CHAPTER 15
The garden pavilion gleams in late afternoon sunlight, white marble columns wrapped with climbing roses—a perfect pastoral fantasy conjured from Gage's limitless resources. I sit at a wrought iron table covered in fabric swatches, cake samples, and detailed itineraries, surrounded by the machinery of wedding planning grinding relentlessly toward the date circled in red on every calendar in the mansion: two weeks from Saturday.
Isabella Romano paces before me, tablet in hand, her Italian accent growing more pronounced with each moment of mounting frustration. "The flowers from Valhalla arrive Friday morning for arrangement, the string quartet begins at 4:30 precisely, and the chef requires final confirmation on the seafood selection by tomorrow." She pauses, manicured nail tapping against the screen. "Mr. Blackwood has approved all selections except the champagne, which he's upgraded to the '08 vintage."
I nod mechanically, playing my role in this elaborate production while my mind remains fixed on the prenuptial agreement delivered to my suite three nights ago.
"Miss Everett?" Isabella's voice breaks through my contemplation. "The guest seating? You mentioned wanting to review the arrangements?"
"Yes," I respond, focusing on the seating chart she extends. "My friends should be placed together, away from my father's associates."
The sound of approaching footsteps draws my attention. My mother appears on the garden path, her slender figure impeccably dressed as always, her expression a careful mask of polite interest that reveals nothing of her true thoughts.
"Mother," I say, rising from my seat with ingrained politeness rather than genuine warmth. "I didn't know you were visiting today."
"William thought I might be helpful with the final arrangements." She air-kisses my cheek, her perfume expensive and familiar. "Isabella, darling, would you mind giving us a moment? Family matters."
Isabella retreats with professional discretion, leaving me alone with the woman who stood by silently throughout my childhood while my father shaped our family through force of will and strategic manipulation.
"You look tired, Penelope." My mother sits gracefully, assessing me with a practiced eye. "The stress of wedding planning, I imagine. Though you seem to be leaving most decisions to professionals, which is wise. Your sister insisted on managing every detail herself and was quite overwrought by the end."
"Violet always did try too hard to please everyone," I observe, pouring tea from the silver service left by staff earlier. "How is she? Have you heard from her since the honeymoon?"
"They're extending their stay in the Maldives another week." She accepts the teacup with a nod. "And how are you finding your situation?" she asks, her voice lowered slightly thoughwe're clearly alone. "Gage Blackwood has a certain reputation in some circles. Effective in business, but not known for... warmth."
I study her carefully, searching for genuine concern beneath social pleasantries. "My situation is what Father arranged," I reply neutrally. "Mr. Blackwood has been precisely what one might expect, given the circumstances."
A flicker of something—regret? discomfort?—crosses her face before the polished mask returns. "Your father did what was necessary for the family. The arrangement with the Blackwoods prevented significant consequences that would have affected all of us, including you and your sister."
"So I've been repeatedly informed," I say, unable to entirely suppress the bitterness in my tone.
My mother sips her tea, gaze shifting to the elaborate pavilion being constructed at the far end of the garden. "The ceremony site is lovely. Understated elegance rather than ostentatious display. Mr. Blackwood has excellent taste."
"The taste was Isabella's," I correct. "Gage merely approves expenses."
"Nevertheless." She sets down her cup with practiced precision. "You might have fared worse, Penelope. There were other potential arrangements your father considered before the Blackwood option presented itself."
I lean forward, suddenly alert. "What other arrangements?"
She hesitates, clearly weighing discretion against disclosure. "Several possibilities were explored when you turned twenty-one. The Montgomerys initially expressed interest in a double connection—both their sons married to Everett daughters. When you... departed... negotiations shifted to alternative candidates."
"Who else?" I press, hungry for information that might provide context, leverage, understanding of my current situation.
"Martin Sullivan's youngest son," she replies after a moment. "The Russian consortium your father was courting for the Eastern expansion. And briefly, an arrangement with Judge Harrison's nephew, though that fell through when certain legal complications arose."
The casual way she lists these men—these potential owners who might have been assigned to me had circumstances unfolded differently—sends ice through my veins. Not just Gage, but any number of men might have pursued me, claimed me, owing to arrangements I never consented to.
"And you accepted this," I say quietly. "That your daughters could be traded like commodities to benefit Father's business interests."
Her expression hardens slightly. "I accepted the realities of the world we inhabit, Penelope. Women in our position have always made strategic marriages. My own was arranged by my father after the Sullivan merger fell through."
The revelation shouldn't surprise me, yet somehow it does. I've never heard her speak of her own marriage in these terms before.
"Did you ever regret it?" I ask, the question emerging before I can reconsider. "Marrying Father because it was arranged rather than chosen?"
"Regret serves no purpose when alternatives don't exist," she says finally. "I built a life within what was available to me. As will you."
"Mrs. Everett!" Isabella's voice breaks our momentary connection as she hurries back along the garden path. "Mr. Blackwood mentioned you wanted to review the place settings before final approval. I have the samples in my car."
