Page 24 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T hunder rumbles in the distance, an approaching storm matching my turbulent mood.

I stand at the window of Gage's office, watching dark clouds roll across the horizon, heavy with the promise of rain. Behind me, Gage works at his desk, the steady click of his keyboard providing counterpoint to the growing atmospheric tension.

Three days have passed since the kiss in the conservatory.

Three days of careful avoidance, of conversations limited to necessary topics, of maintaining physical distance whenever possible.

We attended Violet's wedding together yesterday—the perfect engaged couple in public, silent strangers in private.

The wedding itself had been exactly as expected—opulent, meticulously orchestrated, a society spectacle rather than genuine celebration.

Violet had looked beautiful and trapped, her smile never quite reaching her eyes as she pledged herself to Charles Montgomery III beside the altar of St. Margaret's Cathedral.

"You're quiet," Gage observes without looking up from his work. "Still processing your sister's wedding?"

I continue staring at the approaching storm. "Wondering if she feels as captive as I do."

"Your sister's arrangement differs significantly from ours," he replies, his tone matter-of-fact. "The Montgomerys have cultivated that connection since Violet was a child. She's been prepared for her role, accepts its parameters."

"Acceptance born of lifelong conditioning isn't genuine choice."

"Few choices in life are entirely free of external influence or constraint." His keyboard falls silent as he gives me his full attention. "You may find that perspective unsatisfying, I realize. But it remains reality regardless."

I turn from the window to face him directly, my patience for his justifications thoroughly exhausted. "I didn't come here to debate abstract concepts of free will. I came to discuss practical matters."

"Which would be?"

"The prenuptial agreement. The wedding date. My continued imprisonment in this house." I move toward his desk, intentionally invading the space he considers his domain. "You promised transparency regarding our arrangement. I've demonstrated sufficient compliance to earn that much."

Gage leans back in his chair, studying me with that assessing gaze I've come to recognize. "Your compliance has been performative rather than genuine. We both know that."

"And your transparency has been selective rather than complete," I counter. "We both know that too."

A slight smile touches his lips, almost appreciative of my directness. "Very well. Which aspect of our arrangement requires immediate clarification?"

"The legal framework. I want to review the complete prenuptial agreement, not just the summary your attorneys provided."

"That can be arranged," he says easily, making a note on his tablet. "The documents will be delivered this evening."

"I want to consult with independent legal counsel before signing."

His expression hardens slightly. "That won't be possible. The sensitive nature of certain clauses precludes outside review."

"Then I won't sign."

"Then you won't marry me," he replies calmly. "And your father's legal protection will be withdrawn, with consequences we've already thoroughly discussed."

We stare at each other across the desk, the fundamental reality of our situation stark between us. No matter what small concessions he might grant, the core dynamic remains unchanged—I am here because the alternative consequences are unacceptable.

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the office in stark white light. Thunder follows almost immediately, the storm no longer approaching but arrived in full force.

Rain begins to lash against the windows, driven by increasing wind.

"Your father called this morning," Gage says, changing the subject with deliberate precision. "He's displeased with certain arrangements for our wedding. Specifically, your insistence on creating your own bridal bouquet rather than using Valhalla's designs."

"My bouquet is the one element of this farce I should control," I reply, irritation flaring at my father's continued interference. "Flowers are my profession, my passion. Even prisoners on death row get a last meal of their choosing."

"Dramatic comparisons don't strengthen your position, Penelope." His tone remains even, unaffected by my growing anger. "I've already informed William that floral decisions remain your domain. The matter is settled."

The unexpected support catches me off guard. "Thank you," I say automatically, then immediately regret showing gratitude for what should be a basic right.

Gage returns to his work, apparently considering the conversation concluded.

I remain standing, frustration building at his ability to control not just my physical circumstances but the very flow of our interactions.

"The kiss," I say abruptly, the words escaping before I can reconsider. "Was that another strategic move to break my resistance?"

His fingers freeze above the keyboard, his expression shifting to something more guarded. "No."

