"I look forward to seeing it." He straightens, professional distance returning to his posture. "I have meetings for the remainder of the day. We'll review final details for Violet's wedding at dinner."
I nod, expecting him to depart immediately as is his usual practice when concluding an interaction. Instead, he remains for a moment, seeming almost hesitant—an unprecedented break in his typically decisive movements.
"The flowers you arranged last week," he says finally. "The ones for the dining room. They lasted longer than expected. Mrs. Henderson commented on their remarkable resilience."
The comment surprises me. "Proper cutting techniques and water treatments extend bloom life significantly," I explain. "It'sa matter of understanding what each variety needs to thrive despite being separated from its natural environment."
"Adaptation to changed circumstances," he observes. "A valuable skill in many contexts."
Before I can respond, he reaches out unexpectedly, his fingers gently brushing a strand of copper hair from my face. The touch is light, almost tender—I freeze in surprise.
"You had a leaf," he explains, showing me the small green fragment on his fingertip.
Our eyes meet, and the atmosphere between us shifts—a current of awareness that transcends our carefully maintained roles of captor and captive. His gaze drops briefly to my lips, and I find myself unable to move, caught in a moment.
Without warning, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is gentle, questioning rather than demanding, entirely unlike the forceful possession I might have expected. My body responds before my mind can intervene—an involuntary softening, a traitorous warmth spreading through my veins.
The contact lasts only seconds before I regain control, pulling back sharply and striking out without conscious thought. My palm connects with his cheek in a resounding slap that echoes through the conservatory.
Gage doesn't react with anger as I expect. He simply takes a step back, his expression unreadable as he accepts the rejection without retaliation.
"I apologize," he says formally, the brief moment of vulnerability already concealed behind his usual controlled facade. "That was presumptuous."
My hand tingles from the impact, my pulse racing with confusion and unwanted awareness. "Don't touch me like that again," I manage, hating the slight tremor in my voice.
He nods once, accepting the boundary without argument. "Dinner at seven," he says simply, then turns and walks away, leaving me trembling among the flowers.
When he's gone, I press my fingers to my lips, trying to understand my own reaction. The hatred I feel is directed not at him in this moment, but at myself—at the brief but undeniable response my body had to his touch. The physiological betrayal feels more threatening than any restriction he's placed upon me.
This is dangerous territory—far more perilous than surveillance systems or locked doors. If my body begins to respond to him, to find comfort or pleasure in his presence, how long before my mind begins to rationalize, to adapt, to accept?
I turn back to my flowers, forcing my hands to steady as I make final adjustments to the arrangement. The white rose at the center seems to mock me now—purity surrounded by darkness, innocence gradually corrupted by its environment.
No. I refuse that narrative. My body may react, but my will remains my own.
I straighten my spine, deliberately wiping all trace of his touch from my lips.
It won't work. I won't allow it to work.
CHAPTER 14
Thunder rumbles in the distance, an approaching storm matching my turbulent mood.
I stand at the window of Gage's office, watching dark clouds roll across the horizon, heavy with the promise of rain. Behind me, Gage works at his desk, the steady click of his keyboard providing counterpoint to the growing atmospheric tension.
Three days have passed since the kiss in the conservatory. Three days of careful avoidance, of conversations limited to necessary topics, of maintaining physical distance whenever possible. We attended Violet's wedding together yesterday—the perfect engaged couple in public, silent strangers in private.
The wedding itself had been exactly as expected—opulent, meticulously orchestrated, a society spectacle rather than genuine celebration. Violet had looked beautiful and trapped, her smile never quite reaching her eyes as she pledged herself to Charles Montgomery III beside the altar of St. Margaret's Cathedral.
"You're quiet," Gage observes without looking up from his work. "Still processing your sister's wedding?"
I continue staring at the approaching storm. "Wondering if she feels as captive as I do."
"Your sister's arrangement differs significantly from ours," he replies, his tone matter-of-fact. "The Montgomerys have cultivated that connection since Violet was a child. She's been prepared for her role, accepts its parameters."
"Acceptance born of lifelong conditioning isn't genuine choice."
"Few choices in life are entirely free of external influence or constraint." His keyboard falls silent as he gives me his full attention. "You may find that perspective unsatisfying, I realize. But it remains reality regardless."
