"Cold comfort when you've frozen my accounts and threatened my lease."
"Temporary measures," he says dismissively. "Already reversed, as you've likely noticed. I merely needed you to understand the practical realities of our situation."
"The reality that you're a ruthless manipulator who thinks nothing of destroying livelihoods to make a point?"
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—the first genuine emotion I've provoked. "The reality that actions have consequences, Penelope. That freedom is never absolute but exists within systems of constraint. That your choices affect others beyond yourself."
He moves to the bar cart, pouring two drinks without asking if I want one. "I dislike heavy-handed demonstrations," he continues, his voice cooler now. "But you left me little choice with your continued delusions of escape."
"My employees did nothing to deserve being caught in your power games," I say, accepting the drink despite myself, needing something to steady my nerves.
"Your employees have been generously compensated for any inconvenience," he replies. "The checks you wrote from closed accounts have been honored as a gesture of goodwill. The rest of your belongings from your apartment will be delivered tomorrow. Wildflower will continue operations under Sandra's interim management, with you maintaining creative control remotely."
The thoroughness of his information confirms what I already knew—nothing I did escaped his notice, not even the desperate checks written in a bathroom I believed private.
"You've thought of everything," I say bitterly.
"That's my responsibility in this arrangement—to anticipate complications and resolve them efficiently." He sips his drink, studying me over the rim of his glass. "Your responsibility is simpler: accept reality and adapt to it productively."
"And if I refuse? If I fight this arrangement with everything I have?"
His expression doesn't change, but his voice lowers slightly. "Then you force more drastic demonstrations of the consequences of non-compliance. Your friends. Your sister's engagement. Your father's freedom. All vulnerable in different ways."
The threat is clear despite its careful phrasing. I drain my glass, welcoming the burn of alcohol. "So here we are. You've demolished my escape routes, isolated me from support, and threatened everyone I care about. What now, Mr. Blackwood? What's the next step in your carefully orchestrated plan?"
He sets down his glass. "Dinner. A conversation about arrangements. And then, assuming we reach agreement on basic terms, planning for our engagement announcement next week."
"So soon?"
"Your father is anxious to conclude our arrangement before Violet's wedding. I see no reason for delay, now that you understand your position."
I laugh, the sound brittle and humorless. "My position as a prisoner in a gilded cage? Forgive me if I need more than three days to 'understand' that reality."
"Your position," he corrects calmly, "as my future wife, with all the privileges and responsibilities that entails. Includingsignificant influence over how this arrangement proceeds—provided you approach it rationally rather than emotionally."
I turn away, unable to bear his calculating gaze any longer. Through the window, I can see the gardens where we walked just days ago, beautiful and serene despite representing the boundaries of my new prison.
"I'll agree to proceed with the engagement announcement," I say finally, the words like ashes in my mouth. "But I want my terms in writing. Legally binding."
A slight smile curves his lips—satisfaction at having broken my resistance so quickly. "Of course. I'll have the documents prepared tomorrow. We can discuss specifics over dinner."
I move toward the door, desperate to escape his presence, to find some private corner where I can process the complete collapse of my independence.
"One more thing, Penelope." His voice stops me with my hand on the doorknob. "The emergency phone in your bag—the one you used to send warnings about me to your friends. I'd like it now, please."
Of course he knows about that too. My final, desperate attempt at creating a safety net, rendered useless before it could even begin.
I remove the phone from my bag and place it on his desk without a word.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he says, as if I've willingly surrendered it rather than being caught in yet another futile attempt at resistance. "I believe you'll find that cooperation makes our arrangement considerably more pleasant for everyone involved."
I leave without responding, retreating to my assigned suite where I finally allow myself to break down. The tears come in harsh, silent sobs that rack my body—grief for the life I thoughtI'd built, rage at the manipulation I never detected, fear for the future I can no longer control.
When the storm of emotion finally subsides, I make my way to the bathroom, and run the shower hot enough to create steam, then write on the fogged mirror with my fingertip:
I will escape this.
I scrub my skin raw in the shower.
