"Yet you expect it eventually. Thank you for lunch," I say changing the subject before giving him a chance to respond.
"Penelope," he calls as I turn to leave. "Dr. Fielding remains available should your condition not improve."
The warning is clear—perform adequately or face medical intervention.
That evening, I force myself to eat a small dinner, to prepare properly for sleep, to maintain at least the appearance of functionality. When I finally lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as has become my habit, I'm surprised when exhaustion actually pulls me toward unconsciousness.
Just before sleep claims me, I become aware of a presence in the room. Opening heavy eyelids, I find Gage seated in the chair near the window, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the clouds. He doesn't speak, doesn't approach, simply maintains quiet vigil as if guarding against the demons that have kept me awake for days.
I should feel violated by his uninvited presence, should demand he leave my private space. Instead, I feel only a strange relief that I'm not alone with my thoughts for the first time in days.
"You don't need to stay," I murmur, voice thick with approaching sleep.
"I know," he replies softly. "Sleep, Penelope. I'll be here."
The simple statement carries unexpected comfort, though I'd never admit it aloud. I close my eyes, surrendering to exhaustion, dimly aware of his continued presence as consciousness fades.
When I wake hours later, he's gone, the chair empty, the room bathed in early morning light. For the first time in days, I've slept through the night without interruption.
A note rests on the bedside table, Gage's precise handwriting unmistakable:
Progress, not perfection. One day at a time. -G
I stare at the note, trying to reconcile this small kindness with the man who orchestrated my captivity, who maintains my gilded cage with meticulous attention.
Seven days until the wedding. Seven days to rebuild enough strength to face whatever comes next.
I rise from bed, moving to the window where rain has finally given way to timid sunshine. The garden below hums with renewed activity, staff making up for weather delays, wedding preparations proceeding with military precision.
Seven days.
CHAPTER 18
"Alittle higher on the left, please."
I stand perfectly still as two tailors make final adjustments to my wedding gown, their fingers moving with practiced precision around the bodice. The dress is objectively stunning—ivory silk with hand-embroidered beading that catches the light with every breath, a tasteful train that will trail elegantly down the aisle, custom-designed to complement my copper hair and fair complexion.
Three days until the wedding. Three days until I walk down the aisle toward Gage Blackwood, speak vows I don't mean, and legally formalize my captivity.
"What do you think, Miss Everett?" the head seamstress asks, stepping back to assess her work. "Is the fit to your liking?"
I study my reflection in the three-way mirror without expression. The woman staring back is beautiful in an ethereal, untouchable way—polished and perfect and utterly empty. "The fit is fine."
"Just 'fine'?" Isabella interjects from her position near the window, tablet in hand as always. "Angelique has created a masterpiece, Penelope. This gown is exclusive couture that brides would kill for."
"It's exquisite," I amend, giving the seamstress the response she deserves for her evident skill. "The beadwork is remarkable."
Angelique beams, professional pride momentarily overriding concern about my obvious detachment. "We've incorporated the pearl accents Mr. Blackwood requested. They complement the silk perfectly."
Of course Gage had input on my wedding dress. Another detail selected and approved, another aspect of my presentation carefully managed.
The door opens, and my mother glides in, immaculate as always in a pale blue suit that likely cost more than most people's monthly salary. Her critical gaze scans the dress, my posture, the room's arrangements in one comprehensive sweep.
"The neckline is perfection," she declares, circling me like a curator assessing a new acquisition. "Much more appropriate than the original sketch. And the train length is precisely correct for the venue."
"Mrs. Everett was concerned about the silhouette," Isabella explains to me, "but Mr. Blackwood insisted on retaining your preference for the modified A-line."
I'd forgotten expressing a preference about the dress silhouette weeks ago, back when I still believed my input might matter.
