Page 10 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he garden is beautiful, I have to admit.

Late afternoon sun filters through ancient oak trees, dappling stone pathways with golden light.

Beds of exotic flowers create a riot of color against meticulously trimmed hedges.

A small pond reflects the sky, water lilies floating on its surface like tiny perfect worlds.

After hours of pacing my room, the walls had begun to close in. Pride had kept me from accepting Mrs. Henderson's repeated offers to show me the grounds, but practicality eventually won out. If I'm to find any way out of this situation, I need to understand my surroundings.

"This section was designed by the original owner's wife," Mrs. Henderson explains as we walk along a curved path. "Mr. Blackwood has maintained her vision while adding modern elements."

I nod politely, studying the layout of the estate rather than admiring the plantings.

The main house sits at the center of approximately twenty acres, surrounded by formal gardens that give way to more natural landscaping toward the perimeter.

A high stone wall topped with discreet security measures encircles the entire property.

Guards patrol at regular intervals, their movements carefully choreographed to appear casual while maintaining complete surveillance.

No obvious weaknesses present themselves. No easy escape.

"The conservatory is Mr. Blackwood's particular project," Mrs. Henderson continues, gesturing toward a gleaming glass structure at the far end of the formal garden. "He finds it relaxing after difficult days."

I try to imagine Gage Blackwood—cold, calculating, manipulative—finding peace among flowers. The image doesn't reconcile with the man who's systematically dismantled my independence.

"How long have you worked for Mr. Blackwood?" I ask, searching for any information that might prove useful.

"Nearly fifteen years now," she answers without hesitation. "Since his father passed and he took over the family interests."

"And what were those interests, exactly?"

Mrs. Henderson's expression gives nothing away. "Mr. Blackwood oversees diverse holdings across multiple industries. I'm sure he'd be happy to discuss them with you directly."

Another dead end. Every staff member I've encountered has been politely unhelpful, clearly loyal to their employer and unwilling to provide any useful information.

We continue walking, passing a tennis court, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and what appears to be a small art gallery housed in a separate building. Everything is immaculate, expensive, and utterly impersonal—like a luxury resort rather than a home.

"This path leads to Mr. Blackwood's private wing," Mrs. Henderson explains, indicating a stone walkway bordered by cypress trees. "The remaining buildings are maintenance facilities and staff quarters."

I make mental notes of each location, constructing a map in my mind. Knowledge is power, limited though that power might be in my current situation.

"And the security system?" I ask casually. "I noticed cameras throughout the property."

"State of the art," she confirms. "Mr. Blackwood values privacy and safety above all else."

I bite back a retort about whose privacy and safety he truly values. Instead, I change tactics. "Does Mr. Blackwood entertain often?"

"Occasionally. Business associates primarily, though he hosts a formal charity gala each spring."

"And does he... bring women here?" The question is uncomfortable but potentially valuable. If he has a pattern with other women, it might reveal weaknesses in his approach.

Mrs. Henderson studies me for a moment, her expression softening slightly. "Mr. Blackwood is a private man, Miss Everett. His personal life is his own affair. But I will say that you are the first woman he has invited to stay at the main residence in the ten years I've managed this household."

The information is unexpected and disturbing in equal measure. What makes me different from whatever other women might have passed through his life? What role does he truly envision for me beyond the marriage arrangement with my father?

"I'm not a guest," I remind her, my voice hardening. "Guests can leave when they choose."

Her expression remains neutral. "As I understand it, your situation is temporary while security concerns are addressed."

The convenient fiction again. I don't bother challenging it.

We complete our circuit of the grounds as the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the manicured lawns. Mrs. Henderson checks her watch discreetly.

"Dinner will be served at seven in the small dining room. Mr. Blackwood asked me to remind you that your attendance is requested but not required."

The illusion of choice again. "I'll consider it."

"Very good, Miss Everett. Would you like to return to your room now, or continue exploring on your own?"

I glance around the garden, considering my options. "I think I'll stay out a bit longer. The fresh air is... helpful."

