Page 13 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

The violation is absolute. My home, my business, my finances—all compromised, all under his control.

I sleep fitfully, waking repeatedly to check the locks on my doors and windows, though I know such precautions are meaningless against the power arrayed against me.

Morning brings more evidence of Gage's reach—my cell phone service is suddenly "experiencing technical difficulties," limiting me to emergency calls only.

My internet connection slows to a crawl, then fails entirely.

The isolation is deliberate, cutting me off from potential support systems one by one.

I spend the day at Wildflower, addressing what issues I can despite the increasing restrictions.

Two employees call in their resignations without explanation.

Another major client cancels. The company that maintains our refrigeration systems reports they can't schedule maintenance for at least a month.

By evening, exhaustion and anger have formed a hard knot in my chest. I return to my apartment to find the electricity out—a "localized outage" affecting only my unit, according to the apologetic building manager.

I shower in cold water by the light of my phone flashlight, then sit in darkness, considering my dwindling options.

The third day brings the final blows. My primary bank account is closed entirely, the modest balance transferred to an unknown location.

The commercial landlord calls to inform me that the building has been sold to a new owner who won't be renewing leases when they expire—including Wildflower's, which suddenly shows an end date three months away rather than the two years remaining I expected.

I search my office frantically, finding the original lease documents missing from my files. In their place is a different contract with my signature—one I never remember signing—specifying the shorter term with clauses allowing early termination under specific conditions.

The forgery is flawless, indistinguishable from my actual signature.

By afternoon, the systematic dismantling of my life is nearly complete. Sandra watches with increasing concern as I handle crisis after crisis, making excuses I know sound hollow.

"Poppy," she says finally, "what's really happening? This isn't normal business fluctuation. It's like everything's falling apart at once."

I can't tell her the truth—can't risk Gage taking action against her too. "Just a perfect storm of bad timing," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. "I'll sort it out."

But we both know I won't. Or, rather I can't.

When Victor arrives to collect me, earlier than expected on this final day, his expression is unreadable as always.

"Mr. Blackwood has requested you return to the estate immediately," he says, not bothering with the pretense that I have a choice. "There's been a change of plans."

"What change?" I ask, gathering my purse with shaking hands.

"He'll explain when we arrive."

The drive passes in tense silence. I stare out the window at the city streets, at normal people living normal lives, unaware that invisible hands can rewrite reality at will for those who cross the wrong powerful men.

At my apartment, I collect my packed bags while Victor waits in the living room.

In the bathroom, hidden from surveillance by the closed door, I make a decision.

I still have my checkbook, despite the closed accounts.

I write checks for sizable amounts to Sandra and each of my employees, backdating them to before the accounts were frozen.

Perhaps they'll clear; perhaps they won't. But I have to try something to protect those caught in the crossfire of Gage's demonstration of power.

I hide the checks in my purse, then make one final, desperate move.

I retrieve my emergency phone—a basic prepaid model kept for true crises, unknown to anyone, including my father—from its hiding place inside a hollowed-out book.

I power it on long enough to send identical text messages to my closest friends:

If anything happens to me, Gage Blackwood is responsible. Don't trust official explanations.

I add his address and the little I know about him, then power off the phone and tuck it deep in my bag. A futile gesture, perhaps, but it's something—a breadcrumb trail should the worst happen.

Victor watches impassively as I take a final look around my apartment—the first place that was truly mine, or so I believed. "Ready, Miss Everett?"

I nod, unable to trust my voice. The drive to Gage's estate feels like a funeral procession, marking the death of the independent woman I thought I was.

As we approach the gates, my phone buzzes with notifications—suddenly working again now that I'm returning to my cage. I check the screen to find my bank accounts restored, suppliers confirming orders, clients reinstating their business. The demonstration is complete; the message received.

Gage waits in the entrance hall when we arrive, his expression unreadable. "Welcome back, Penelope. I trust your time in the city was... illuminating."

The understatement would be laughable if it weren't so cruel. "You made your point."

"Did I?" He gestures for me to follow him to his study. "And what point would that be?"

"That you control everything. That my independence was always an illusion." My voice remains steady despite the rage and despair churning beneath the surface. "That you can destroy everything I've built with a few phone calls."

"Not quite everything." He closes the study door behind us, offering me a seat that I refuse. "I demonstrated that your business operates within a framework of support and protection that can be withdrawn. But the talent, the vision that built Wildflower—those remain entirely yours."

