Page 17 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

"The transition has been surprisingly smooth," I reply, the lie flowing easily. "Though I miss certain aspects of New York's creative community."

"I imagine it's quite a change, moving into Gage's world," Diana Phillips comments, her tone suggesting layers of meaning. "He's always been rather... particular about his privacy."

"That's one way to describe it," Caroline Harrison adds with a knowing smile. "I remember when he brought Eliza Winters to the Symphony Gala last year. She lasted exactly one social season before mysteriously disappearing from the calendar."

My pulse quickens at this unguarded reference to Gage's previous relationship—information he's carefully avoided sharing. "Eliza Winters?"

Diana glances toward the door, lowering her voice slightly. "A political consultant with connections to Washington. Everyone assumed it was heading toward engagement, then suddenly she was gone and Gage was attending functions alone again. Until you appeared."

"How interesting," I murmur, filing this information away. "Gage rarely discusses his past relationships."

"Men never do," Louise says with a dismissive wave. "Especially men like Gage Blackwood, who compartmentalize their lives so effectively. I'm sure Malcolm has entire chapters of his past I know nothing about, and we've been married fifteen years."

The conversation shifts to other topics, but my mind remains fixed on this new information. Eliza Winters—a name to investigate.

When the men rejoin us, I notice Gage's slightly heightened color, the barely perceptible tension in his shoulders. Something in the study didn't go as planned.

The evening concludes with polite farewells, promises of future gatherings, the social ritual complete. When the last guest departs, Gage's public persona shifts subtly—the charming host replaced by the controlled, calculating man I've come to know in private.

"You performed well," he says as we return to the library, his version of praise. "Judge Harrison was particularly impressed."

"He seemed a decent man." I remove the emerald earrings, the weight suddenly intolerable. "His daughter mentioned someone named Eliza Winters. A previous relationship of yours, apparently."

I watch for his reaction, testing whether this subject triggers the same response as mentions of his father. His expression stays neutral, but his left hand flexes slightly.

"Caroline Harrison talks too much," he remarks, pouring himself a scotch. "Eliza was a brief connection that didn't develop further. Hardly relevant to our situation."

"Did she also have a 'simplified narrative for public consumption'?"

His gaze sharpens at my tone. "Careful, Penelope. Your performance this evening was impressive, but don't mistake social success for expanded boundaries."

"I'm simply curious about your previous women," I reply, maintaining an innocent expression. "If I'm to play my role convincingly, understanding precedent seems useful."

He studies me for a moment, assessing my true motivation. "Eliza Winters was a business associate who briefly became more. When our personal connection proved incompatible with professional objectives, we returned to appropriate distance."

"Just a normal relationship that ended naturally," I suggest, the skepticism evident in my voice.

"As normal as any relationship in my position can be." He sips his scotch, watching me over the rim of his glass. "Does it bother you, Penelope? The thought of previous women in my life?"

"Why would it?" I remove the heavy emerald necklace, setting it on the desk. "Ours isn't a romantic connection. Your past is irrelevant."

"Yet you're clearly interested in Eliza."

"I'm interested in patterns," I correct. "In understanding how you operate, how you manage relationships, what happened to those who came before me."

His expression shifts toward amusement. "Looking for escape routes through my romantic history?”

I don't deny the accusation. We've moved beyond such pretenses.

"You should get some rest," he says, changing the subject. "Tomorrow's schedule includes a meeting with the wedding planner at ten, followed by the doctor's appointment at one."

The reminder of tomorrow's "health assessment" sends a chill through me.

Dr. Fielding—Gage's personal physician—will conduct a comprehensive examination, ostensibly to ensure my well-being before the wedding.

The unspoken purpose, which Gage hasn't bothered to disguise, is to confirm I'm not pregnant from any previous relationship.

"Is the medical examination really necessary?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Yes." No elaboration, no justification. Simply another requirement of my captivity.

I nod, continuing the performance of compliance. "Then I'll bid you goodnight."

"One moment." He crosses to his desk, removing a small box from the drawer. "I noticed you prefer simpler jewelry for daily wear. Perhaps these will be more to your taste than the emeralds."

The box contains diamond stud earrings—elegant but understated, closer to my actual preference than the gems I wore tonight. The gesture is calculated, of course—another demonstration that he studies my preferences, anticipates my needs. Psychological manipulation disguised as thoughtfulness.

"Thank you," I say, taking the box without further comment. "Goodnight, Gage."

"Goodnight, Penelope."

A security guard waits in the hallway to escort me to my suite—another reminder that despite the evening's social facade, I remain a prisoner. In my rooms, Marta has laid out nightclothes and turned down the bed, the perfect service for the elegant captivity.

Once alone, I move through my evening routine mechanically, mind racing with new information from the dinner.

I check systematically for new surveillance devices—a habit formed since discovering the extent of monitoring in my previous suite. Finding none beyond the existing cameras, I prepare for bed, maintaining the appearance of routine while my mind continues its constant calculation.

The silk nightgown is another gift from Gage—expensive, tasteful. I slide between sheets with a thread count higher than I've slept in in years, surrounded by luxury while stripped of freedom.

Sleep eludes me. I stare at the ceiling, mapping our progress toward the wedding date.

Six weeks has become four, each day bringing me closer to the permanent codification of my captivity.

The prenuptial agreement waits for my signature—hundreds of pages of legal language that essentially state I'll have nothing if I leave, everything if Gage dies.

An incentive for endurance, perhaps.

My thoughts betrays me with unbidden images: Gage's hand at the small of my back, the intensity of his gaze when he thinks I'm not looking, the undeniable physical presence of him when we're alone together.

