I taste salt and realize tears are streaming down my face. Not the dramatic, heaving sobs of Hollywood heroines, but the quiet, devastating kind that come when something inside you has fundamentally broken.
"Why are you crying?" Gage asks, his voice unnervingly gentle now that victory is secured.
I don't answer immediately, watching the highway lights blur through my tears. What could I possibly say? That I'm mourning the woman I used to be? That I hate how my body betrays me, how it craves his touch even as my mind screams for freedom?
"Look at me, Penelope."
I keep my gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the window. "There's nothing left to say."
"There's everything to say." His hand reaches for mine, but I jerk away.
"Don't." The word holds all the venom I can muster. "Don't pretend this is anything but what it is."
He falls silent again, and I close my eyes, desperate to escape into momentary darkness. But even there, I see him—feel him—the phantom sensation of his hands on my skin, his mouth claiming mine, the pleasure I never wanted to feel.
"I hate you," I whisper, the words falling between us like broken glass.
"I know."
His calm acceptance only fuels the fire burning inside me. "You've taken everything from me—my freedom, my business, my dignity. And now..." My voice breaks. "Now you've even taken my resistance."
Rain beats harder against the windshield, mirroring the storm raging inside me.
"I hate that I respond to you," I continue, the confession tearing from somewhere deep and wounded. "I hate that my body betrays me every time you touch me. I hate that sometimes, I forget to hate you at all."
Gage pulls the car to the shoulder without warning, killing the engine. In the sudden silence, my breathing sounds harshand ragged. He turns to face me, those blue eyes seeing far too much.
"I don't need your love, Penelope," he says quietly. "Just your presence."
A broken laugh escapes me, the sound raw and painful. "You have both," I whisper, the admission costing me everything I have left. "And I hate myself for it."
His hand reaches out, gently wiping tears from my cheek. I should pull away. I should slap him. I should scream until my throat is raw.
Instead, I close my eyes and lean into his touch, surrendering to the truth I've been fighting since Paris: the cage isn't just around me anymore—it's inside me too.
CHAPTER 23
The first hint of something wrong comes with my father's voice—a roar of fury echoing through the mansion's marble hallways. I'm in the conservatory arranging black dahlias, their dark petals like velvet beneath my fingertips, when the sound reaches me.
"Where is she? Where's my daughter?"
I freeze, scissors suspended mid-cut. It's been three weeks since my failed escape attempt in Indianapolis, three weeks of settling into a routine that I've stopped actively fighting. Three weeks of Gage's watchful gaze gradually softening as I perform my role with increasing conviction.
Mrs. Henderson appears at the conservatory entrance, her usually composed face tight with concern. "Miss Everett—Mr. Blackwood requests you remain here. Your father has arrived unexpectedly and is... quite agitated."
Before I can respond, my father's voice bellows again, closer now. "Penelope! Show yourself!"
"I'll handle this," I say, setting down my scissors with deliberate calm. "It's fine, Mrs. Henderson."
She hesitates, clearly conflicted between my assurance and Gage's instructions. "Mr. Blackwood was very clear?—"
The decision is made for us as my father storms into the conservatory, his face flushed with rage, Victor and another security guard following close behind but not yet restraining him.
"There you are," he snarls, advancing toward me. "The obedient little wife, playing with flowers while you humiliate our family name."
I straighten my spine, facing him directly. "Hello, Father. I wasn't aware we had an appointment."
"Appointment?" He laughs, the sound brittle and dangerous. "I don't need an appointment to see my own daughter, especially when she's becoming the talk of Chicago society."
