"I don't want to own you. I want to marry you, as agreed with your father a decade ago." He sips his coffee, studying me over the rim. "Your continued resistance wastes both our time and energy that could be better directed toward building a functional partnership."
"There can be no 'partnership' without choice," I argue. "What you're describing is captivity."
"Is it?" He sets down his mug. "Let's discuss what captivity truly means. You'll have financial resources exceeding anything you've known. Freedom to continue your creative work. Influence within certain spheres that you currently can't access. Protection that you clearly need, given your naïve approach to escape."
"Gilded chains are still chains."
"Poetic, but inaccurate." His voice remains calm, reasonable, as if we're discussing a business merger rather than my freedom. "All lives operate within constraints, Penelope. The difference is whether those constraints are acknowledged or ignored, worked within or fought against."
"You've eliminated all my choices except this."
"I've clarified the options and their consequences," he corrects. "You still have choices—they simply carry costs you find unacceptable."
I laugh bitterly. "Such generosity."
"It is generous, compared to alternatives." His gaze hardens. "Your father would have you drugged and compliant for a quick ceremony followed by permanent residence in a private facility, with public statements about your 'unfortunate nervous condition.' A few phone calls would make that happen."
A chill runs through me at the casual way he describes what would effectively be imprisonment and forced medication. "And you're the hero for offering a more humane captivity?"
"I'm the pragmatist offering a sustainable arrangement with mutual benefits." He leans forward, elbows on knees. "Your performance this past week was impressive, Penelope. The cooperative fiancée, gradually accepting her situation. If you hadn't mapped the surveillance blind spots so methodically, I might have believed it."
My breath catches. He knew. All along, he knew I was planning escape.
"You monitored my activities in your office."
"Of course." He almost smiles. "I knew you were planning something. I simply wasn't certain of the timing or methodology."
"So you let me run, knowing you could track the ring." The realization burns like acid. Even my rebellion was permitted, controlled.
"I wanted to see what you would do," he admits. "How you would approach escape, what resources you would leverage, how far you were willing to go. Information that helps me understand you better."
"I'm not a psychology experiment."
"No, you're my future wife. Understanding how your mind works is essential to building a marriage."
I stare at him, trying to reconcile his cold calculation with the hint of genuine curiosity in his expression. "You could have stopped me before I left the estate."
"I could have," he agrees. "But then we wouldn't be having this conversation. We wouldn't have established with absolute clarity that escape attempts are futile."
He rises, moving to the windows overlooking the lake. Morning sunlight creates a halo effect around his tall figure, a visual reminder of the power imbalance between us.
"So what happens now?" I ask, dreading the answer. "Increased security? Restricted movement? Some form of punishment for my disobedience?"
He turns, studying me with that unsettling intensity. "Now we adapt our arrangement to reflect reality. You've demonstrated that you cannot yet be trusted with conditional freedom. Until that changes, your movements will be more closely monitored, your access to potential escape routes eliminated."
"A shorter leash for the unruly pet," I say bitterly.
"Temporary restrictions for the untrustworthy partner," he corrects. "The duration and severity depend entirely on your choices going forward."
He returns to his seat, his posture relaxed despite the tension between us. "I don't enjoy restricting your freedom, Penelope. It creates inefficiency and resentment that serve neither of us. But I will do what's necessary to maintain our arrangement."
"Why?" The question bursts from me, frustration overriding caution. "Why this insistence on me specifically? There must be dozens of women with appropriate social backgrounds who would willingly accept your proposal. Why continue this battle when you could have a willing partner?"
"Because the alternative candidates lack what you possess in abundance."
"Which is?"
"Spirit," he says simply with a shrug. "Intelligence. Resilience. The qualities that drove you to escape your father's control, build a business from nothing, and attempt a genuinely impressive escape from my security. The same qualities that will make you an exceptional partner once properly directed."
