A gilded cage within a fortress.
I've learned much during these two weeks of captivity. The daily routine of the estate—staff rotations, security patterns, Gage's schedule. The layout of buildings I previously hadn't explored. The hierarchy among employees, their loyalties and potential vulnerabilities. I gather this information methodically, storing it away for future use.
The library doors are open when I arrive at precisely 6:45. Gage stands at the fireplace, reviewing documents with such focus he doesn't immediately notice my entrance. He's impeccable as always—tailored tuxedo emphasizing his height and athletic build, dark hair perfectly styled, expression controlled even in what he believes is private.
I take a moment to study him unobserved. These glimpses of Gage unaware have become valuable opportunities to understand the man beneath the mask. I've cataloged his small tells—the slight narrowing of his eyes when displeased, the almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders when satisfied, the way his left hand occasionally flexes when he's controlling stronger emotion.
"Penelope." He looks up, setting aside his papers. "Punctual as always."
His gaze travels over me, assessing rather than leering, noting my appearance with the same attention he gives business reports. "The emeralds suit you."
"Thank you." I move further into the room, maintaining distance.
"Tonight's dinner includes six guests," he says, offering me a single sheet of paper with names and brief biographies. "Keaton Phillips and his wife Diana—banking, old Chicago money. Malcolm and Louise Wei—technology investments, new wealth but significant influence. Judge James Harrison and his daughter Caroline—she's recently divorced and re-entering society."
I review the information, understanding the subtext. These aren't merely dinner guests but strategic relationships being cultivated. "What's my role this evening?"
"Charming, intelligent companion. Nothing more complicated for your first formal appearance." He adjusts his cufflinks—platinum with small black stones. "These people will eventually form part of our social circle. First impressions matter."
"I understand." I fold the paper, committing the information to memory. "Any topics to avoid?"
"Politics, religion, and my father." His expression remains neutral, but that tell—the slight flexing of his left hand—suggeststhe last subject carries particular weight. "Otherwise, you may contribute to conversation as you see fit. You're educated and articulate—I trust your judgment on appropriate topics."
The compliment, delivered like an objective assessment, is part of his current strategy. Small recognitions of my value, acknowledgments of my intelligence and capabilities, all while maintaining absolute control of my circumstances. Psychological manipulation at its most refined.
"Our engagement will be the primary topic of interest," he continues. "The official story is that we met through mutual business connections, developed a relationship privately over several months, and recently decided to formalize our commitment."
"A romantic fiction," I observe, unable to entirely suppress my bitterness.
"A simplified narrative for public consumption," he corrects. "The details of private arrangements remain private."
A knock at the door precedes Mrs. Henderson's appearance. "Mr. Phillips and Mrs. Phillips have arrived, sir."
"Thank you. We'll greet them in the foyer." Gage turns to me, extending his arm. "Shall we?"
I place my hand on his forearm, my grip light but present—exactly as I've observed countless society wives do at similar functions. The perfect fiancée, ready to perform her role in this elaborate fiction.
The evening progresses like a carefully orchestrated ballet. I smile at appropriate moments, ask thoughtful questions about guests' interests, laugh softly at mild jokes. When conversation turns to our engagement, I allow Gage to lead while contributing details that support our fictional romance.
"Gage was quite persistent," I tell Diana Phillips over aperitifs, my tone gently teasing. "I was focused on mybusiness and not looking for a relationship, but he can be very persuasive."
Gage's hand settles at the small of my back, a possessive gesture disguised as affection. "Penelope is being generous. The truth is, I pursued her rather shamelessly once I recognized her value."
The irony of this statement—the single honest thing he's said all evening—isn't lost on me.
Dinner continues the performance—exquisite food served on antique china, vintage wines poured into crystal. I navigate conversation with practiced ease, drawing on years of society functions from my former life as an Everett. The guests respond well, particularly Judge Harrison, who seems genuinely interested in my background in floral design.
"You must see Penelope's work in the conservatory," Gage tells them as dessert is served. "She has a remarkable gift for composition and color."
"I'd love a tour," Caroline Harrison says, her interest seemingly genuine. "I've always admired people with artistic talent."
"Perhaps next time," Gage replies smoothly. "It's best viewed in daylight."
I recognize the deflection for what it is—limiting my private interaction with guests who might provide connections outside his control.
After dinner, the men retreat to Gage's study for brandy while the women move to the drawing room. It's an archaic tradition that I find laughably regressive, but I follow without comment.
"How are you adapting to Chicago?" Louise Wei asks once we're settled with coffee. "Gage mentioned you were based in New York previously."
