speak with your employees about business matters. You may not discuss your situation with friends or family. You may not attempt to leave the city or evade surveillance. Doing so would have... consequences."
"For me or for those I care about?" I ask, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.
"Both." No elaboration necessary.
The threat hangs in the air as we drive through familiar streets. When we reach my apartment building, Victor parks but makes no move to exit the vehicle.
"I'll wait here," he says. "Take whatever time you need to pack essentials. I'll accompany you to your shop afterward."
The illusion of privacy. Of normal life resuming. I know better.
My apartment feels both familiar and foreign when I unlock the door. Everything is exactly as I left it just days ago, yet something feels off—the subtle wrongness that comes from knowing unseen eyes have examined your most private spaces. The journal Gage mentioned, hidden beneath my floorboard, confirms my suspicion when I check it—the pages are aligned slightly differently than my usual careful placement.
I pack methodically, selecting clothing suitable for an extended captivity—practical items. Then practical considerations: my laptop, chargers, toiletries, the few pieces of jewelry with sentimental value, including my grandmother's pendant.
As I move through familiar routines, reality shifts beneath me like unstable ground. This apartment, which I fought so hard to afford, to furnish with carefully selected pieces that reflect my taste rather than my family's expectations—none of it was truly mine. The reasonable rent, the convenient location, the responsive building management—all orchestrated to create the illusion of independence while keeping me exactly where Gage wanted me.
