Page 14 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

I hadn't planned to run so soon. The past week at Gage's estate had been a careful performance—accepting his terms with apparent resignation, reviewing prenuptial documents with feigned interest, even allowing him to place an obscenely large diamond on my finger during a coldly efficient "proposal" witnessed only by his attorney.

I'd smiled at appropriate moments, asked reasonable questions about my continued involvement with Wildflower, and given every indication that I was adjusting to my new reality.

All while watching, waiting, planning.

The opportunity had come unexpectedly. A rare gap in surveillance during a staff shift change, a kitchen door temporarily unlocked while deliveries were accepted, and the groundskeeper's vehicle left running while he hauled bags of mulch from the storage shed.

I'd moved without hesitation, slipping through the momentary blind spot and driving off before anyone realized I was gone.

The station is nearly empty—just a homeless man sleeping on a bench, a young couple with backpacks whispering together, and an elderly woman knitting despite the hour.

The ticket agent dozes behind his glass partition.

No one pays attention to a woman in nondescript clothing, baseball cap pulled low over copper hair hastily dyed brown in a gas station bathroom.

The departure board shows my bus arriving on time.

Twenty more minutes of freedom, then hours on the road.

How long before his resources locate me?

Hours? Days? I've left my phone, credit cards, and anything else traceable behind.

The only connection to my former life is my grandmother's pendant, tucked beneath my shirt, impossible to abandon despite the risk.

The station's automatic doors slide open, and my heart stops.

Gage Blackwood enters, scanning the sparse crowd with predatory focus. Alone—no security team, no Victor, just him in dark jeans and a black sweater that somehow makes him more intimidating than his usual suits. His eyes lock on mine immediately, as if he'd known exactly where to find me.

I don't run. There's nowhere to go, and the futility of further escape settles over me like a physical weight. How did he find me so quickly? How did he know which station, which departure time?

He approaches slowly, hands visible, expression unreadable. The few other travelers give him a wide berth, instinctively recognizing a dangerous presence.

"Penelope." He stops a few feet away, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Are we really doing this again?"

I grip my bag tighter. "How did you find me?"

"You're wearing a two-million-dollar engagement ring with a GPS tracker embedded in the setting," he replies, his tone conversational despite the circumstances. "Did you think I wouldn't take precautions?"

The ring. Of course. I'd considered removing it, but feared that might trigger immediate alarms. Instead, I'd planned to sell it at the first opportunity after putting sufficient distance between us.

Too late now.

"Get up," he says quietly. "We're leaving."

"And if I refuse? Make a scene? Call for help?" The desperate options of someone with nothing left to lose.

Something like disappointment crosses his face. "You won't. You're smarter than that." He glances meaningfully at the elderly woman, the young couple, the sleeping homeless man. "Innocent bystanders don't deserve to be collateral damage in our private disagreement."

The threat is clear despite its subtle delivery. I rise slowly, clutching my bag like a shield.

"My car is outside," he continues in that same quiet, controlled voice. "Let's avoid unnecessary drama."

I follow him through the station doors into the pre-dawn darkness, acutely aware of how completely I've failed. Less than twelve hours of freedom, ended not by his security team but by Gage himself, calmly retrieving his wayward property.

A sleek black Aston Martin idles at the curb—no driver, no security detail. He opens the passenger door, waiting for me to enter.

"Where's Victor?" I ask, stalling. "Your security team?"

"This is a private matter between us," he replies. "Get in, Penelope."

I slide into the leather seat, inhaling the scent of expensive upholstery and his subtle cologne.

He closes the door with finality and walks around to the driver's side.

When he starts the engine, the powerful rumble matches the storm building in my chest—rage, humiliation, and underneath it all, fear.

Not of physical harm, but of what comes next.

Of how he'll respond to this act of defiance.

We drive in silence through empty streets, the city still sleeping. I expect us to head toward his estate, but instead, he takes a route I don't recognize.

