Page 12 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

I 'm released from my golden cage the following morning. After a tense breakfast with Gage—during which he outlines a schedule for the coming week that maintains the pretense that I'm a guest rather than a prisoner—he announces that I can return to my apartment and shop "to settle my affairs."

"Victor will drive you," he says, watching my reaction over the rim of his coffee cup. "You'll have three days to organize your business, pack essential belongings, and prepare for a more extended stay here."

"Three days," I repeat, struggling to keep my voice neutral despite the surge of hope at even this temporary freedom. "And I suppose I'll be under surveillance the entire time?"

"Victor will maintain a discreet distance," Gage confirms without apology. "For your safety, of course."

The fiction continues, both of us aware of its falsity. "Of course."

"I expect you back here on Friday evening for dinner." His tone makes it clear this isn't a request. "We have matters to discuss regarding the timeline of our arrangement."

I resist the urge to argue that three days is insufficient to "settle my affairs"—that dismantling a life takes longer than a weekend. Instead, I nod, already calculating how to use this unexpected opportunity.

"Will my father be joining us for this discussion?"

Something like distaste flickers across Gage's expression. "No. William's role in this arrangement is essentially complete."

The statement surprises me. "I thought this was primarily about your agreement with him."

"The initial arrangement was," Gage concedes. "The implementation is between you and me alone."

An hour later, I'm in the back of a luxury SUV—not the black surveillance vehicle I've come to dread, but a silver Range Rover with tinted windows. Victor drives in silence, his broad shoulders and military bearing somehow more intimidating in casual clothing than in his formal suit.

"The rules are simple, Miss Everett," he says as we approach the city.

"You may visit your apartment and your shop.

You may speak with your employees about business matters.

You may not discuss your situation with friends or family.

You may not attempt to leave the city or evade surveillance. Doing so would have... consequences."

"For me or for those I care about?" I ask, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Both." No elaboration necessary.

The threat hangs in the air as we drive through familiar streets. When we reach my apartment building, Victor parks but makes no move to exit the vehicle.

"I'll wait here," he says. "Take whatever time you need to pack essentials. I'll accompany you to your shop afterward."

The illusion of privacy. Of normal life resuming. I know better.

My apartment feels both familiar and foreign when I unlock the door.

Everything is exactly as I left it just days ago, yet something feels off—the subtle wrongness that comes from knowing unseen eyes have examined your most private spaces.

The journal Gage mentioned, hidden beneath my floorboard, confirms my suspicion when I check it—the pages are aligned slightly differently than my usual careful placement.

I pack methodically, selecting clothing suitable for an extended captivity—practical items. Then practical considerations: my laptop, chargers, toiletries, the few pieces of jewelry with sentimental value, including my grandmother's pendant.

As I move through familiar routines, reality shifts beneath me like unstable ground.

This apartment, which I fought so hard to afford, to furnish with carefully selected pieces that reflect my taste rather than my family's expectations—none of it was truly mine.

The reasonable rent, the convenient location, the responsive building management—all orchestrated to create the illusion of independence while keeping me exactly where Gage wanted me.

I sit heavily on the edge of my bed, fighting a wave of disorientation. How much of my life has been manipulated from a distance? Which friends are genuine, which introduced into my circle strategically? Is Sandra truly the efficient assistant I believed, or another plant reporting my every move?

The questions spiral endlessly, threatening to paralyze me. I force them aside, focusing on practical considerations. Three days of relative freedom. Three days to assess my options, contact potential allies, perhaps find some leverage.

I finish packing, then systematically check my apartment for surveillance devices.

I find three—a camera disguised as a smoke detector in my bedroom, another hidden in a decorative clock in the living room, and a listening device tucked behind an outlet in the kitchen.

I leave them in place. Knowledge is power, even when that power is severely constrained.

Victor waits patiently when I exit the building. We drive to Wildflower in silence, tension humming beneath the surface.

