"Is this surrender, Penelope?" he asks, voice dropping to that intimate timbre that still sends unwelcome heat through my veins.
I consider the question honestly, searching my own complex emotions for truth among tangled motivations.
"Not surrender," I say finally. "A different choice than I might have made before, but mine nonetheless."
He searches my expression for signs of deception, finding none. "For the child?"
"Partly," I acknowledge. "But not entirely."
This admission—that my changing feelings extend beyond maternal protection to something more complex, more personal—shifts something between us. He pulls me against him, arms encircling me with possessive tenderness.
"Whatever your reasons," he murmurs against my hair, "whatever name you give this change, know that I will protect you both with everything I possess."
The distinction matters, I realize.
That night, as Gage sleeps beside me, his hand resting possessively over my abdomen even in unconsciousness, I stare at the ceiling and consider the strange journey that has brought me here. From desperate captive to reluctant wife to expectant mother.
Is this surrender? Is it Stockholm syndrome? Or is it simply adaptation to a reality I can't change?
The answer eludes me.
In the darkness, I place my hand over Gage's where it rests against my abdomen. His fingers shift in sleep, intertwining with mine in unconscious possession.
CHAPTER 24
The morning sickness has finally subsided, replaced by an energy I haven't felt in months. I stand before the full-length mirror in our bedroom, studying my reflection with new eyes. At twelve weeks pregnant, there's the faintest curve to my abdomen—barely visible but unmistakably there. Proof of the life growing inside me.
I dress carefully—a silk blouse that skims my changing body, tailored pants that make me feel powerful, not just pretty arm candy. Today isn't about playing the obedient wife. Today, I reclaim my voice.
Gage sits at his desk in the study when I enter without knocking, reviewing what appears to be acquisition documents. He looks up, that assessing gaze I've grown so accustomed to softening when it lands on me.
"You look beautiful this morning," he says, setting aside his papers. "How are you feeling?"
"Better." I move to the chair across from his desk but don't sit. "We need to talk."
Something in my tone alerts him. His posture straightens slightly, that controlled businessman emerging. "Of course. What's on your mind?"
I take a breath, centering myself. "I want to renegotiate our arrangement."
The words hang between us. Gage's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight narrowing of his eyes.
"Renegotiate," he repeats carefully. "In what way?"
"Real autonomy. Not the illusion you've been providing." I move closer to his desk, my hands resting on its polished surface. "I want to run Wildflower from the office three days a week. I want to travel for business when necessary. I want to see my friends without security hovering. I want access to my own money without approval."
He leans back in his chair, studying me with that penetrating intensity. "These are significant changes from our current arrangement."
"They are." I meet his gaze steadily. "But circumstances have changed, haven't they?"
His eyes drop briefly to my abdomen, where his child grows. "The pregnancy doesn't alter the fundamental nature of our marriage, Penelope."
"Doesn't it?" I lean forward, pressing my advantage. "Because I think it changes everything. Your child deserves a mother who isn't a prisoner. Who has agency, dignity, independence within the marriage rather than existing as your beautiful possession."
"You're not a prisoner?—"
"Gage." My voice cuts through his practiced deflection. "We're past the pretty euphemisms. I've been your captive, however gilded the cage. But this child changes the dynamic. I won't raise them to see this as normal."
"What exactly are you proposing?"
