"The prenuptial agreement protects you as well," Gage says after a moment of silence. "Financial security regardless of future circumstances. Professional independence within reasonable parameters. Clear expectations rather than unpredictable demands."
"A beautiful description of captivity," I reply, too drained for anger. "Clear expectations for my cage dimensions."
He studies me, his expression thoughtful rather than triumphant. "You signed with a steady hand, Penelope. No hesitation on the final pages. Whatever emotional resistance you maintain, your practical mind has accepted reality."
"My practical mind recognizes the absence of viable alternatives," I correct. "Acceptance implies agreement with the underlying premise."
"A semantic distinction without practical difference." He rises, gathering his phone and tablet. "Our engagement is formalized with tonight's signing. The wedding proceeds in thirteen days, with final preparations accelerating accordingly."
I stand as well, needing physical movement to offset the emotional numbness spreading through me. "What happens now?"
"Dinner at Astor Club with Judge Harrison and his daughter. A public appearance celebrating our recent engagement." He checks his watch. "The car departs in ninety minutes. Marta has prepared appropriate attire in your suite."
Of course, straight to public performance as the delighted fiancée.
"And if I prefer to remain at the estate tonight?"
His expression softens marginally. "Tonight's appearance is optional if you genuinely need time to process. The Harrisons would understand a rescheduled engagement."
The unexpected flexibility catches me off guard. "I thought every public appearance was mandatory. Part of our 'arrangement.'"
"Most are," he confirms. "But mental wellbeing factors into effective partnership. If you require private processing time, that's a reasonable accommodation."
We leave the conference room together, walking in silence to the elevator that will return us to the ground floor where Victor waits with the car. As we descend, I watch Chicago's skyline through the glass elevator walls, the city seemingly remote from my current reality despite its physical proximity.
"Thirteen days," I say quietly, more to myself than to Gage.
"Yes," he confirms. "Thirteen days until our wedding."
The elevator reaches the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the building's marble lobby. Gage places his hand at the small of my back as we cross toward the exit where Victor waits beside the car.
I've signed away my independence with steady hands and clear eyes.
Thirteen days to prepare for whatever comes next.
CHAPTER 17
Days blend together after signing the prenuptial agreement, the mansion's rhythms becoming a fog through which I move without fully engaging. I attend fittings for my wedding dress—ivory silk with delicate beading, objectively beautiful though I view it with detachment. I review final floral arrangements, approve menu selections, and stand for jewelry consultations. I speak when spoken to, nod when expected, sign documents placed before me, all while feeling increasingly disconnected from my own body.
Eleven days until the wedding becomes nine, then seven, the countdown proceeding with mechanical precision while I retreat further inside myself.
"You've barely touched your breakfast," Marta observes on a rain-streaked morning, concern evident in her usually professional demeanor. "Should I have the kitchen prepare something different, Miss Everett?"
I stare at the untouched eggs and fresh fruit, having forgotten they were even there. "No, thank you. I'm just not hungry this morning."
"You weren't hungry yesterday either," she notes, removing the tray with practiced efficiency. "Or the day before. Mr. Blackwood has asked to be informed of your wellbeing."
Of course he has. My body is now his investment, my health a business concern like any other asset requiring maintenance.
"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just wedding preparations consuming my appetite."
Marta doesn't believe me—her expression makes that clear—but she nods and withdraws, leaving me alone in my suite. I move to the window, watching raindrops trace patterns down the glass, each following an inevitable path determined by forces beyond its control.
The garden below stands empty, usually bustling staff kept inside by the downpour. Wedding preparations continue regardless, the pavilion now covered with temporary structures protecting elaborate floral installations from the weather. The empty chairs waiting for guests, the ceremonial arch where vows will be exchanged, the reception tables with perfect place settings—all proceed toward completion without requiring my presence or input.
I've stopped fighting. Stopped arguing. Stopped challenging Gage's authority or questioning arrangements. The prenuptial signing broke something in me, the physical manifestation of my captivity too concrete to deny. What's the point of resistance when every aspect of my future has been documented in triplicate, signed and notarized, locked in a vault with copies distributed to relevant parties?
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Not Marta's usual discrete tap, but something more authoritative.
