"Eighteen." He doesn't elaborate further, his gaze fixed on the violent weather outside.
The silence stretches between us, filled only by the storm's continued assault. I remain where I am, uncertain how to navigate this unexpected territory—authentic emotion rather than strategic interaction.
Without warning, Gage turns from the window and crosses to a small side table where crystal decanters stand in orderly arrangement. He pours himself a measure of amber liquid, downing it in a single swallow before pouring another.
"My mother died six months later," he says suddenly, his back still to me. "The official cause was pneumonia. The reality was that she'd lost the will to live once the immediate threat was removed. Years of terror had hollowed her from inside, leaving nothing but a fragile shell when freedom finally came."
He turns to face me, his expression more open than I've ever seen it. "So yes, Penelope, I understand captivity. I understand the psychological impact of controlled movement, of strategic fear, of power imbalance that cannot be overcome through direct confrontation."
I stare at him, thrown completely off balance by this unexpected revelation. "Then how can you justify?—"
"Because our situations are entirely different," he interrupts, voice hardening again. "You are not being beaten. You are not being terrorized. You are being held to a legal agreement made in good faith between consenting parties."
"I never consented," I remind him, though my voice lacks its earlier heat.
"Your father acted as your legal representative, as is his right under multiple contractual frameworks." He drains his seconddrink, setting the glass down with controlled precision. "The ethical complexity doesn't change the legal validity."
I move to the window, needing physical distance to process this shift in our interaction. The storm continues unabated, trees bending under fierce wind, rain sheeting across manicured grounds now turning to small rivers and pools.
"Your father used you as collateral," I say finally, turning back to face him. "Mine used me as currency. Neither considered us as people deserving agency in decisions affecting our entire lives."
Gages expression flickers with recognition. For a brief moment, I glimpse vulnerability beneath his carefully constructed armor.
"The difference," he says after a long pause, "is that I'm offering you partnership, not subjugation through violence. Your father would have drugged you into compliance if I permitted it."
The storm reaches crescendo outside, a particularly violent lightning strike followed immediately by thunder that seems to shake the very foundation of the house. The lights flicker once, twice, then stabilize as backup systems engage seamlessly.
Gage moves suddenly, crossing to his desk and slamming his fist down with unexpected violence. The heavy wooden surface absorbs the impact, but several items jump from the force—a pen rolling to the floor, papers scattering slightly.
The physical display startles me, so different from his usual controlled demeanor. I take an instinctive step back, uncertainty replacing anger as primary emotion.
"I won't become my father," he says, voice low and intense. "I won't use violence to control. I won't create terror." He looks up, meeting my gaze directly. "But I will maintain this arrangement, Penelope. I will honor the agreement with your father. Iwill marry you as scheduled, regardless of your continued resistance."
The raw determination in his voice carries absolute conviction.
"Are you done pretending you're not mine?" he asks, his voice dropping to dangerous softness. "Because I'm tired of pretending I don't already own every part of you."
"I'll never be yours," I say, but the declaration lacks conviction.
Gage straightens, control returning to his posture as the momentary emotional break recedes. "Willingness is a spectrum rather than absolute state," he observes, his philosophical distance reasserting itself. "You’ll change your mind. The storm is intensifying," he notes with a change of subject, glancing toward the window. "The meteorological service predicts potential flooding along the river boundary. I need to check security protocols for the southern property."
The abrupt shift to practical matters creates conversational whiplash, but I recognize it as his method of regaining equilibrium after unexpected emotional display.
"Of course," I say, accepting the subject change. "I should let you work."
I move toward the door, my mind still processing the revelations and intensity of our confrontation. Before I can exit, his voice stops me.
"Penelope." He waits until I turn back to face him. "The prenuptial documents will be delivered to your suite this evening, as promised. You'll have three days to review before signing is required."
I nod.
"And the kiss won't be repeated without your explicit permission," he adds, his tone neutral but his gaze intense."Physical boundaries will be respected until our wedding night, after which negotiation may be required."
"Thank you for the temporary consideration," I reply, unable to entirely suppress the sarcasm in my tone.
His expression doesn't change.
I leave without further comment, closing the door quietly behind me. In the hallway, I pause, breathless from the emotional intensity of the confrontation.
