The process of being dressed requires three assistants—one holding the gown, one managing the train, one fastening the dozens of covered buttons that track up my spine. The weight of silk settles around me, the bodice fitted precisely to my measurements despite recent weight fluctuations.
"Perfection," Angelique declares, stepping back to assess her creation. "Not a single adjustment needed."
The veil comes last, secured with diamond pins that catch light with every slight movement. When fully assembled, I stand before the full-length mirror, studying the final result with detached objectivity.
The bride who stares back is undeniably beautiful—copper hair gleaming beneath gossamer veil, ivory silk complementing fair skin, emerald eyes emphasized by expert makeup. A visionstraight from bridal magazines, lacking only the requisite joyful smile to complete the fantasy.
"Mr. Blackwood will be speechless," Isabella pronounces, genuine appreciation in her voice as she circles me. "Truly breathtaking, Penelope."
A knock at the door interrupts the moment of assessment. Mrs. Henderson enters after Isabella's acknowledgment, her expression softer than usual.
"Miss Everett, your bouquet has been delivered from the conservatory," she says, presenting the arrangement I created days ago—white roses for endurance, thistle for independence, ivy for resilience, all bound with silk ribbon that matches the dress precisely.
I accept it with gloved hands, the familiar weight grounding me momentarily in the reality of my skills, my profession, the one aspect of this spectacle I truly controlled.
"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson."
"The guests are arriving," she informs Isabella. "Mr. Blackwood asked me to confirm the final preparation timing."
"We're perfectly on schedule," Isabella assures her. "Miss Everett will be ready for the procession at precisely one fifty-five."
Mrs. Henderson nods, then turns to me with uncharacteristic hesitation. "If I might have a moment alone with the bride?"
Isabella consults her tablet, frowning slightly. "We have the photographer arriving in seven minutes for preparation documentation."
"Five minutes," Mrs. Henderson insists with quiet authority that even Isabella doesn't challenge. "I'll ensure she's ready for photography afterward."
When the room clears, Mrs. Henderson approaches me with genuine warmth in her expression. "You look beautiful," she says simply. "But that's not why I wanted a moment of your time."
She reaches into her pocket, withdrawing a small velvet pouch. "This belonged to Mr. Blackwood's mother," she explains, opening the pouch to reveal a delicate silver bracelet with a single small sapphire. "She asked me to keep it safe before she passed, to give to the woman her son eventually married."
I stare at the bracelet, unexpected emotion rising at this connection to Gage's mother—the woman who suffered under his father's cruelty, who protected her son as best she could, who died shortly after gaining freedom.
"She would be pleased to know it's with you," Mrs. Henderson continues, offering the bracelet. "Though we never discussed her son's future wife directly, I believe she would approve of your strength."
I extend my wrist wordlessly, allowing her to fasten the delicate chain beneath the edge of my glove, hidden from view but present nonetheless.
"Thank you," I say, voice barely above a whisper.
"I'll send the photographer in," she replies, professional demeanor returning. "Five minutes until scheduled documentation."
When she's gone, I touch the hidden bracelet beneath my glove. A connection to a woman who understood captivity, who protected her son, who ultimately lost herself to years of control and fear. The parallel isn't lost on me.
The photographer enters without knocking, assistant trailing behind with equipment bags. "Beautiful light in here," he declares without preamble. "Let's start with some classic bride preparation shots before the ceremony."
I assume the positions directed, holding my bouquet at the precise angle requested, turning my face to catch light in the manner specified, shifting my train to create the elegant cascade desired. Performance without emotion, technical execution of requirements.
At precisely one fifty, Isabella returns with my escort—not my father as tradition would dictate, but Richard Blackwood. Gage's final pointed exclusion of the man who traded his daughter.
"Penelope," Richard greets me, genuine appreciation in his assessment. "Absolutely stunning. My nephew is a fortunate man indeed."
I accept his extended arm, bouquet held at the perfect angle against ivory silk. "Thank you for escorting me," I say, the practiced phrase emerging with appropriate gratitude.
"The honor is mine," he replies with smooth courtesy. "Though I must admit, I'm merely a substitute for what should have been your father's role. Gage was quite insistent about William's removal from this particular moment."
We move toward the garden entrance where the processional will begin, Isabella conferring with ceremony coordinators via headset, confirming final positions and timing. Through open doors, I can see the assembled guests—nearly three hundred of Chicago's elite seated in precise rows, heads turning occasionally to watch for the bride's appearance.
The string quartet plays softly, creating elegant background music that will transition to the processional at exactly two o'clock. At the end of the white carpet stretching between rows of seated guests, Gage stands beneath the flower-adorned arch, his tall figure impeccable in formal attire that emphasizes his imposing physicality.
