Page 26 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he garden pavilion gleams in late afternoon sunlight, white marble columns wrapped with climbing roses—a perfect pastoral fantasy conjured from Gage's limitless resources.

I sit at a wrought iron table covered in fabric swatches, cake samples, and detailed itineraries, surrounded by the machinery of wedding planning grinding relentlessly toward the date circled in red on every calendar in the mansion: two weeks from Saturday.

I nod mechanically, playing my role in this elaborate production while my mind remains fixed on the prenuptial agreement delivered to my suite three nights ago.

"Miss Everett?" Isabella's voice breaks through my contemplation. "The guest seating? You mentioned wanting to review the arrangements?"

"Yes," I respond, focusing on the seating chart she extends. "My friends should be placed together, away from my father's associates."

The sound of approaching footsteps draws my attention. My mother appears on the garden path, her slender figure impeccably dressed as always, her expression a careful mask of polite interest that reveals nothing of her true thoughts.

"Mother," I say, rising from my seat with ingrained politeness rather than genuine warmth. "I didn't know you were visiting today."

"William thought I might be helpful with the final arrangements." She air-kisses my cheek, her perfume expensive and familiar. "Isabella, darling, would you mind giving us a moment? Family matters."

Isabella retreats with professional discretion, leaving me alone with the woman who stood by silently throughout my childhood while my father shaped our family through force of will and strategic manipulation.

"You look tired, Penelope." My mother sits gracefully, assessing me with a practiced eye.

"The stress of wedding planning, I imagine.

Though you seem to be leaving most decisions to professionals, which is wise.

Your sister insisted on managing every detail herself and was quite overwrought by the end. "

"Violet always did try too hard to please everyone," I observe, pouring tea from the silver service left by staff earlier. "How is she? Have you heard from her since the honeymoon?"

"They're extending their stay in the Maldives another week.

" She accepts the teacup with a nod. "And how are you finding your situation?

" she asks, her voice lowered slightly though we're clearly alone.

"Gage Blackwood has a certain reputation in some circles.

Effective in business, but not known for. .. warmth."

I study her carefully, searching for genuine concern beneath social pleasantries. "My situation is what Father arranged," I reply neutrally. "Mr. Blackwood has been precisely what one might expect, given the circumstances."

A flicker of something—regret? discomfort?—crosses her face before the polished mask returns. "Your father did what was necessary for the family. The arrangement with the Blackwoods prevented significant consequences that would have affected all of us, including you and your sister."

"So I've been repeatedly informed," I say, unable to entirely suppress the bitterness in my tone.

My mother sips her tea, gaze shifting to the elaborate pavilion being constructed at the far end of the garden. "The ceremony site is lovely. Understated elegance rather than ostentatious display. Mr. Blackwood has excellent taste."

"The taste was Isabella's," I correct. "Gage merely approves expenses."

"Nevertheless." She sets down her cup with practiced precision. "You might have fared worse, Penelope. There were other potential arrangements your father considered before the Blackwood option presented itself."

I lean forward, suddenly alert. "What other arrangements?"

She hesitates, clearly weighing discretion against disclosure.

"Several possibilities were explored when you turned twenty-one.

The Montgomerys initially expressed interest in a double connection—both their sons married to Everett daughters.

When you... departed... negotiations shifted to alternative candidates. "

"Who else?" I press, hungry for information that might provide context, leverage, understanding of my current situation.

"Martin Sullivan's youngest son," she replies after a moment. "The Russian consortium your father was courting for the Eastern expansion. And briefly, an arrangement with Judge Harrison's nephew, though that fell through when certain legal complications arose."

The casual way she lists these men—these potential owners who might have been assigned to me had circumstances unfolded differently—sends ice through my veins. Not just Gage, but any number of men might have pursued me, claimed me, owing to arrangements I never consented to.

"And you accepted this," I say quietly. "That your daughters could be traded like commodities to benefit Father's business interests."

