I nod, continuing the performance of compliance. "Then I'll bid you goodnight."
"One moment." He crosses to his desk, removing a small box from the drawer. "I noticed you prefer simpler jewelry for daily wear. Perhaps these will be more to your taste than the emeralds."
The box contains diamond stud earrings—elegant but understated, closer to my actual preference than the gems I wore tonight. The gesture is calculated, of course—another demonstration that he studies my preferences, anticipates my needs. Psychological manipulation disguised as thoughtfulness.
"Thank you," I say, taking the box without further comment. "Goodnight, Gage."
"Goodnight, Penelope."
A security guard waits in the hallway to escort me to my suite—another reminder that despite the evening's social facade, I remain a prisoner. In my rooms, Marta has laid out nightclothes and turned down the bed, the perfect service for the elegant captivity.
Once alone, I move through my evening routine mechanically, mind racing with new information from the dinner.
I check systematically for new surveillance devices—a habit formed since discovering the extent of monitoring in my previous suite. Finding none beyond the existing cameras, I prepare for bed, maintaining the appearance of routine while my mind continues its constant calculation.
The silk nightgown is another gift from Gage—expensive, tasteful. I slide between sheets with a thread count higher than I've slept in in years, surrounded by luxury while stripped of freedom.
Sleep eludes me. I stare at the ceiling, mapping our progress toward the wedding date. Six weeks has become four, each day bringing me closer to the permanent codification of my captivity. The prenuptial agreement waits for my signature—hundreds ofpages of legal language that essentially state I'll have nothing if I leave, everything if Gage dies.
An incentive for endurance, perhaps.
My thoughts betrays me with unbidden images: Gage's hand at the small of my back, the intensity of his gaze when he thinks I'm not looking, the undeniable physical presence of him when we're alone together.
Not attraction—I refuse to name it that. Simply awareness, the biological recognition of a physically imposing male in close proximity. Nothing more. Nothing that undermines my determination to escape this gilded prison.
Dawn breaks before I find real rest. When Marta arrives with breakfast, I'm already showered and dressed in clothing chosen to project cooperation. The day's performance begins anew—wedding planner at ten, doctor at one, another step toward the inevitable.
Except I refuse to believe it's inevitable. Somewhere in this meticulous facade, this careful prison, exists a weakness I haven't yet identified. Gage Blackwood is brilliant, thorough, and controlling—but he's also human. And humans make mistakes.
I will find his. I must.
The wedding planner arrives precisely at ten—Isabella Romano, a severe woman with impeccable credentials and a portfolio of society weddings that apparently justifies her astronomical fee. She treats me with the practiced deference of someone who believes I've chosen this match rather than being forced into it.
"Mr. Blackwood mentioned you have experience with floral design," she says as we review reception options. "While we'll use Valhalla Flowers for the primary arrangements, he thought you might want to create personal touches for certain elements."
The name stops me cold. Valhalla Flowers—the high-end design studio owned by Marcus Valhalla, my primary competitor and occasional nemesis in the Chicago floral scene. The deliberate slight can only be my father's doing; Gage is too strategic for such petty cruelty.
"I would prefer to handle all floral elements myself," I say, keeping my voice steady. "It's my area of expertise, after all."
Isabella's smile is professionally sympathetic. "Mr. Blackwood and your father have already contracted with Valhalla. The arrangements are quite spectacular—I can show you the preliminary designs."
Of course they have. Another small humiliation, another reminder of my powerlessness in this arrangement. I force a smile, continuing the performance.
"I'm sure they'll be lovely," I lie. "But I would still like to create personal elements—my bouquet, at minimum."
"I'll discuss it with Mr. Blackwood," she promises, making a note that I'm certain will disappear as soon as she leaves.
We continue reviewing details for an event I've had no real part in planning—venue (Blackwood Estate), guests (three hundred of Chicago's elite plus family), menu (elaborate and expensive), music (string quartet followed by twelve-piece orchestra). A society spectacle designed to cement the fiction of our relationship while publicly binding me to Gage Blackwood before I can find escape.
Dr. Fielding arrives promptly at one—a distinguished man in his sixties with the discreet manner of someone accustomed to handling sensitive medical matters for the wealthy. He sets up in a suite converted to a temporary examination room, complete with state-of-the-art equipment that would impress a hospital administrator.
"Miss Everett," he greets me formally. "Mr. Blackwood has requested a comprehensive health assessment as we approachyour wedding. Standard procedure for my high-profile patients planning families."
The presumption—that I will be bearing Blackwood heirs—hangs unspoken between us. I submit to the examination with outward calm, answering questions truthfully while maintaining emotional distance. Yes, I'm in good health. No, no significant medical history. Yes, regular menstrual cycles. No, no current sexual partners.
The thoroughness of the examination borders on invasive—blood drawn for extensive testing, gynecological exam conducted with clinical efficiency, detailed questions about reproductive history that make the purpose unmistakable. I am being assessed as breeding stock, my physical suitability for producing heirs evaluated with the same attention Gage gives to business acquisitions.
When Dr. Fielding completes his examination, his manner remains professionally neutral. "Everything appears excellent, Miss Everett. Pending lab results, I see no concerns regarding your health or fertility."
