"Come in," I call, not turning from the window.
"Penelope."
Gage's voice. I turn slowly, finding him standing just inside the doorway, dressed casually in dark slacks and a charcoalsweater. His expression carries something I haven't seen before—concern, perhaps, or uncertainty.
"You missed yesterday's menu tasting," he says, stepping further into the room. "And the final review with the orchestra. Isabella mentioned you've been difficult to reach for decisions requiring your input."
I shrug slightly. "The chef knows his business. The orchestra will play what they play. My presence changes nothing about the outcomes."
He studies me, his usual calculating assessment now mixed with something else. "You've lost weight. Marta reports minimal food consumption for several days."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're not sleeping either, according to household staff. Lights in your suite remain on throughout the night."
I turn back to the window, watching the steady rain. "Is my insomnia interfering with wedding preparations?"
He doesn't respond immediately, and I hear him move further into the room, stopping several feet behind me. "Your physical wellbeing concerns me, Penelope."
"How touching," I murmur, the words lacking their usual bite. I simply don't have the energy for sarcasm anymore.
"Look at me," he says quietly.
I don't move, continuing to stare at the rain.
"Penelope." His voice carries unexpected gentleness. "Please look at me."
Something in his tone penetrates my fog. I turn slowly, meeting his gaze without really seeing him.
He frowns, studying me with growing concern. "This isn't what I wanted."
"No?" I ask tonelessly. "I've stopped fighting. Stopped arguing. Signed your documents. Attend your events. Standwhere I'm told, wear what's selected, speak the approved phrases. Isn't that precisely what you required?"
"I wanted partnership with a woman of intelligence and spirit," he says, stepping closer. "Not a hollow performance from someone sleepwalking through her existence."
A distant part of me recognizes the irony of his complaint. This very outcome was what I had warned him about—breaking my will would destroy the very qualities he claimed to value. But even that recognition feels remote because it just didn’t matter anymore.
"You get what you paid for," I reply flatly.
He reaches out suddenly, taking my hand in his. I let him, feeling nothing at the contact beyond distant awareness of his warmth against my cold fingers.
"Your hands are freezing," he says, genuine concern crossing his features. "How long have you been standing at this window?"
I consider the question, realizing I have no idea. Time has become increasingly meaningless, hours blending into one another without clear distinction. "I don't know."
His frown deepens. "This isn't acceptable, Penelope."
"What isn't? My failure to pretend? I’m sorry I’m not performing to standard."
He turns away, pacing the length of my suite with uncharacteristic restlessness. "This situation isn't productive for either of us."
"Productive," I echo. Another business assessment, measuring my value against expected returns. "Perhaps you should return me for a refund. Clearly the merchandise is defective."
He stops pacing, turning to face me with unexpected intensity. "Enough. This self-destructive spiral benefits no one, least of all yourself."
"Benefits," I murmur. "Tell me, what benefits should I expect from our arrangement? What advantages justify my captivity?"
"Financial security. Social position. Protection from your father's misguided control. Professional continuation of your business. Future children with every advantage?—"