"Where are we going?" I finally ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

"Somewhere we can talk without interruption." His hands rest casually on the steering wheel, his profile illuminated by dashboard lights. "You've created quite a disruption with this little adventure."

"That was the point."

His mouth quirks in what might be amusement. "Was it? Because from where I sit, all you've accomplished is embarrassing yourself and inconveniencing me. The outcome remains unchanged."

"If I'm such an inconvenience, why not let me go? Find someone more compliant for your arrangement."

He glances at me briefly. "We've covered this ground, Penelope. You know why."

"Because you never relinquish what you consider yours." The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

"Because I honor my commitments," he corrects. "And because, despite this childish escape attempt, you remain the most suitable candidate for the position."

"The position of prisoner?"

"Of wife." His tone hardens slightly. "A role with considerably more agency than you seem willing to acknowledge."

We fall silent again as he navigates onto a highway heading east, away from both the city and his estate.

As the sky lightens with approaching dawn, I realize how thoroughly I've miscalculated.

Not just the practicalities of escape—the timing, the methodology—but Gage himself.

I'd expected him to send security, to delegate my retrieval to employees.

Instead, he's handled it personally, suggesting this matters more to him than I'd realized.

Information to consider. Leverage, perhaps, though how to use it remains unclear.

After nearly an hour of driving, he exits onto a narrow road winding through dense forest. Eventually, we reach a small clearing with a cabin—rustic but well-maintained, with a wide porch overlooking a lake just visible through the trees.

"Your safe house?" I ask as he parks beside the structure.

"My personal retreat," he corrects. "No staff, no security systems, no carefully maintained image. Just a place to think."

The revelation is unexpected—Gage Blackwood, with his empire of glass and steel, his perfectly controlled environments, retreating to simplicity when privacy allows.

He unlocks the cabin door, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him. The interior is surprisingly modest—open-plan living area with comfortable furniture, a stone fireplace, kitchen along one wall. Large windows showcase the lake view, now visible in early morning light.

"You must be hungry," he says, moving toward the kitchen. "I'll make coffee."

The domesticity of the gesture is jarring after the tension of my capture. I remain standing near the door, bag still clutched in my hand, watching as he moves with unexpected familiarity through the small kitchen.

"Why did you bring me here?" I ask finally.

He glances up from measuring coffee grounds. "Because we need to have a conversation that can't happen at the estate, where every word is potentially overheard by staff."

"What kind of conversation?"

"An honest one." He starts the coffee maker, then turns to face me fully. "Why don't you sit down? Your escape attempt has failed. Standing by the door like a cornered animal won't change that reality."

Reluctantly, I move to the couch, perching on its edge, still unwilling to relax in his presence. He finishes preparing coffee, then brings two mugs to the seating area, placing one on the coffee table within my reach before taking a chair opposite me.

"You don't get to leave, Penelope," he says without preamble. "Not now, not ever. The sooner you accept that fundamental reality, the easier this will be for both of us."

The bluntness of his statement hits like a physical blow. "You can't own another person."

"I don't want to own you. I want to marry you, as agreed with your father a decade ago." He sips his coffee, studying me over the rim. "Your continued resistance wastes both our time and energy that could be better directed toward building a functional partnership."

"There can be no 'partnership' without choice," I argue. "What you're describing is captivity."

"Is it?" He sets down his mug. "Let's discuss what captivity truly means.

You'll have financial resources exceeding anything you've known.

Freedom to continue your creative work. Influence within certain spheres that you currently can't access.

Protection that you clearly need, given your na?ve approach to escape. "

"Gilded chains are still chains."

"Poetic, but inaccurate." His voice remains calm, reasonable, as if we're discussing a business merger rather than my freedom. "All lives operate within constraints, Penelope. The difference is whether those constraints are acknowledged or ignored, worked within or fought against."

"You've eliminated all my choices except this."

"I've clarified the options and their consequences," he corrects. "You still have choices—they simply carry costs you find unacceptable."

I laugh bitterly. "Such generosity."