The previous evening, Gage had unexpectedly visited while I worked with the flowers, silently observing my selection of blooms for several minutes before speaking.
"Not using any black dahlias?" he'd asked, noting the white and pale blue flowers I'd selected.
"No," I'd replied, trimming a stem with precise cuts. "They wouldn't photograph well with the dress."
He'd nodded, accepting my practical explanation without pressing for the deeper truth—that I couldn't bear to include the dark blooms, couldn't allow them to touch my skin during the ceremony that would formalize my captivity.
"The bouquet is smaller than I expected," he'd observed, moving closer to examine my work.
"It's not finished. The final design will be appropriately scaled." I'd continued working, refusing to be distracted by his presence.
He'd watched for several more minutes, then departed without further comment. White roses for endurance. Thistle for independence and strength. Ivy for resilience. Small personal meanings woven into the arrangement I would carry down the aisle.
Now, as I walk through the quiet mansion toward the kitchen, I pass staff members preparing for the influx of wedding guests expected to begin arriving tomorrow. Additional security teams coordinate with Victor near the main entrance, reviewing protocols for the high-profile attendees. Florists from Valhalla consult with housekeeping about placement of arrangements being delivered throughout the day.
In the kitchen, I find Mrs. Henderson overseeing the preparation of lunch, her efficiency managing the controlled chaos of multiple culinary teams working simultaneously.
"Miss Everett," she greets me with practiced warmth. "You're just in time. I was about to send a tray to your suite."
"I thought I'd eat here today," I reply, suddenly unwilling to return to the wedding command center my rooms have become. "If that's not inconvenient."
"Of course not." She gestures toward a small table in the corner where staff sometimes take their breaks. "I'll have something brought right over."
I sit at the simple wooden table, watching the kitchen's rhythmic activity with detached interest.
Mrs. Henderson places a bowl of soup before me, along with fresh bread and a small salad. "Eat what you can manage," she says, her tone more maternal than her usual professional distance. "You'll need your strength for the coming days."
I nod, accepting the food. Since my spiral and Gage's intervention four days ago, I've made consistent effort to maintain basic physical health, recognizing that self-destruction serves no one.
"The guest rooms are prepared for early arrivals," Mrs. Henderson continues, sitting opposite me with her own cup of tea. "Mr. Blackwood's uncle arrived this morning and has been settled in the east wing, as requested."
Richard Blackwood's presence creates mixed emotions—wariness at his unpredictable influence over Gage, but also curiosity about the family dynamics he inadvertently reveals through casual comments.
"Thank you," I say, taking a spoonful of soup—butternut squash with subtle spices, gentle on the stomach. "Has Gage returned from his morning meetings?"
"Not yet. He's expected by three for the final security briefing." Mrs. Henderson studies me over her teacup, her expression unreadable. "The wedding guests begin arriving tomorrow afternoon. The rehearsal dinner is scheduled for seven."
I nod, continuing to eat.
"Miss Everett," Mrs. Henderson says after a moment of silence, her voice lower despite the kitchen's ambient noise. "May I speak candidly?"
I look up, surprised by the unusual request from someone who maintains professional boundaries with religious dedication. "Of course."
"I've served the Blackwood family for nearly twenty years," she begins, setting down her teacup. "I was here during Mr. Blackwood's father's time, and I've witnessed the changes since Gage assumed control of both the estate and the family interests."
I listen without interrupting, curious where this was heading.
"The differences between father and son are significant," she continues carefully. "Edward Blackwood ruled through fear and unpredictability. Gage governs through calculation and strategic certainty. Both methods achieve control, but from very different foundations."
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask when she pauses.
She studies me for a long moment, seeming to weigh her words carefully. "Because understanding that may help younavigate what comes next. Gage observed his father's methods and consciously constructed alternatives. He witnessed the destruction that volatile control created."
"Still control," I observe. "Still confinement."
"Yes," she agrees surprisingly. "Edward's household never knew what might trigger rage or retribution. Gage's household always knows exactly where the lines are drawn."
"Thank you for the perspective," I say, genuinely appreciative. "It's helpful to understand."
