I turn from the window to face him directly, my patience for his justifications thoroughly exhausted. "I didn't come here to debate abstract concepts of free will. I came to discuss practical matters."
"Which would be?"
"The prenuptial agreement. The wedding date. My continued imprisonment in this house." I move toward his desk, intentionally invading the space he considers his domain. "You promised transparency regarding our arrangement. I've demonstrated sufficient compliance to earn that much."
Gage leans back in his chair, studying me with that assessing gaze I've come to recognize. "Your compliance has been performative rather than genuine. We both know that."
"And your transparency has been selective rather than complete," I counter. "We both know that too."
A slight smile touches his lips, almost appreciative of my directness. "Very well. Which aspect of our arrangement requires immediate clarification?"
"The legal framework. I want to review the complete prenuptial agreement, not just the summary your attorneys provided."
"That can be arranged," he says easily, making a note on his tablet. "The documents will be delivered this evening."
"I want to consult with independent legal counsel before signing."
His expression hardens slightly. "That won't be possible. The sensitive nature of certain clauses precludes outside review."
"Then I won't sign."
"Then you won't marry me," he replies calmly. "And your father's legal protection will be withdrawn, with consequences we've already thoroughly discussed."
We stare at each other across the desk, the fundamental reality of our situation stark between us. No matter what small concessions he might grant, the core dynamic remains unchanged—I am here because the alternative consequences are unacceptable.
Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the office in stark white light. Thunder follows almost immediately, the storm no longer approaching but arrived in full force.
Rain begins to lash against the windows, driven by increasing wind.
"Your father called this morning," Gage says, changing the subject with deliberate precision. "He's displeased with certain arrangements for our wedding. Specifically, your insistence on creating your own bridal bouquet rather than using Valhalla's designs."
"My bouquet is the one element of this farce I should control," I reply, irritation flaring at my father's continued interference. "Flowers are my profession, my passion. Even prisoners on death row get a last meal of their choosing."
"Dramatic comparisons don't strengthen your position, Penelope." His tone remains even, unaffected by my growing anger. "I've already informed William that floral decisions remain your domain. The matter is settled."
The unexpected support catches me off guard. "Thank you," I say automatically, then immediately regret showing gratitude for what should be a basic right.
Gage returns to his work, apparently considering the conversation concluded.
I remain standing, frustration building at his ability to control not just my physical circumstances but the very flow of our interactions.
"The kiss," I say abruptly, the words escaping before I can reconsider. "Was that another strategic move to break my resistance?"
His fingers freeze above the keyboard, his expression shifting to something more guarded. "No."
"No explanation? Just 'no'?"
"The kiss was not strategic," he clarifies, his voice cooler now. "It was impulsive. A mistake in judgment that won't be repeated."
"You don't make impulsive mistakes," I challenge, moving closer to his desk. "Every action serves your objectives. Every interaction advances your agenda."
"You overestimate my calculation and underestimate human nature," he replies, rising from his chair as if unwilling to continue this conversation at a physical disadvantage. "Even the most disciplined minds have moments of impulse."
"And what impulse led you to kiss your prisoner?" I press, deliberately provocative. "Possession? Control? Or simply boredom with your usual games?"
His expression darkens, that dangerous edge I've glimpsed occasionally now more visible beneath his controlled exterior. "You're not a prisoner, Penelope. You're my fiancée."
"Fiancée implies consent," I argue, voice rising to match the storm's intensity outside. "What you have is ownership, purchased from my father like medieval property transfer."
