Page 18 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

A steria glitters like a jewel box—crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across polished surfaces, the quiet hum of Chicago's elite engaging in careful conversation designed to reveal nothing while suggesting everything.

I sit beside Gage at a prime table overlooking the river, the city's nightscape spread before us like an offering.

"Kelvin Zhang approaches from your left," Gage murmurs, his lips barely moving. "Technology investments, potential partner for the Singapore expansion. His wife Adelaide is an art collector with connections to the museum board."

I nod imperceptibly. I've drawn on years of society training from my former life.

"Gage Blackwood!" A distinguished Asian man in his fifties approaches, his elegantly dressed wife at his side. "Finally emerging from your fortress to join civilized society."

Gage rises, shaking the man's hand with practiced warmth. "Kelvin. Merely waiting for the right company."

His hand settles at the small of my back as he introduces me, a gesture disguised as affection. "Penelope Everett, my fiancée. Penelope, Kelvin and Adelaide Zhang."

"A pleasure," I offer with a practiced smile. "Gage mentioned your art collection, Mrs. Zhang. I'd love to hear about your recent acquisitions."

Adelaide brightens, clearly pleased to discuss her passion.

The conversation flows easily—art leading to design, design to my background in florals, florals to aesthetic philosophy.

I navigate topics with careful precision, revealing enough to seem genuine while avoiding anything that might contradict our fabricated history.

Throughout dinner, I observe Gage with the men, noting how differently he operates in business settings versus our private interactions.

Here, he allows hints of charm to surface—calculated displays of humor, strategic concessions that make others feel valued, a masterful orchestration of egos and interests.

"Your fiancée is delightful," Adelaide tells Gage during dessert. "Such a refreshing combination of aesthetic sensitivity and practical intelligence. Where have you been hiding her?"

"Penelope has been focused on her career in New York," he replies smoothly, the practiced fiction rolling off his tongue. "We've kept our relationship private while navigating the complexities of merging our lives."

"Well, I'm thrilled you've finally found someone worthy of bringing into the fold," she continues, patting my hand with genuine warmth. "After that business with Eliza, we were beginning to worry."

Gage's expression doesn't change, but I note the slight tensing of his shoulders.

"Eliza and I had different priorities," he says diplomatically. "Penelope and I share fundamental values."

Shared values. I refrain from snorting and instead smile and sip my wine.

The evening concludes with promises of future engagements, contact information exchanged, the social infrastructure of our public fiction further solidified. In the car returning to the estate, Gage reviews the evening's successes.

"Zhang is interested in the Singapore project," he notes, scrolling through messages on his phone. "Your conversation with Adelaide about Japanese minimalism was particularly effective—they recently acquired a significant collection from Kyoto."

"I wasn't aware I was responsible for business development during dinner," I observe, removing my earrings.

"Everything is business development, Penelope. Social connections merely provide more pleasant contexts than conference rooms." He glances up from his phone. "You performed exceptionally well. The Zhangs were impressed, as were the Kowalskis and Senator Morrison."

The careful praise—always framed as performance assessment rather than genuine appreciation. Always reminding me of my role in his strategic operations.

"Adelaide mentioned Eliza again," I note casually. "That's twice in two days that her name has surfaced. She seems to have made quite an impression on your social circle."

His expression doesn't change, but his hand stills on his phone. "Eliza attended several social functions during our brief connection. People remember what they choose to remember."

"And what should I remember about your 'brief connection'?" I press. "Since it seems to be common knowledge I'm expected to possess."

He studies me for a moment. "Eliza Winters was a political consultant I met through mutual connections.

We had a relationship that lasted approximately four months before concluding amicably when our professional paths diverged.

She subsequently accepted a position in Washington. There's nothing more to remember."

The precision of the statement suggests careful editing.

"And was she also kept under surveillance? Tracked? Monitored?" The questions slip out before I can censor them.

Gage's expression hardens slightly. "Eliza's circumstances were entirely different from yours, Penelope. She wasn't part of a formal arrangement. She wasn't attempting to escape legal obligations. The comparison is irrelevant."