Sandra looks up in surprise when I enter, her face lighting with relief. "Poppy! Thank goodness. I was so worried when that man said you had a family emergency."

I force a smile, acutely aware of Victor's presence just outside the door. "It's complicated. I'm back for a few days to get things organized."

Her eyes flick to the window, where Victor stands with his back to us, seemingly casual but obviously on guard. "Is everything okay? You look... different."

"I'm fine," I lie. "Just some family business to handle. Let's go over the books and upcoming orders. I need to make sure everything's covered while I'm away."

We retreat to my office, where I close the door and turn on the small radio I keep on a shelf—background noise to mask our conversation from potential listening devices. Even so, I keep my voice low.

"Sandra, I need to know something, and I need complete honesty." I meet her eyes directly. "Who hired you?"

She blinks, confusion evident. "You did. Last year, remember? I responded to your ad on the university job board."

"And before that? Any connections to Blackwood Investments? Or any unusual instructions regarding reporting on my activities?"

Her confusion deepens. "Blackwood? I don't know what that is. Poppy, what's going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

Either she's an excellent actress or she's genuinely unaware of Gage's influence. I study her expression, looking for any sign of deception, and find only concern.

"I might be," I admit cautiously. "But I can't discuss it right now. Just... if anyone asks about me, about the shop, about anything unusual, tell me immediately. Okay?"

She nods, clearly worried but not pushing for explanations I can't safely give. "Of course. Whatever you need."

We spend the next several hours reviewing the order book, discussing upcoming client meetings, and ensuring Sandra can handle operations in my absence. I'm acutely aware of Victor's periodic checks through the front window, his watchful presence a constant reminder of my limited freedom.

By late afternoon, I've handled the most pressing business matters and am sorting through mail that accumulated during my absence.

A thick cream envelope catches my attention—formal correspondence from my bank.

Inside, I find a notification that one of my business accounts has been frozen pending review.

"Sandra, did anyone from the bank call while I was gone?"

She shakes her head. "Not that I'm aware of. Is something wrong?"

"Just a formality to clear up," I say, though dread pools in my stomach. The timing is too convenient to be coincidence.

I check the other accounts through my banking app, finding two more frozen, leaving only the small emergency fund I keep separately for immediate operating expenses.

A message from my primary supplier appears moments later—they're "regretfully unable to fulfill" my standing order for next week due to "inventory constraints. "

The systematic dismantling has begun.

I call the bank immediately, only to be transferred between departments before finally reaching someone who informs me that the account freeze requires "management review" that cannot be expedited. The supplier similarly offers apologies but no solutions when I call them.

By closing time, three more messages have arrived—my commercial landlord "needs to discuss lease terms," my delivery service has "scheduling conflicts" with our regular arrangement, and my website suddenly shows "technical difficulties" despite functioning perfectly days ago.

The message is clear: Gage is demonstrating his power, showing how easily he can dismantle the business I've built if I don't comply with his demands.

I send Sandra home with reassurances I don't feel, waiting until she's gone before properly searching the shop for surveillance devices.

I find five, more advanced than those in my apartment—cameras with clear views of the front and back entrances, the main workspace, my office, and the storage area.

The thoroughness of the surveillance is chilling.

Victor appears in the doorway as I'm finishing. "Ready to go, Miss Everett?"

I nod, gathering my purse and locking the shop with a sense of finality I can't shake. As we drive to my apartment, my phone buzzes with an email notification—another client canceling a major order with vague apologies.

That night, I sit at my kitchen table with a legal pad, listing every aspect of my business that's been affected in just one day: frozen accounts, canceled orders, supplier issues, technical problems, potential lease concerns.

The pattern is clear and devastating. Without Gage's intervention, Wildflower will collapse within weeks, perhaps days.

I check my personal bank accounts, finding them similarly restricted. Even my emergency cash—several thousand dollars kept in a hidden safe in my closet—has mysteriously vanished, replaced with a note in elegant handwriting: "Safety isn't found in cash, Penelope."