"Penelope has been focused on her career in New York," he replies smoothly, the practiced fiction rolling off his tongue. "We've kept our relationship private while navigating the complexities of merging our lives."
"Well, I'm thrilled you've finally found someone worthy of bringing into the fold," she continues, patting my hand with genuine warmth. "After that business with Eliza, we were beginning to worry."
Gage's expression doesn't change, but I note the slight tensing of his shoulders.
"Eliza and I had different priorities," he says diplomatically. "Penelope and I share fundamental values."
Shared values. I refrain from snorting and instead smile and sip my wine.
The evening concludes with promises of future engagements, contact information exchanged, the social infrastructure of our public fiction further solidified. In the car returning to the estate, Gage reviews the evening's successes.
"Zhang is interested in the Singapore project," he notes, scrolling through messages on his phone. "Your conversation with Adelaide about Japanese minimalism was particularly effective—they recently acquired a significant collection from Kyoto."
"I wasn't aware I was responsible for business development during dinner," I observe, removing my earrings.
"Everything is business development, Penelope. Social connections merely provide more pleasant contexts than conference rooms." He glances up from his phone. "You performed exceptionally well. The Zhangs were impressed, as were the Kowalskis and Senator Morrison."
The careful praise—always framed as performance assessment rather than genuine appreciation. Always reminding me of my role in his strategic operations.
"Adelaide mentioned Eliza again," I note casually. "That's twice in two days that her name has surfaced. She seems to have made quite an impression on your social circle."
His expression doesn't change, but his hand stills on his phone. "Eliza attended several social functions during our brief connection. People remember what they choose to remember."
"And what should I remember about your 'brief connection'?" I press. "Since it seems to be common knowledge I'm expected to possess."
He studies me for a moment. "Eliza Winters was a political consultant I met through mutual connections. We had a relationship that lasted approximately four months before concluding amicably when our professional paths diverged.She subsequently accepted a position in Washington. There's nothing more to remember."
The precision of the statement suggests careful editing.
"And was she also kept under surveillance? Tracked? Monitored?" The questions slip out before I can censor them.
Gage's expression hardens slightly. "Eliza's circumstances were entirely different from yours, Penelope. She wasn't part of a formal arrangement. She wasn't attempting to escape legal obligations. The comparison is irrelevant."
"Yet it seems to be the comparison everyone makes," I observe. "Perhaps because they don't know the truth of our 'connection'."
"No one knows the complete truth of any connection," he replies, his voice cooling to professional detachment. "Public narratives serve their purpose. Private realities serve theirs."
We lapse into silence for the remainder of the drive. When we arrive at the estate, Gage walks me to my suite as has become our routine—the perfect gentleman escorting his fiancée, for the benefit of any watching staff.
At my door, he pauses. "The doctor's preliminary report arrived during dinner. You're in excellent health, as expected."
The clinical assessment, delivered like a business update. I resist the urge to ask if I've passed inspection.
"Good night, Gage." I open my door, ready to escape the performance.
"One more thing." He removes an envelope from his jacket. "Your sister's wedding invitation arrived today. I've arranged for us to attend together, of course."
Violet's wedding. I'd almost forgotten my sister's approaching nuptials to Charles Montgomery III—the society wedding of the season, occurring just weeks before my own arranged ceremony.
"When?" I ask, taking the heavy cream envelope.
"Three weeks from Saturday. I've cleared my schedule." He studies my reaction. "I thought you'd want to be present for your sister's celebration, despite the complexities of your family situation."
"Thank you," I say, meaning it despite myself. "I would like to attend."
He nods, apparently satisfied with my response. "Good night, Penelope."
When he's gone, I open the invitation—heavy card stock, elaborate calligraphy, the full society production expected of a Montgomery-Everett union.