Not attraction—I refuse to name it that. Simply awareness, the biological recognition of a physically imposing male in close proximity. Nothing more. Nothing that undermines my determination to escape this gilded prison.

Dawn breaks before I find real rest. When Marta arrives with breakfast, I'm already showered and dressed in clothing chosen to project cooperation. The day's performance begins anew—wedding planner at ten, doctor at one, another step toward the inevitable.

Except I refuse to believe it's inevitable. Somewhere in this meticulous facade, this careful prison, exists a weakness I haven't yet identified. Gage Blackwood is brilliant, thorough, and controlling—but he's also human. And humans make mistakes.

I will find his. I must.

The wedding planner arrives precisely at ten—Isabella Romano, a severe woman with impeccable credentials and a portfolio of society weddings that apparently justifies her astronomical fee.

She treats me with the practiced deference of someone who believes I've chosen this match rather than being forced into it.

"Mr. Blackwood mentioned you have experience with floral design," she says as we review reception options. "While we'll use Valhalla Flowers for the primary arrangements, he thought you might want to create personal touches for certain elements."

The name stops me cold. Valhalla Flowers—the high-end design studio owned by Marcus Valhalla, my primary competitor and occasional nemesis in the Chicago floral scene. The deliberate slight can only be my father's doing; Gage is too strategic for such petty cruelty.

"I would prefer to handle all floral elements myself," I say, keeping my voice steady. "It's my area of expertise, after all."

Isabella's smile is professionally sympathetic. "Mr. Blackwood and your father have already contracted with Valhalla. The arrangements are quite spectacular—I can show you the preliminary designs."

Of course they have. Another small humiliation, another reminder of my powerlessness in this arrangement. I force a smile, continuing the performance.

"I'm sure they'll be lovely," I lie. "But I would still like to create personal elements—my bouquet, at minimum."

"I'll discuss it with Mr. Blackwood," she promises, making a note that I'm certain will disappear as soon as she leaves.

We continue reviewing details for an event I've had no real part in planning—venue (Blackwood Estate), guests (three hundred of Chicago's elite plus family), menu (elaborate and expensive), music (string quartet followed by twelve-piece orchestra).

A society spectacle designed to cement the fiction of our relationship while publicly binding me to Gage Blackwood before I can find escape.

Dr. Fielding arrives promptly at one—a distinguished man in his sixties with the discreet manner of someone accustomed to handling sensitive medical matters for the wealthy.

He sets up in a suite converted to a temporary examination room, complete with state-of-the-art equipment that would impress a hospital administrator.

"Miss Everett," he greets me formally. "Mr. Blackwood has requested a comprehensive health assessment as we approach your wedding. Standard procedure for my high-profile patients planning families."

The presumption—that I will be bearing Blackwood heirs—hangs unspoken between us.

I submit to the examination with outward calm, answering questions truthfully while maintaining emotional distance.

Yes, I'm in good health. No, no significant medical history.

Yes, regular menstrual cycles. No, no current sexual partners.

The thoroughness of the examination borders on invasive—blood drawn for extensive testing, gynecological exam conducted with clinical efficiency, detailed questions about reproductive history that make the purpose unmistakable.

I am being assessed as breeding stock, my physical suitability for producing heirs evaluated with the same attention Gage gives to business acquisitions.

When Dr. Fielding completes his examination, his manner remains professionally neutral. "Everything appears excellent, Miss Everett. Pending lab results, I see no concerns regarding your health or fertility."

The relief in his voice suggests this outcome wasn't guaranteed—that had he found issues with my "fertility," my position in Gage's household might have changed dramatically. Another layer of this arrangement that treats me as property rather than person.

"When will Mr. Blackwood receive the results?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"I'll provide a complete report by tomorrow morning." No pretense of patient confidentiality, no acknowledgment of the ethical breach. In Gage Blackwood's world, standard protections don't apply.

After the doctor departs, I return to my suite, emotionally drained by the day's performances—cooperative fiancée with the wedding planner, compliant patient with the doctor.

The facade grows more difficult to maintain as wedding preparations accelerate, as the reality of my situation becomes increasingly concrete.

I stand at the window, watching rain begin to fall across the estate grounds. The glass is cool against my forehead, the outside world blurred by water and distance. Beyond these walls the world proceeds without me.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I compose my expression before answering.

Gage stands in the hallway, umbrella dripping onto marble flooring. "Get changed," he says without preamble. "We're going out."

The unexpected statement catches me off guard. "Out?"

"Dinner in the city. Business associates who couldn't attend last night. Wear something appropriate for Asteria."

Asteria—Chicago's most exclusive restaurant, impossible to book without significant connections. A public appearance, then. The continuation of our social introduction as a couple.

"Of course," I say, maintaining the performance. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes."

He nods, turning to leave before pausing. "Dr. Fielding mentioned you were... cooperative. I appreciate that."

"The examination was unnecessary," I say, allowing a hint of genuine feeling to surface. "I have no relevant medical history that would affect our arrangement."

"The examination was essential," he corrects. "Health complications would require adjustments to our timeline and expectations. I don't enter contracts without due diligence, Penelope."

Contracts. Always the transactional framing. I nod, not trusting myself to respond without revealing the depth of my revulsion.

"Twenty minutes," he reminds me, then departs.

I dress quickly, selecting a midnight blue dress that balances elegance with appropriate modesty for a business dinner. The diamond studs he gave me last night replace the emeralds—a small choice that maintains the illusion of agency.

As I apply lipstick, I study my reflection, searching for signs of the woman I was just weeks ago. She's still there. Subdued but not vanquished. Waiting, watching, planning.

I take a deep breath, straightening my spine. The game continues, the stakes increasing with each passing day.