"So I'm to be a decorative accessory with no personal style or expression."
"You're to be a partner whose appearance reflects mutual interests rather than individual impulses," he corrects. "The provision doesn't dictate day-to-day private choices, only public-facing presentation."
My father checks his watch with obvious impatience. "This review has extended well beyond reasonable timeframes. The wedding date approaches, and numerous arrangements remain pending. Penelope should sign now."
"I haven't finished reading," I reply, not looking up from the document.
"Reading changes nothing about the outcome," my father says dismissively. "Your signature is required regardless of your opinion on specific provisions."
"Nevertheless, she'll read as much as she wishes before signing," Gage states with that same quiet authority that somehow silences my father more effectively than shouting ever could.
I continue reading for another forty minutes, finding provisions regarding everything from medical decisions to approved social connections to protocols for family holidays.My entire existence mapped out in legal language, my cage constructed of paragraphs and subclauses.
Finally, I close the document, looking directly at Gage. "If I refuse to sign, what happens?"
"You know the answer to that question," he replies evenly. "Your father's legal protection would be withdrawn. Criminal charges would proceed. Wildflower would lose its operational support and location. Your sister's marriage would face complications from the resulting scandal."
"This is ridiculous," my father interrupts. "She has no choice but to sign. This performative resistance wastes everyone's time."
Gage ignores him, his gaze steady on mine. "The prenuptial agreement provides security and clarity, Penelope. The alternative benefits no one, yourself included."
I stare at the document, the physical manifestation of my captivity, the legal framework disguising ownership as marriage. Pages of provisions and requirements, of restrictions and expectations, all wrapped in language of partnership that means nothing when one party cannot walk away.
"Do you have a pen?" I ask finally.
Geller produces a heavy fountain pen, placing it beside the document. "Initial the bottom of each page, then sign where indicated by the tabs."
I take the pen, its weight substantial in my hand. "No changes to any provisions? No negotiation at all?"
"The time for negotiation has passed," my father snaps. "Sign the document, Penelope."
Gage studies me for a long moment. "The residence requirement will be reduced to two hundred and fifty days as discussed. The business expansion approval process will include predetermined parameters for certain categories of growth. Those amendments can be formalized in an addendum."
Minimal concessions that change nothing fundamental about my situation, yet the willingness to adjust any terms at all seems significant in context.
I begin initialing pages, the repetitive motion almost meditative. Page after page of legal language, each one another bar in my gilded cage. When I reach the signature pages, I pause, pen hovering above the line.
"Once signed, this document is legally binding," Geller reminds me unnecessarily. "Your signature represents informed consent to all provisions contained herein."
Informed consent. As if anything about this arrangement involves genuine choice or consent.
I sign my name on the first indicated line—Penelope Arabella Everett—the familiar loops and curves of my signature a strange contrast to the sterile legal document beneath. I continue signing where indicated, each signature another lock clicking into place around my life.
When I finish the final signature, I set down the pen and look directly at Gage. "I will never forgive you."
He meets my gaze without flinching. "I don't need your forgiveness, Penelope. Only your compliance."
My father rises, straightening his jacket with an expression of satisfied completion. "That concludes this matter. I'll expect confirmation of the remaining wedding arrangements by Monday."
"My office will send updates as scheduled," Gage replies, his tone professionally neutral. "Victor will see you out, William."
As if summoned by his name, Victor appears at the door, ready to escort my father from the conference room. My father departs without a backward glance, his purpose accomplished, his daughter's future secured as a business asset rather than an independent being.
Geller efficiently gathers the signed documents, placing them in a leather portfolio. "I'll have copies prepared for your records, Miss Everett. The originals will be secured in our vault."
"Thank you, Lawrence," Gage says, the dismissal clear in his tone. "That will be all for today."
When Geller departs, I remain seated, suddenly exhausted by the hours of reading legal provisions designed to contain every aspect of my existence.
