Page 16 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he silk dress slides against my skin like a whisper, soft and cool.

Marta, the personal maid assigned to me following my failed escape, fastens the hidden buttons with practiced efficiency.

The garment is exquisite—deep emerald that complements my copper hair and fair complexion, cut to flatter without being overtly seductive.

One of a dozen delivered this morning, each more elegant than anything I've ever owned.

"Beautiful, Miss Everett," Marta murmurs, stepping back to assess her work. "The color suits you perfectly."

I study my reflection in the full-length mirror.

The woman staring back looks like a stranger—polished, refined, every inch the future Mrs. Blackwood.

My hair has been styled in loose waves, my makeup applied with subtle expertise.

Even my nails have been shaped and polished in a delicate neutral shade.

"Mr. Blackwood mentioned you'll be dining with his business associates this evening," Marta continues, arranging jewelry on the vanity. "He suggested these for tonight."

She opens a velvet box to reveal an emerald and diamond necklace with matching earrings. The stones catch the light, throwing fractured rainbows across the ceiling. Not costume pieces—real emeralds, worth more than I've earned in five years of running Wildflower.

"I prefer my own necklace," I say, touching the silver pendant at my throat—my grandmother's, the one tangible connection to my life before.

Marta hesitates. "Mr. Blackwood was quite specific, Miss. For formal occasions, he expects?—"

"It's fine, Marta." I remove my pendant, slipping it into the vanity drawer. "The emeralds are lovely."

She fastens the necklace, adjusting it to lie perfectly against my collarbone. The weight is unfamiliar, like the elegant prison I now inhabit.

Two weeks have passed since my failed escape attempt.

Fourteen days of increased surveillance, restricted movement, and performances carefully crafted to suggest gradual acceptance of my situation.

I attend meals with Gage, review wedding plans with designers and coordinators, speak politely with staff members who monitor my every movement.

I've even begun arranging flowers again in the conservatory, using the skills that once defined my independence to decorate my captivity.

The irony isn't lost on me.

My father's reaction to my escape attempt had been predictably brutal—cold fury barely contained by Gage's presence, threats of institutionalization and forced medication should I "embarrass the family" again.

He'd left that evening with the date for my wedding to Gage moved up to just six weeks away, a timeline designed to ensure my compliance through sheer lack of opportunity for resistance.

Tonight marks my first formal introduction to Gage's business associates—men and women who will eventually become part of my social circle as Mrs. Blackwood. Another step in the normalization of my captivity, another performance to maintain.

"Mr. Blackwood asked me to remind you that guests will begin arriving at seven," Marta says, gathering discarded clothing. "He'll meet you in the library at quarter to."

"Thank you, Marta." I slip on the diamond-and-emerald earrings, completing the transformation. "That will be all for now."

When she's gone, I allow my shoulders to drop, the perfect posture momentarily abandoned when no one is watching. These brief moments of genuine expression have become precious—tiny rebellions in a life of carefully maintained facade.

I move to the window overlooking the gardens.

My suite has been relocated to Gage's wing of the mansion following my escape attempt—ostensibly a sign of my elevated status as his fiancée, but practically a means of keeping me under closer surveillance.

The new rooms are larger, more luxurious, but the windows don't open and the doors automatically alert security when used.

A gilded cage within a fortress.

I've learned much during these two weeks of captivity.

The daily routine of the estate—staff rotations, security patterns, Gage's schedule.

The layout of buildings I previously hadn't explored.

The hierarchy among employees, their loyalties and potential vulnerabilities.

I gather this information methodically, storing it away for future use.

The library doors are open when I arrive at precisely 6:45.

Gage stands at the fireplace, reviewing documents with such focus he doesn't immediately notice my entrance.

He's impeccable as always—tailored tuxedo emphasizing his height and athletic build, dark hair perfectly styled, expression controlled even in what he believes is private.

I take a moment to study him unobserved.

These glimpses of Gage unaware have become valuable opportunities to understand the man beneath the mask.

