The conservatory offers temporary sanctuary, its humid air and abundant greenery creating a space that feels removed from the wedding preparation consuming the rest of the estate. My bouquet sits in a specialized holder, nearly complete but still requiring final elements to balance the composition.
I work methodically, selecting blooms with precise attention, trimming stems with practiced skill.
"It's beautiful."
I turn to find Gage standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he studies my work. He's dressed more formally than usual—dark suit perfectly tailored, likely having come directly from business meetings in the city.
"Thank you," I reply, returning my attention to the flowers. "It's nearly finished."
He enters the conservatory, moving to stand beside me without touching. "The white roses are an interesting choice."
"Sometimes tradition serves a purpose," I say, positioning a spray of baby's breath with careful precision.
"Indeed." He watches my hands work for several moments, neither offering assistance nor attempting to direct my choices. "The styling team reported successful trials. Isabella showed me photographs."
Of course she did. Nothing proceeds without his assessment and approval.
"The design is appropriate for the occasion," I confirm, reaching for a final white rose. "As is the makeup palette."
"You look troubled," he observes unexpectedly. "More distant today than in recent days."
I glance up, surprised by the perception. "The countdown has shifted from days to hours. Final preparations tend to focus the mind."
"Focus or fragment it?" he asks.
I don't respond immediately. "Neither," I say finally. "Merely clarify reality."
He studies me for a moment longer, then changes the subject with practiced ease. "The marriage license official will arrive at four. A simple procedure requiring signatures and witnesses."
"I've been informed."
"Your father will not be present," he adds, the information delivered neutrally though the decision itself feels significant. "I've arranged for Richard and Mrs. Henderson to serve as witnesses instead."
The deliberate exclusion of my father from this final legal step surprises me. "Why?"
"William's presence introduces unnecessary tension," Gage replies pragmatically. "The legal requirements specify only that signatures be witnessed by adults of sound mind. Your father's absence serves practical purposes."
I return to my flowers, adding a final sprig of ivy to represent resilience.
"There," I say, stepping back to assess the completed bouquet. "Finished."
Gage studies the arrangement with genuine appreciation. "Elegant without being ostentatious. Balanced without being rigid."
The unexpectedly thoughtful assessment catches me off guard. "Thank you."
"Your business will continue," he says, seeming to follow my unspoken thought. "Wildflower remains yours to direct, regardless of other changes."
"It’s not the same," I remind him, referencing the prenuptial restrictions.
"Within reasonable considerations," he corrects with subtle distinction. "Creative direction remains entirely yours."
We stand in silence for a moment, the completed bouquet between us like a physical manifestation of approaching ceremony. Three days has become less than seventy-two hours—time moving with relentless precision toward the inevitable.
"I should prepare for the license signing," I say finally, placing the bouquet in its specialized container where it will remain fresh until the ceremony.
Gage nods, stepping back to allow me space. "After dinner," he says as I move toward the door, "we should discuss your preferences for the honeymoon. Matters that require consideration before departure."
The honeymoon. Two weeks alone with him in a private villa. I push the thought away, unable to process that reality quite yet.
