"Of course," I agree, maintaining outward composure while internal uncertainty builds. "After dinner."
Three days until the wedding. Seventy hours until I become Mrs. Blackwood.
The name feels foreign even in thought.
CHAPTER 19
The morning of my wedding day dawns with mocking perfection—clear blue skies, gentle breeze, temperature mild enough for comfort but warm enough for the outdoor ceremony. Nature itself conspires to create the ideal backdrop for this elaborate charade.
I stand at my bedroom window, watching staff make final adjustments to the pavilion that has transformed the south garden. White marble columns wrapped with climbing roses form an elegant framework, the structure gleaming in morning sunlight. Beneath it, rows of white chairs await guests, their pristine surfaces already adorned with small floral arrangements secured with ivory ribbon. The ceremonial arch where vows will be exchanged stands at the focal point, Marcus Valhalla himself directing assistants as they attach final blooms to its framework.
Beyond the pavilion, reception tables with perfect place settings stretch across the lawn, each centered with elaborate arrangements that follow the strict white and pale blue color scheme Gage approved. The south gardens have been tented with gossamer fabric that ripples gently in the breeze—aprecaution against weather that seems unlikely to intrude on Gage Blackwood's meticulously planned event.
"Miss Everett?" Marta's voice breaks my reverie. "The hair and makeup team has arrived. They're setting up in the adjoining suite."
I turn from the window, nodding my acknowledgment. The machinery of this day has been set in motion, its momentum now unstoppable.
"Please inform them I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I reply, voice steady despite the turmoil beneath. "I'd like a few moments alone first."
Marta hesitates, clearly weighing her instructions against my request. "Of course," she finally concedes. "Fifteen minutes. I'll let them know."
When she's gone, I return to the window, cataloging details of the production below. Workers adjusting the height of floral arrangements along the processional path. Security personnel in formal attire that barely disguises their vigilance, positioned strategically throughout the grounds. Mrs. Henderson conferring with catering staff near the champagne pavilion, where vintage Dom Pérignon awaits in precisely chilled containers.
Everything perfect. Everything controlled. Everything expressing Gage Blackwood's power and precision.
My wedding dress hangs on a specialized form near the closet—ivory silk catching morning light, hand-embroidered beading creating subtle patterns across the bodice and trailing down the elegant train. Beside it, the veil waits on its own stand, gossamer light and edged with delicate lace. The ensemble cost more than many people earn in a year, a physical manifestation of Gage's wealth deployed to create the perfect image.
I touch the fabric briefly, considering again how beautiful the garment truly is. Gage's taste is impeccable—the design neithertrendy nor overly traditional, balanced perfectly between classic elegance and contemporary sensibility.
A knock at the door signals the end of my solitude. I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders and arranging my features into the neutral mask I've perfected these past weeks.
"Come in," I call.
Isabella enters, tablet in hand as always, her expression professionally enthusiastic. "It's going to be perfect," she declares without preamble. "The weather is cooperating beautifully, the flowers are exceptional, and the first guests will begin arriving in approximately three hours."
I nod, accepting her assessment without comment.
"The schedule is precisely timed," she continues, consulting her ever-present tablet. "Hair and makeup will take two hours. Dressing with final adjustments, forty-five minutes. Photography of preparation, twenty minutes. Your entrance is scheduled for exactly two o'clock, with the ceremony lasting twenty-eight minutes according to the officiant's confirmed timing."
The day measured in minutes, each activity allocated its precise duration. My transition from Penelope Everett to Mrs. Blackwood quantified with stopwatch precision.
"Has Gage approved the final arrangements?" I ask, knowing the answer but seeking confirmation nonetheless.
"Mr. Blackwood conducted a final inspection at dawn," Isabella confirms. "Everything meets his specifications exactly."
Of course it does. Nothing in Gage Blackwood's world falls short of expectations, especially not the ceremony formalizing his acquisition of a wife.
"Then we should proceed," I say, moving toward the adjoining suite where beautification awaits. "We wouldn't want to disrupt the schedule."
The next hours pass in a blur of activity. Marcos and his team transform me into the bride Gage envisioned—hair arranged in the approved style, makeup enhancing without overwhelming, skin prepped and polished to photographic perfection. I sit motionless through it all, a mannequin being prepared for display.
"You're the calmest bride I've ever worked with," Sophia comments as she secures another section of copper hair. "Most women are either crying with happiness or nervous wrecks by this point."
I say nothing, offering only a slight smile that reveals nothing of my thoughts.
By noon, I've been transformed. The woman in the mirror looks ethereal, perfect, untouchable. A living artwork rather than a person with thoughts and feelings.
"Time for the dress," Isabella announces, consulting her schedule with religious devotion. "Angelique is waiting in the dressing room."
