Page 19 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

Gage nods, accepting the explanation without pressing further. We continue riding for nearly an hour, cresting a hill to reveal a stunning view of the river valley below, morning mist still clinging to distant bluffs.

"The southern boundary," Gage indicates with a gesture that encompasses the panoramic vista. "Blackwood land ends at the river."

We dismount near a small cabin overlooking the valley. Unlike the rustic retreat where he took me after my escape attempt, this structure is clearly functional rather than residential—solar panels on the roof, satellite equipment, reinforced doors with electronic locks.

"Wait here," Gage says, securing our horses to a hitching post. "This won't take long."

He enters the cabin using both key card and biometric scan, leaving me alone in the clearing.

I consider the moment—the first time I've been without direct supervision since my capture.

The temptation to run flashes briefly. Running where?

Four miles of Blackwood land between me and the nearest boundary, unfamiliar terrain, no resources, no plan.

Another impulsive escape would end exactly as the first did, with recapture and increased restrictions.

Gage emerges fifteen minutes later, tucking a small electronic device into his jacket pocket. "Equipment check complete," he says, offering no further explanation as he unties the horses. "We'll take the eastern trail back—different terrain, but equally scenic."

The return journey follows a path along the river before cutting back through denser forest toward the main estate. As we ride, Gage points out natural features, historical markers, boundaries of the property.

"You know this land intimately," I observe during a brief rest beside a small waterfall. "Did you grow up here?"

"No," he says finally. "I acquired the estate after my father's death. My childhood home was... less expansive."

"Where did you grow up?"

"South side. Industrial district that's since been redeveloped. Nothing remains of it now."

We return to the stables by mid-afternoon, the exercise having produced a physical satisfaction I hadn't expected. As grooms take the horses, Gage checks his watch.

"I have conference calls for the remainder of the day," he says, returning to his usual business demeanor. "Dinner will be at seven in the small dining room. Isabella has final wedding details to review, so she'll join us."

The wedding. Always returning to the central reality, the approaching ceremony that will formalize my cage.

I nod.

"Thank you for the ride," I say. "It was... refreshing to be outside the estate boundaries."

He looks satisfied at what he perceives as gradual acceptance of my situation. "You'll find that cooperation expands your boundaries, Penelope. Resistance contracts them."

The underlying message is clear: behave, and the cage will grow larger. Continue fighting, and it will shrink accordingly. Behavioral conditioning at its most sophisticated.

I return to my suite to shower and change, my mind processing the morning's experiences.

Dinner with Isabella proves exactly as expected—wedding details presented as if for my approval while actually already decided. Cake flavors, floral arrangements, musical selections—all ostensibly requiring my input while clearly already finalized.

"The guest list requires final approval," Isabella says, sliding a leather portfolio across the table. "Mr. Blackwood has made preliminary selections, but suggested you might want to add personal connections."

I open the portfolio to find three hundred names—Chicago's elite, business associates, political connections. A society spectacle designed to announce Gage Blackwood's acquisition of an appropriate wife rather than celebrate any genuine union.

"My shop assistant, Sandra Miller," I say, testing the boundaries of this supposed input. "And a few friends—Mia Chen, Dylan Porter, Tara Williams."

Gage nods slightly, permission granted for these small additions to his carefully curated list. "Anyone else?"

I consider mentioning colleagues from the floral community but decide against it.

"That's sufficient," I reply, closing the portfolio. "The remaining arrangements seem... comprehensive."

Isabella beams, clearly relieved by my apparent cooperation. "Excellent! With these final approvals, everything is on schedule for May 15th."

The date hangs in the air between us—thirty-two days away.

After Isabella departs, Gage remains at the table, studying me with that assessing gaze of his.

"You seem more... settled today," he observes, sipping his wine. "The riding was beneficial, I think."

"Physical activity usually is," I reply neutrally. "Especially after weeks of confinement."

"Not confinement," he corrects automatically. "This is an adjustment period. A necessary phase following your escape attempt."

The semantic distinction without practical difference—another hallmark of how Gage frames my captivity.

"Will we attend other events before Violet's wedding?" I ask instead, shifting to practical matters. "I assume our engagement requires public appearances."

"Several," he confirms. "The Children's Hospital Gala next weekend.

The Symphony benefit the following Tuesday.

A dinner with the mayor's economic advisory committee.

" He studies me over his wine glass. "You'll continue to have appropriate clothing and accessories provided. Marta will assist with preparation."

The details of my performance, laid out like a business itinerary. I nod, accepting the schedule.

"And Wildflower?" I ask. "When may I check on operations?"

"Sandra continues to manage day-to-day activities successfully," he replies smoothly. "You'll receive weekly reports, as arranged. Physical visits remain impractical given current circumstances."

"Perhaps virtual oversight?" I suggest. "Video conferences with Sandra to discuss design decisions, client consultations?"

He considers this, weighing the potential risks against my apparent compliance these past weeks. "Limited video consultation might be arranged, with appropriate security measures."

A small victory, hard-won through weeks of performance.

"Thank you. It would help ensure consistency in the creative direction."

Later, alone in my suite, I stand before the window overlooking the darkened gardens. I was beginning to hate the view.

He believes he's succeeding—that my performance of gradual acceptance reflects adjustment.

I turn from the window, moving to the small desk where I've begun keeping a journal—a record of wedding preparations, I'm not stupid enough to keep anything incriminating inside of it but it's another tool to make it look like he's won.

I close the journal, carefully replacing it.

The game has only begun.