I check my personal bank accounts, finding them similarly restricted. Even my emergency cash—several thousand dollars kept in a hidden safe in my closet—has mysteriously vanished, replaced with a note in elegant handwriting: "Safety isn't found in cash, Penelope."
The violation is absolute. My home, my business, my finances—all compromised, all under his control.
I sleep fitfully, waking repeatedly to check the locks on my doors and windows, though I know such precautions are meaningless against the power arrayed against me. Morning brings more evidence of Gage's reach—my cell phone service is suddenly "experiencing technical difficulties," limiting me to emergency calls only. My internet connection slows to a crawl, then fails entirely.
The isolation is deliberate, cutting me off from potential support systems one by one.
I spend the day at Wildflower, addressing what issues I can despite the increasing restrictions. Two employees call in their resignations without explanation. Another major client cancels. The company that maintains our refrigeration systems reports they can't schedule maintenance for at least a month.
By evening, exhaustion and anger have formed a hard knot in my chest. I return to my apartment to find the electricity out—a "localized outage" affecting only my unit, according to the apologetic building manager. I shower in cold water by the light of my phone flashlight, then sit in darkness, considering my dwindling options.
The third day brings the final blows. My primary bank account is closed entirely, the modest balance transferred to an unknown location. The commercial landlord calls to inform me that the building has been sold to a new owner who won't be renewing leases when they expire—including Wildflower's, which suddenly shows an end date three months away rather than the two years remaining I expected.
I search my office frantically, finding the original lease documents missing from my files. In their place is a different contract with my signature—one I never remember signing—specifying the shorter term with clauses allowing early termination under specific conditions.
The forgery is flawless, indistinguishable from my actual signature.
By afternoon, the systematic dismantling of my life is nearly complete. Sandra watches with increasing concern as I handle crisis after crisis, making excuses I know sound hollow.
"Poppy," she says finally, "what's really happening? This isn't normal business fluctuation. It's like everything's falling apart at once."
I can't tell her the truth—can't risk Gage taking action against her too. "Just a perfect storm of bad timing," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. "I'll sort it out."
But we both know I won't. Or, rather I can't.
When Victor arrives to collect me, earlier than expected on this final day, his expression is unreadable as always.
"Mr. Blackwood has requested you return to the estate immediately," he says, not bothering with the pretense that I have a choice. "There's been a change of plans."
"What change?" I ask, gathering my purse with shaking hands.
"He'll explain when we arrive."
The drive passes in tense silence. I stare out the window at the city streets, at normal people living normal lives, unaware that invisible hands can rewrite reality at will for those who cross the wrong powerful men.
At my apartment, I collect my packed bags while Victor waits in the living room. In the bathroom, hidden from surveillance by the closed door, I make a decision. I still have my checkbook, despite the closed accounts. I write checks for sizable amounts to Sandra and each of my employees, backdating them to before the accounts were frozen. Perhaps they'll clear; perhaps they won't. But I have to try something to protect those caught in the crossfire of Gage's demonstration of power.
I hide the checks in my purse, then make one final, desperate move. I retrieve my emergency phone—a basic prepaid model kept for true crises, unknown to anyone, including my father—from its hiding place inside a hollowed-out book. I power it on long enough to send identical text messages to my closest friends:
If anything happens to me, Gage Blackwood is responsible. Don't trust official explanations.
I add his address and the little I know about him, then power off the phone and tuck it deep in my bag. A futile gesture, perhaps, but it's something—a breadcrumb trail should the worst happen.
Victor watches impassively as I take a final look around my apartment—the first place that was truly mine, or so I believed. "Ready, Miss Everett?"
I nod, unable to trust my voice. The drive to Gage's estate feels like a funeral procession, marking the death of the independent woman I thought I was.
As we approach the gates, my phone buzzes with notifications—suddenly working again now that I'm returning to my cage. I check the screen to find my bank accounts restored, suppliers confirming orders, clients reinstating their business. The demonstration is complete; the message received.
Gage waits in the entrance hall when we arrive, his expression unreadable. "Welcome back, Penelope. I trust your time in the city was... illuminating."
The understatement would be laughable if it weren't so cruel. "You made your point."
"Did I?" He gestures for me to follow him to his study. "And what point would that be?"
"That you control everything. That my independence was always an illusion." My voice remains steady despite the rageand despair churning beneath the surface. "That you can destroy everything I've built with a few phone calls."
"Not quite everything." He closes the study door behind us, offering me a seat that I refuse. "I demonstrated that your business operates within a framework of support and protection that can be withdrawn. But the talent, the vision that built Wildflower—those remain entirely yours."
