"Stop," I interrupt, the mention of children finally penetrating my emotional distance. "Don't speak of children as if they're another business asset to be acquired and managed."
He studies me for a moment. "Children would be loved, Penelope. Whatever you believe about my capacity for emotion, I wouldn't repeat my father's failures with my own offspring."
The statement carries unexpected vulnerability, catching me off guard. Before I can respond, he continues:
"This current state is unsustainable. You require intervention."
Alarm flickers through my fog. "What kind of intervention?"
"I'm bringing in Dr. Fielding this afternoon," he says, reaching for his phone. "Your physical decline warrants medical attention."
"No." The word emerges sharper than anything I've said in days. "No doctors with their convenient diagnoses and prescribed drugs."
He pauses, watching my sudden animation with interest. "Your objection is noted but overruled. Your health supersedes your preferences at this point."
"My health is fine," I insist, moving away from the window for the first time. "I'm not ill. Surely even you can understand the emotional impact of signing away one's freedom."
"Processing doesn't involve physical deterioration," he counters, though he returns his phone to his pocket. Your father has already suggested pharmaceutical approaches to ensure appropriate behavior through the wedding and beyond.I've resisted that path, but continued deterioration leaves fewer options."
The threat of medication sends a chill through me that penetrates even my emotional withdrawal. My father would indeed have me drugged into smiling submission if given the opportunity.
"Fine," I concede. "I'll eat. I'll sleep. I'll speak in complete sentences."
"It's a beginning," he says, apparently satisfied with even this minimal concession. "Join me for lunch in the conservatory. One hour."
When he's gone, I sink onto the edge of the bed, temporary energy fading as quickly as it appeared. Marta returns thirty minutes later, drawing a bath without being asked, laying out fresh clothing with quiet efficiency.
"Mr. Blackwood mentioned you'll be joining him for lunch," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "Would you like assistance with your hair?"
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the hollow-eyed woman staring back. My copper hair hangs limp and dull, my skin pale from lack of proper nutrition, dark circles emphasizing the emptiness in my gaze.
"Yes," I say finally. "Thank you, Marta."
The small kindness in her expression nearly breaks me. I turn away quickly, focusing on the practical tasks of washing, dressing, making myself presentable. By the time I've finished, I look more like myself on the surface, though the emptiness remains beneath the carefully applied makeup and styled hair.
The conservatory glows with diffused light despite the continued rain, glass walls amplifying what little sunshine breaks through the clouds. Gage waits beside a small table set for lunch, rising when I enter. His expression reveals nothing of his thoughts as he assesses my improved appearance.
"You look better," he says simply, holding a chair for me.
I sit, noting the simple meal prepared—soup, bread, fruit without excessive richness that might overwhelm a system accustomed to minimal intake. A surprisingly thoughtful selection.
"I still don't have much appetite," I warn him, unfolding my napkin with mechanical politeness.
"Eat what you can," he replies, taking his own seat.
We eat in silence for several minutes, the quiet broken only by the sound of rain against the glass ceiling. Finally, I speak.
"Seven days," I say.
He glances up. "Until the wedding. Yes."
"What happens after?"
He considers the question, setting down his spoon. "Practically speaking, we depart for a two-week honeymoon in the Paris. Privately secluded villa, staff minimized for discretion. Upon return, we begin establishing regular routines—your continued work with Wildflower, my business operations, gradual integration of separate activities into shared life."
I manage a few more spoonfuls of soup, the first real sustenance I've consumed in days. "And physical expectations? The prenup mentioned 'reasonable intimacy' with particularly vague language."
"Physical intimacy will develop at an appropriate pace following the wedding. I have no interest in unwilling participation, Penelope."
