One week after the doctor's confirmation, I enter Gage's study without knocking, a folder tucked under my arm.
He looks up from his desk, surprise evident at my unannounced arrival. "Penelope. Is everything all right?"
"Fine," I assure him, approaching his desk with newfound confidence. "I've been thinking about the nursery."
His expression shifts from concern to something softer, more vulnerable. "The nursery?"
I open the folder, spreading sketches across his desk—designs I've been working on privately in the conservatory studio. "The east wing has that connecting room with southern exposure. Perfect light, and close enough to hear the baby when they wake."
Gage studies the drawings, fingers trailing over pencil lines that show a carefully considered space—not overly gendered, designed for both functionality and beauty.
"These are remarkable," he says finally, looking up to meet my gaze. "You've put significant thought into this."
"It's our child," I reply simply. "They deserve a beautiful beginning."
His expression softens. "Our child," he repeats, the possessive pronoun now encompassing something beyond just me. "Yes, they do."
That evening, I remove my wedding and engagement rings from the jewelry box where I've stored them since our return from Indianapolis. Though I've worn them for public appearances, in private I've maintained this small rebellion—bare fingers as minimal protest.
When I slide them back onto my finger, the weight feels different now—less like shackles and more like anchors, grounding me in a reality I'm choosing to accept.
Gage notices immediately when I join him for dinner, his gaze fixing on my hand as I reach for my water glass. He says nothing, but satisfaction radiates from him like physical heat.
"I've arranged for the top maternal specialist in Chicago to join your care team," he informs me between courses. "Dr. Elizabeth Chen. She'll coordinate with Dr. Fielding."
"Thank you," I say, genuinely appreciative of his thoroughness. "When will I meet her?"
"Next week, if that suits your schedule." The deference to my preferences is new—a subtle shift in our dynamic since the pregnancy announcement.
"That's fine." I hesitate, then add: "I'd like to visit Wildflower tomorrow. Check on operations, review upcoming orders. If that's acceptable."
I watch him consider the request, weighing freedom against protection in this new context.
"Victor will drive you," he says finally. "Four hours should be sufficient?"
"Yes." The small victory sends disproportionate satisfaction through me. "Thank you."
He studies me over the rim of his wine glass. "Pregnancy agrees with you," he observes. "You're glowing."
The observation might once have felt like another form of possession. Now, I accept it with a slight smile. "I'm feeling better. The morning sickness is less severe."
"I'm glad." His tone carries genuine concern rather than mere propriety. "Is there anything else you need? Anything that would make you more comfortable?"
The question opens possibilities I haven't considered. "Actually, yes," I say after a moment's thought. "I'd like to resume regular communication with Sandra about Wildflower operations. Not just occasional visits, but real involvement in decision-making. The business is still mine, according to our agreement."
He nods without hesitation. "Of course. I'll have IT set up secure channels on your laptop tomorrow. Video conferencing, collaborative software, whatever you require."
The ease of his agreement catches me by surprise. "Thank you."
"Your continued creative engagement benefits everyone," he says pragmatically. "Particularly now, when your physical presence at the shop may become less practical as your pregnancy progresses."
The controlled businessman remains, I realize, practical considerations never far from his mind. Yet something has shifted since the pregnancy announcement—his possession now extended to include protection, provision, accommodation in ways I hadn't anticipated.
The following day, Victor drives me to Wildflower with minimal security theater. No additional vehicles, no visible earpieces or constant communication checks. Just a discreet presence maintaining appropriate distance as I reconnect with the business I built.
Sandra's delight at my unexpected visit is genuine, though her eyes widen slightly at the sight of my wedding ring catching light as I gesture.
"The store looks amazing," I tell her, admiring new display configurations and seasonal arrangements. "You've done incredible work."