Her expression hardens slightly. "I accepted the realities of the world we inhabit, Penelope. Women in our position have always made strategic marriages. My own was arranged by my father after the Sullivan merger fell through."

The revelation shouldn't surprise me, yet somehow it does. I've never heard her speak of her own marriage in these terms before.

"Did you ever regret it?" I ask, the question emerging before I can reconsider. "Marrying Father because it was arranged rather than chosen?"

"Regret serves no purpose when alternatives don't exist," she says finally. "I built a life within what was available to me. As will you."

"Mrs. Everett!" Isabella's voice breaks our momentary connection as she hurries back along the garden path. "Mr. Blackwood mentioned you wanted to review the place settings before final approval. I have the samples in my car."

My mother rises, social mask firmly back in place. "Of course, Isabella. Proper presentation is essential." She glances back at me. "We'll continue our conversation another time, Penelope. Perhaps at the final dress fitting on Thursday."

I watch her follow Isabella toward the house, her slender figure the perfect picture of society wifehood—elegant, appropriate, contained within boundaries established by men. Is this my future?

I rise, abandoning the wedding preparations to walk toward the southern edge of the property.

Guards track my progress discreetly, maintaining prescribed distance while ensuring I remain within authorized boundaries.

The pavilion where the wedding ceremony will take place looms ahead, workers constructing elaborate floral arbors under the direction of Marcus Valhalla himself, imported from New York to ensure perfect execution.

He spots me approaching and excuses himself from his team, moving to intercept me with professional courtesy masking obvious curiosity.

"Miss Everett," he greets me, extending his hand. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after hearing so much about your work."

I accept the handshake automatically, years of social training overriding personal feelings. "Mr. Valhalla. Your reputation precedes you as well."

"Your father mentioned you might have opinions regarding the ceremonial arrangements," he says, gesture encompassing the elaborate structures taking shape around us. "Though Mr. Blackwood assured me I had complete creative discretion."

Another subtle reminder of my position, my lack of true agency in this arrangement.

"I'm creating my own bouquet," I say. "The rest is yours to design as contracted."

Marcus studies me with undisguised curiosity. "An unusual choice for a bride in your position. Most women with your resources would prefer to remain hands-off, especially with the ceremony so near."

"I'm a floral designer myself, Mr. Valhalla," I remind him, unable to disguise my irritation. "Flowers are my profession, not merely decorative elements."

"Of course," he backtracks smoothly. "Wildflower has quite the reputation for innovative arrangements. Small but distinctive."

The condescension in his tone is subtle but unmistakable—his operation employs dozens across multiple locations, while mine occupies a single storefront with two employees.

"Would you like to review the structural concepts?" he offers, gesturing toward elaborate design boards nearby. "Mr. Blackwood approved the final vision last week, but modifications might still be possible for certain elements."

"That won't be necessary," I decline, unwilling to participate in this particular humiliation. "I'm sure your work will be exemplary."

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. "Miss Everett—I hope you don't consider this inappropriate, but I've always admired your centerpiece design from the Goldberg wedding last spring.”

The unexpected professional acknowledgment catches me off guard. "Thank you. That was a challenging commission."

"I heard rumors you might be expanding Wildflower's operations before your... engagement." He carefully phrases. "The industry would benefit from your continued creative input, regardless of your new position."

Before I can respond, a familiar voice interrupts. "Mr. Valhalla. I see you've met my fiancée."

Gage approaches from the main house, his expression pleasant but eyes watchful as he assesses our interaction. He wears a charcoal suit despite the informal garden setting, every inch the controlling executive.

"Mr. Blackwood," Marcus responds with immediate deference. "I was just complimenting Miss Everett on her previous design work. Her reputation in the industry is quite impressive."

"Indeed," Gage agrees, his hand settling at the small of my back. "Penelope's talent is exceptional. One reason I've ensured Wildflower continues operations despite our impending marriage."

The proprietary tone—claiming credit for "allowing" my business to exist—sends heat flaring through me.

"I should return to the preparation meetings," I say, glancing toward the main house. "Isabella and my mother are reviewing place settings."