"Yet it seems to be the comparison everyone makes," I observe. "Perhaps because they don't know the truth of our 'connection'."

"No one knows the complete truth of any connection," he replies, his voice cooling to professional detachment. "Public narratives serve their purpose. Private realities serve theirs."

We lapse into silence for the remainder of the drive. When we arrive at the estate, Gage walks me to my suite as has become our routine—the perfect gentleman escorting his fiancée, for the benefit of any watching staff.

At my door, he pauses. "The doctor's preliminary report arrived during dinner. You're in excellent health, as expected."

The clinical assessment, delivered like a business update. I resist the urge to ask if I've passed inspection.

"Good night, Gage." I open my door, ready to escape the performance.

"One more thing." He removes an envelope from his jacket. "Your sister's wedding invitation arrived today. I've arranged for us to attend together, of course."

Violet's wedding. I'd almost forgotten my sister's approaching nuptials to Charles Montgomery III—the society wedding of the season, occurring just weeks before my own arranged ceremony.

"When?" I ask, taking the heavy cream envelope.

"Three weeks from Saturday. I've cleared my schedule." He studies my reaction. "I thought you'd want to be present for your sister's celebration, despite the complexities of your family situation."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it despite myself. "I would like to attend."

He nods, apparently satisfied with my response. "Good night, Penelope."

When he's gone, I open the invitation—heavy card stock, elaborate calligraphy, the full society production expected of a Montgomery-Everett union.

How will she see me now? The sister who escaped, only to be recaptured and displayed like a trophy on Gage Blackwood's arm? Will she recognize my captivity beneath the facade of compliance? Would she help if she did?

I prepare for bed mechanically.

Sleep eludes me, as it often does now. I stare at the ceiling.

Morning brings a change in routine. Instead of Marta with breakfast, Gage himself knocks at precisely eight o'clock.

"Get dressed for riding," he says without preamble. "Casual, practical clothing. We leave in twenty minutes."

The unexpected directive momentarily disrupts my performance. "Riding?"

"Horses," he clarifies, as if I might have misunderstood. "I have business at the southern property this morning. You'll accompany me."

Not a request—never that. I nod, maintaining the appearance of compliance while mentally calculating the significance of this small extension of my boundaries.

Twenty minutes later, I meet him at the stables—a facility I'd observed from a distance but never visited. Eight immaculate stalls house magnificent animals, tended by staff who clearly know their business. Gage stands with a tall black Thoroughbred, speaking quietly to the head groom.

"This is Athena," he says as I approach, gesturing to a chestnut mare being prepared nearby. "She's experienced but responsive. You've ridden before?"

"Yes." I stroke the mare's neck, appreciating her quiet intelligence. "English and Western, though it's been several years."

He nods, apparently satisfied with this information. "We'll take the southern trail. The property extends approximately four miles in that direction, ending at the river boundary. The business matter shouldn't take long."

I mount with practiced ease—another skill from my former life as an Everett, where equestrian abilities were considered essential for proper society daughters. The familiar movements come back quickly, my body remembering what my mind had filed away as irrelevant.

We ride in silence through the maintained grounds that give way to more natural landscape—old-growth forest interspersed with meadows, a stream cutting through occasionally.

Despite the circumstances, I find myself enjoying the physical freedom, the rhythmic movement, the fresh air after weeks of indoor confinement.

Gage rides slightly ahead, his posture perfect, his control of the powerful Thoroughbred seemingly effortless.

"You ride well," he observes, glancing back as we navigate a narrow trail. "Your father mentioned you competed as a teenager."

"Hunter-jumper circuit, until I was seventeen." I guide Athena around a fallen branch. "Another society daughter requirement, like French and piano."

"You were ranked regionally," he continues, revealing yet again the depth of his research into my past. "Qualified for national competition before abruptly withdrawing."

The memory surfaces unexpectedly—my father's rage when I'd announced my intention to attend art school rather than the business program he'd selected, his punishment being withdrawal from the equestrian competitions that had provided my only genuine joy.

"My father had different priorities for my education," I say simply.