Another fiction in our carefully constructed narrative—erasing my five years at Wildflower to prevent uncomfortable questions about the suddenness of our engagement.
"The transition has been surprisingly smooth," I reply, the lie flowing easily. "Though I miss certain aspects of New York's creative community."
"I imagine it's quite a change, moving into Gage's world," Diana Phillips comments, her tone suggesting layers of meaning. "He's always been rather... particular about his privacy."
"That's one way to describe it," Caroline Harrison adds with a knowing smile. "I remember when he brought Eliza Winters to the Symphony Gala last year. She lasted exactly one social season before mysteriously disappearing from the calendar."
My pulse quickens at this unguarded reference to Gage's previous relationship—information he's carefully avoided sharing. "Eliza Winters?"
Diana glances toward the door, lowering her voice slightly. "A political consultant with connections to Washington. Everyone assumed it was heading toward engagement, then suddenly she was gone and Gage was attending functions alone again. Until you appeared."
"How interesting," I murmur, filing this information away. "Gage rarely discusses his past relationships."
"Men never do," Louise says with a dismissive wave. "Especially men like Gage Blackwood, who compartmentalize their lives so effectively. I'm sure Malcolm has entire chapters of his past I know nothing about, and we've been married fifteen years."
The conversation shifts to other topics, but my mind remains fixed on this new information. Eliza Winters—a name to investigate.
When the men rejoin us, I notice Gage's slightly heightened color, the barely perceptible tension in his shoulders. Something in the study didn't go as planned.
The evening concludes with polite farewells, promises of future gatherings, the social ritual complete. When the last guest departs, Gage's public persona shifts subtly—the charming host replaced by the controlled, calculating man I've come to know in private.
"You performed well," he says as we return to the library, his version of praise. "Judge Harrison was particularly impressed."
"He seemed a decent man." I remove the emerald earrings, the weight suddenly intolerable. "His daughter mentioned someone named Eliza Winters. A previous relationship of yours, apparently."
I watch for his reaction, testing whether this subject triggers the same response as mentions of his father. His expression stays neutral, but his left hand flexes slightly.
"Caroline Harrison talks too much," he remarks, pouring himself a scotch. "Eliza was a brief connection that didn't develop further. Hardly relevant to our situation."
"Did she also have a 'simplified narrative for public consumption'?"
His gaze sharpens at my tone. "Careful, Penelope. Your performance this evening was impressive, but don't mistake social success for expanded boundaries."
"I'm simply curious about your previous women," I reply, maintaining an innocent expression. "If I'm to play my role convincingly, understanding precedent seems useful."
He studies me for a moment, assessing my true motivation. "Eliza Winters was a business associate who briefly became more. When our personal connection proved incompatible with professional objectives, we returned to appropriate distance."
"Just a normal relationship that ended naturally," I suggest, the skepticism evident in my voice.
"As normal as any relationship in my position can be." He sips his scotch, watching me over the rim of his glass. "Does it bother you, Penelope? The thought of previous women in my life?"
"Why would it?" I remove the heavy emerald necklace, setting it on the desk. "Ours isn't a romantic connection. Your past is irrelevant."
"Yet you're clearly interested in Eliza."
"I'm interested in patterns," I correct. "In understanding how you operate, how you manage relationships, what happened to those who came before me."
His expression shifts toward amusement. "Looking for escape routes through my romantic history?”
I don't deny the accusation. We've moved beyond such pretenses.
"You should get some rest," he says, changing the subject. "Tomorrow's schedule includes a meeting with the wedding planner at ten, followed by the doctor's appointment at one."
The reminder of tomorrow's "health assessment" sends a chill through me. Dr. Fielding—Gage's personal physician—will conduct a comprehensive examination, ostensibly to ensure my well-being before the wedding. The unspoken purpose, which Gage hasn't bothered to disguise, is to confirm I'm not pregnant from any previous relationship.
"Is the medical examination really necessary?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Yes." No elaboration, no justification. Simply another requirement of my captivity.
