"Where's Victor?" I ask, stalling. "Your security team?"
"This is a private matter between us," he replies. "Get in, Penelope."
I slide into the leather seat, inhaling the scent of expensive upholstery and his subtle cologne. He closes the door with finality and walks around to the driver's side. When he starts the engine, the powerful rumble matches the storm building in my chest—rage, humiliation, and underneath it all, fear. Not of physical harm, but of what comes next. Of how he'll respond to this act of defiance.
We drive in silence through empty streets, the city still sleeping. I expect us to head toward his estate, but instead, he takes a route I don't recognize.
"Where are we going?" I finally ask when the silence becomes unbearable.
"Somewhere we can talk without interruption." His hands rest casually on the steering wheel, his profile illuminated by dashboard lights. "You've created quite a disruption with this little adventure."
"That was the point."
His mouth quirks in what might be amusement. "Was it? Because from where I sit, all you've accomplished is embarrassing yourself and inconveniencing me. The outcome remains unchanged."
"If I'm such an inconvenience, why not let me go? Find someone more compliant for your arrangement."
He glances at me briefly. "We've covered this ground, Penelope. You know why."
"Because you never relinquish what you consider yours." The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.
"Because I honor my commitments," he corrects. "And because, despite this childish escape attempt, you remain the most suitable candidate for the position."
"The position of prisoner?"
"Of wife." His tone hardens slightly. "A role with considerably more agency than you seem willing to acknowledge."
We fall silent again as he navigates onto a highway heading east, away from both the city and his estate. As the sky lightens with approaching dawn, I realize how thoroughly I've miscalculated. Not just the practicalities of escape—the timing, the methodology—but Gage himself. I'd expected him to send security, to delegate my retrieval to employees. Instead, he's handled it personally, suggesting this matters more to him than I'd realized.
Information to consider. Leverage, perhaps, though how to use it remains unclear.
After nearly an hour of driving, he exits onto a narrow road winding through dense forest. Eventually, we reach a small clearing with a cabin—rustic but well-maintained, with a wide porch overlooking a lake just visible through the trees.
"Your safe house?" I ask as he parks beside the structure.
"My personal retreat," he corrects. "No staff, no security systems, no carefully maintained image. Just a place to think."
The revelation is unexpected—Gage Blackwood, with his empire of glass and steel, his perfectly controlled environments, retreating to simplicity when privacy allows.
He unlocks the cabin door, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him. The interior is surprisingly modest—open-plan living area with comfortable furniture, a stone fireplace, kitchen along onewall. Large windows showcase the lake view, now visible in early morning light.
"You must be hungry," he says, moving toward the kitchen. "I'll make coffee."
The domesticity of the gesture is jarring after the tension of my capture. I remain standing near the door, bag still clutched in my hand, watching as he moves with unexpected familiarity through the small kitchen.
"Why did you bring me here?" I ask finally.
He glances up from measuring coffee grounds. "Because we need to have a conversation that can't happen at the estate, where every word is potentially overheard by staff."
"What kind of conversation?"
"An honest one." He starts the coffee maker, then turns to face me fully. "Why don't you sit down? Your escape attempt has failed. Standing by the door like a cornered animal won't change that reality."
Reluctantly, I move to the couch, perching on its edge, still unwilling to relax in his presence. He finishes preparing coffee, then brings two mugs to the seating area, placing one on the coffee table within my reach before taking a chair opposite me.
"You don't get to leave, Penelope," he says without preamble. "Not now, not ever. The sooner you accept that fundamental reality, the easier this will be for both of us."
The bluntness of his statement hits like a physical blow. "You can't own another person."