I've cataloged his small tells—the slight narrowing of his eyes when displeased, the almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders when satisfied, the way his left hand occasionally flexes when he's controlling stronger emotion.

"Penelope." He looks up, setting aside his papers. "Punctual as always."

His gaze travels over me, assessing rather than leering, noting my appearance with the same attention he gives business reports. "The emeralds suit you."

"Thank you." I move further into the room, maintaining distance.

"Tonight's dinner includes six guests," he says, offering me a single sheet of paper with names and brief biographies.

"Keaton Phillips and his wife Diana—banking, old Chicago money.

Malcolm and Louise Wei—technology investments, new wealth but significant influence.

Judge James Harrison and his daughter Caroline—she's recently divorced and re-entering society. "

I review the information, understanding the subtext. These aren't merely dinner guests but strategic relationships being cultivated. "What's my role this evening?"

"Charming, intelligent companion. Nothing more complicated for your first formal appearance." He adjusts his cufflinks—platinum with small black stones. "These people will eventually form part of our social circle. First impressions matter."

"I understand." I fold the paper, committing the information to memory. "Any topics to avoid?"

"Politics, religion, and my father." His expression remains neutral, but that tell—the slight flexing of his left hand—suggests the last subject carries particular weight.

"Otherwise, you may contribute to conversation as you see fit.

You're educated and articulate—I trust your judgment on appropriate topics. "

The compliment, delivered like an objective assessment, is part of his current strategy. Small recognitions of my value, acknowledgments of my intelligence and capabilities, all while maintaining absolute control of my circumstances. Psychological manipulation at its most refined.

"Our engagement will be the primary topic of interest," he continues. "The official story is that we met through mutual business connections, developed a relationship privately over several months, and recently decided to formalize our commitment."

"A romantic fiction," I observe, unable to entirely suppress my bitterness.

"A simplified narrative for public consumption," he corrects. "The details of private arrangements remain private."

A knock at the door precedes Mrs. Henderson's appearance. "Mr. Phillips and Mrs. Phillips have arrived, sir."

"Thank you. We'll greet them in the foyer." Gage turns to me, extending his arm. "Shall we?"

I place my hand on his forearm, my grip light but present—exactly as I've observed countless society wives do at similar functions. The perfect fiancée, ready to perform her role in this elaborate fiction.

The evening progresses like a carefully orchestrated ballet. I smile at appropriate moments, ask thoughtful questions about guests' interests, laugh softly at mild jokes. When conversation turns to our engagement, I allow Gage to lead while contributing details that support our fictional romance.

"Gage was quite persistent," I tell Diana Phillips over aperitifs, my tone gently teasing. "I was focused on my business and not looking for a relationship, but he can be very persuasive."

Gage's hand settles at the small of my back, a possessive gesture disguised as affection. "Penelope is being generous. The truth is, I pursued her rather shamelessly once I recognized her value."

The irony of this statement—the single honest thing he's said all evening—isn't lost on me.

Dinner continues the performance—exquisite food served on antique china, vintage wines poured into crystal.

I navigate conversation with practiced ease, drawing on years of society functions from my former life as an Everett.

The guests respond well, particularly Judge Harrison, who seems genuinely interested in my background in floral design.

"You must see Penelope's work in the conservatory," Gage tells them as dessert is served. "She has a remarkable gift for composition and color."

"I'd love a tour," Caroline Harrison says, her interest seemingly genuine. "I've always admired people with artistic talent."

"Perhaps next time," Gage replies smoothly. "It's best viewed in daylight."

I recognize the deflection for what it is—limiting my private interaction with guests who might provide connections outside his control.

After dinner, the men retreat to Gage's study for brandy while the women move to the drawing room. It's an archaic tradition that I find laughably regressive, but I follow without comment.

"How are you adapting to Chicago?" Louise Wei asks once we're settled with coffee. "Gage mentioned you were based in New York previously."

Another fiction in our carefully constructed narrative—erasing my five years at Wildflower to prevent uncomfortable questions about the suddenness of our engagement.