My mother rises, social mask firmly back in place. "Of course, Isabella. Proper presentation is essential." She glances back at me. "We'll continue our conversation another time, Penelope. Perhaps at the final dress fitting on Thursday."
I watch her follow Isabella toward the house, her slender figure the perfect picture of society wifehood—elegant, appropriate, contained within boundaries established by men. Is this my future?
I rise, abandoning the wedding preparations to walk toward the southern edge of the property.
Guards track my progress discreetly, maintaining prescribed distance while ensuring I remain within authorized boundaries.
The pavilion where the wedding ceremony will take place looms ahead, workers constructing elaborate floral arbors under the direction of Marcus Valhalla himself, imported from New York to ensure perfect execution. He spots me approaching and excuses himself from his team, moving to intercept me with professional courtesy masking obvious curiosity.
"Miss Everett," he greets me, extending his hand. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after hearing so much about your work."
I accept the handshake automatically, years of social training overriding personal feelings. "Mr. Valhalla. Your reputation precedes you as well."
"Your father mentioned you might have opinions regarding the ceremonial arrangements," he says, gesture encompassing the elaborate structures taking shape around us. "Though Mr. Blackwood assured me I had complete creative discretion."
Another subtle reminder of my position, my lack of true agency in this arrangement.
"I'm creating my own bouquet," I say. "The rest is yours to design as contracted."
Marcus studies me with undisguised curiosity. "An unusual choice for a bride in your position. Most women with your resources would prefer to remain hands-off, especially with the ceremony so near."
"I'm a floral designer myself, Mr. Valhalla," I remind him, unable to disguise my irritation. "Flowers are my profession, not merely decorative elements."
"Of course," he backtracks smoothly. "Wildflower has quite the reputation for innovative arrangements. Small but distinctive."
The condescension in his tone is subtle but unmistakable—his operation employs dozens across multiple locations, while mine occupies a single storefront with two employees.
"Would you like to review the structural concepts?" he offers, gesturing toward elaborate design boards nearby. "Mr. Blackwood approved the final vision last week, but modifications might still be possible for certain elements."
"That won't be necessary," I decline, unwilling to participate in this particular humiliation. "I'm sure your work will be exemplary."
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. "Miss Everett—I hope you don't consider this inappropriate, but I've always admired your centerpiece design from the Goldberg wedding last spring.”
The unexpected professional acknowledgment catches me off guard. "Thank you. That was a challenging commission."
"I heard rumors you might be expanding Wildflower's operations before your... engagement." He carefully phrases. "The industry would benefit from your continued creative input, regardless of your new position."
Before I can respond, a familiar voice interrupts. "Mr. Valhalla. I see you've met my fiancée."
Gage approaches from the main house, his expression pleasant but eyes watchful as he assesses our interaction. Hewears a charcoal suit despite the informal garden setting, every inch the controlling executive.
"Mr. Blackwood," Marcus responds with immediate deference. "I was just complimenting Miss Everett on her previous design work. Her reputation in the industry is quite impressive."
"Indeed," Gage agrees, his hand settling at the small of my back. "Penelope's talent is exceptional. One reason I've ensured Wildflower continues operations despite our impending marriage."
The proprietary tone—claiming credit for "allowing" my business to exist—sends heat flaring through me.
"I should return to the preparation meetings," I say, glancing toward the main house. "Isabella and my mother are reviewing place settings."
"Actually," Gage counters smoothly, "your mother has departed. An appointment with her interior designer couldn't be rescheduled." He turns to Marcus with practiced social grace. "You'll excuse us, Mr. Valhalla? There are wedding matters requiring private discussion."
Marcus withdraws with professional efficiency, leaving me alone with Gage amid partially constructed wedding scenery—a fitting metaphor for our situation.
"Your mother seemed distressed," Gage observes once we're alone. "Your conversation must have contributed to it."
"She was sharing historical context I found illuminating," I reply carefully. "Apparently I was nearly traded to several other potential husbands despite your arrangement with my father."
Gage looks satisfied at having secured the arrangement himself. "William explored multiple options before our agreement was finalized. The Montgomerys were particularly persistent."