"No explanation? Just 'no'?"

"The kiss was not strategic," he clarifies, his voice cooler now. "It was impulsive. A mistake in judgment that won't be repeated."

"You don't make impulsive mistakes," I challenge, moving closer to his desk. "Every action serves your objectives. Every interaction advances your agenda."

"You overestimate my calculation and underestimate human nature," he replies, rising from his chair as if unwilling to continue this conversation at a physical disadvantage. "Even the most disciplined minds have moments of impulse."

"And what impulse led you to kiss your prisoner?" I press, deliberately provocative. "Possession? Control? Or simply boredom with your usual games?"

His expression darkens, that dangerous edge I've glimpsed occasionally now more visible beneath his controlled exterior. "You're not a prisoner, Penelope. You're my fiancée."

"Fiancée implies consent," I argue, voice rising to match the storm's intensity outside. "What you have is ownership, purchased from my father like medieval property transfer."

"If you insist on viewing yourself as property, that's your choice." His voice remains controlled despite the increasing tension. "I've offered partnership. You refuse to see beyond your resentment."

"Partnership requires equal power," I snap, my carefully maintained facade finally cracking under accumulated pressure. "What we have is captor and captive, disguised in pretty language to ease your conscience."

"My conscience requires no easing," he replies coldly. "I entered a legitimate business arrangement with your father. The terms were clear. The legal framework sound. Your emotional response to those facts doesn't change their fundamental validity."

"Then why kiss me?" I demand, stepping closer, invading his personal space in deliberate challenge. "If this is merely business, why introduce physical intimacy? Why complicate a transaction with unwanted contact?"

Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or something deeper I can't quite identify. "Because despite your determined resistance to reality, we will be married in two weeks. Physical intimacy will eventually be expected."

"Expected but not guaranteed," I correct sharply. "The prenup may legally bind me to this house, but you can't force me to share your bed."

His expression hardens. "I would never force you. Coercion isn't necessary when time and proximity inevitably create connection. Human beings adapt, Penelope. Even the most resistant eventually seek comfort in their circumstances."

"Stockholm Syndrome isn't consent," I say, my voice dropping dangerously low. "It's psychological survival."

"And clinging to anger that changes nothing isn't freedom," he counters. "It's self-imposed suffering."

I laugh bitterly. "Now we reach the truth. You're frustrated that I won't give up. You want my compliance. My surrender."

"What I want," he says with dangerous precision, "is for you to stop fighting battles you cannot win and focus your considerable intelligence on making the best out of the circumstances."

"What you want," I correct, pushing further into dangerous territory, "is to break me without leaving visible marks. To reshape me into the perfect wife who values your occasional kindness."

Lightning flashes again, the storm directly overhead now, thunder cracking almost simultaneously. Rain pounds against the windows with increasing fury, nature's violence providing backdrop to our escalating confrontation.

"You know nothing about what I want," Gage says, his control fraying visibly now. "You've constructed a convenient villain in your mind, assigning me motivations that justify your continued defiance."

"Then tell me what you want!" I challenge, my voice rising almost to a shout. "Plain language about your actual intentions for this farce of a marriage."

"I want partnership with a woman whose intelligence and strength match my own," he replies, his voice remaining controlled despite the intensity of his words.

"I want legitimate alliance with a family name that opens doors my own cannot, despite my financial success.

I want children who combine the best qualities of both bloodlines. I want?—"

"Bloodlines?" I interrupt, latching onto the revealing word. "You make it sound like horse breeding. Genetic selection for optimal offspring. Is that how your father viewed marriage? As a stud arrangement for producing superior heirs?"

His left hand flexes, indicating I've struck a nerve. "My father is irrelevant to this discussion."

"Is he?" I press harder, deliberately targeting the vulnerability I'd glimpsed. "Your uncle suggested otherwise. He implied your father's approach to family has shaped your entire understanding of relationships."

"Richard speaks on matters he barely comprehends," Gage says, tension evident in every line of his body now. "My father's parenting has no bearing on our arrangement."