"Of course. Someone will be available at the main entrance when you're ready to return inside." Her meaning is clear—I'm free to roam the grounds, but my movements will be monitored.

When Mrs. Henderson has departed, I find a stone bench beneath a flowering magnolia and sit, finally allowing myself a moment of true reflection.

The situation is even more dire than I initially understood.

The documents Gage showed me this morning confirm that my father's crimes were extensive and well-documented.

If exposed, they would not only send him to prison but destroy multiple families through association—including Violet's future with the Montgomerys.

And Wildflower—my beloved shop, the business I poured my heart into—was never truly mine. The revelation cuts deeper than I expected. Every major client, every fortuitous break, every "lucky coincidence" that helped establish my reputation... all orchestrated by Gage Blackwood from a distance.

I can't even claim that I built my client list through talent alone, knowing now that his influence likely guided key accounts my way. The Morgan account was merely the most obvious example.

What remains that is truly mine? My skill with flowers? My aesthetic vision? Are even these aspects of myself somehow tainted by his invisible influence?

I press my palms against my eyes, fighting the hot sting of tears. Self-pity solves nothing. I need to think clearly, logically, if I'm to find any way through this labyrinth.

The facts, stripped of emotion, are these:

Gage Blackwood controls my fate through legal and financial means.

Refusing his marriage proposal would destroy my family, my business, and potentially my sister's future.

The estate is essentially a fortress, with no obvious means of escape.

Even if I could escape, I have nowhere truly safe to go, no resources that aren't ultimately under his control.

The rational choice, as Gage predicted, is clear: accept the arrangement, preserve what I can, and look for leverage once I understand the full scope of his operations and vulnerabilities.

But acceptance feels like surrender, like betraying the independent woman I've fought to become.

A shadow falls across me, and I look up to find Gage himself standing a few feet away. He's changed from his business attire into dark slacks and a grey sweater that softens his imposing presence without diminishing it.

"May I join you?" he asks, his tone suggesting it's an actual request rather than a command.

I shrug, moving slightly to make room on the bench. He sits beside me, leaving a respectful distance between us.

"Mrs. Henderson mentioned you've been exploring the grounds," he says, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains rather than on me. "I hope you found them satisfactory."

"The garden is beautiful," I admit. "Though I imagine the walls and security cameras somewhat diminish the sense of tranquility."

A slight smile curves his lips. "Security and beauty aren't mutually exclusive concepts, Penelope. One often enables the other."

"Is that your justification for keeping me here? That you're somehow protecting me?"

He turns to face me, his expression serious. "I am protecting you. The world contains genuine threats—not just the staged incident that brought you here, but real dangers that someone of your background and connections faces daily."

"Dangers you've conveniently defined and that only you can shield me from," I counter.

"Your skepticism is understandable." He leans back slightly, studying my profile. "I thought perhaps we could speak more informally here instead."

I resist the urge to move further away. "What is there to discuss that wasn't covered this morning?"

"Your immediate concerns, for one. You mentioned your shop, your employees. I understand Wildflower is important to you, regardless of who ultimately owns the building or provides financial backing."

The reminder stings. "It's more than important. It's mine—the one thing I created myself."

"And it will remain yours," he says, surprising me. "I have no interest in dismantling what you've built, regardless of how our personal situation resolves."

I turn to face him, suspicious. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that while I expect your agreement to our arrangement, I don't intend to strip you of your identity or passion. Wildflower continues, with you at its helm, whether you become my wife or not."

The offer is unexpected. "Why?"

He considers the question carefully. "Because destroying something you love would create resentment that serves no purpose. Because your talent should not be wasted. Because I respect what you've accomplished, even if I facilitated certain aspects of it."

"How generous of you," I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

"It's not generosity, Penelope. It's pragmatism. Happy wives make better partners than resentful prisoners."

"I'll never be happy with this arrangement."

"Perhaps not initially," he concedes. "But contentment often grows from acceptance of reality."