"Cold comfort when you've frozen my accounts and threatened my lease."

"Temporary measures," he says dismissively. "Already reversed, as you've likely noticed. I merely needed you to understand the practical realities of our situation."

"The reality that you're a ruthless manipulator who thinks nothing of destroying livelihoods to make a point?"

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—the first genuine emotion I've provoked. "The reality that actions have consequences, Penelope. That freedom is never absolute but exists within systems of constraint. That your choices affect others beyond yourself."

He moves to the bar cart, pouring two drinks without asking if I want one. "I dislike heavy-handed demonstrations," he continues, his voice cooler now. "But you left me little choice with your continued delusions of escape."

"My employees did nothing to deserve being caught in your power games," I say, accepting the drink despite myself, needing something to steady my nerves.

"Your employees have been generously compensated for any inconvenience," he replies.

"The checks you wrote from closed accounts have been honored as a gesture of goodwill.

The rest of your belongings from your apartment will be delivered tomorrow.

Wildflower will continue operations under Sandra's interim management, with you maintaining creative control remotely. "

The thoroughness of his information confirms what I already knew—nothing I did escaped his notice, not even the desperate checks written in a bathroom I believed private.

"You've thought of everything," I say bitterly.

"That's my responsibility in this arrangement—to anticipate complications and resolve them efficiently." He sips his drink, studying me over the rim of his glass. "Your responsibility is simpler: accept reality and adapt to it productively."

"And if I refuse? If I fight this arrangement with everything I have?"

His expression doesn't change, but his voice lowers slightly. "Then you force more drastic demonstrations of the consequences of non-compliance. Your friends. Your sister's engagement. Your father's freedom. All vulnerable in different ways."

The threat is clear despite its careful phrasing. I drain my glass, welcoming the burn of alcohol. "So here we are. You've demolished my escape routes, isolated me from support, and threatened everyone I care about. What now, Mr. Blackwood? What's the next step in your carefully orchestrated plan?"

He sets down his glass. "Dinner. A conversation about arrangements. And then, assuming we reach agreement on basic terms, planning for our engagement announcement next week."

"So soon?"

"Your father is anxious to conclude our arrangement before Violet's wedding. I see no reason for delay, now that you understand your position."

I laugh, the sound brittle and humorless. "My position as a prisoner in a gilded cage? Forgive me if I need more than three days to 'understand' that reality."

"Your position," he corrects calmly, "as my future wife, with all the privileges and responsibilities that entails. Including significant influence over how this arrangement proceeds—provided you approach it rationally rather than emotionally."

I turn away, unable to bear his calculating gaze any longer. Through the window, I can see the gardens where we walked just days ago, beautiful and serene despite representing the boundaries of my new prison.

"I'll agree to proceed with the engagement announcement," I say finally, the words like ashes in my mouth. "But I want my terms in writing. Legally binding."

A slight smile curves his lips—satisfaction at having broken my resistance so quickly. "Of course. I'll have the documents prepared tomorrow. We can discuss specifics over dinner."

I move toward the door, desperate to escape his presence, to find some private corner where I can process the complete collapse of my independence.

"One more thing, Penelope." His voice stops me with my hand on the doorknob. "The emergency phone in your bag—the one you used to send warnings about me to your friends. I'd like it now, please."

Of course he knows about that too. My final, desperate attempt at creating a safety net, rendered useless before it could even begin.

I remove the phone from my bag and place it on his desk without a word.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he says, as if I've willingly surrendered it rather than being caught in yet another futile attempt at resistance. "I believe you'll find that cooperation makes our arrangement considerably more pleasant for everyone involved."

I leave without responding, retreating to my assigned suite where I finally allow myself to break down. The tears come in harsh, silent sobs that rack my body—grief for the life I thought I'd built, rage at the manipulation I never detected, fear for the future I can no longer control.

When the storm of emotion finally subsides, I make my way to the bathroom, and run the shower hot enough to create steam, then write on the fogged mirror with my fingertip:

I will escape this.

I scrub my skin raw in the shower.

The words disappear as the steam dissipates, leaving no trace of my private promise. But I've made it nonetheless, committed it to memory if not to record. Gage Blackwood believes he's broken my resistance, channeled it into the framework he's created.

He's wrong.

I may have to play along, may have to smile and nod and sign his documents. But I will never surrender. Never accept this cage, no matter how gilded.

I wipe the mirror clean and prepare for dinner.

The game has only just begun.