Page 27 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

"Actually," Gage counters smoothly, "your mother has departed. An appointment with her interior designer couldn't be rescheduled." He turns to Marcus with practiced social grace. "You'll excuse us, Mr. Valhalla? There are wedding matters requiring private discussion."

Marcus withdraws with professional efficiency, leaving me alone with Gage amid partially constructed wedding scenery—a fitting metaphor for our situation.

"Your mother seemed distressed," Gage observes once we're alone. "Your conversation must have contributed to it."

"She was sharing historical context I found illuminating," I reply carefully. "Apparently I was nearly traded to several other potential husbands despite your arrangement with my father."

Gage looks satisfied at having secured the arrangement himself. "William explored multiple options before our agreement was finalized. The Montgomerys were particularly persistent."

"So I learned," I say.

His gaze is steady, unapologetic. "The wedding date approaches rapidly. Isabella mentioned you've been less than engaged with certain decisions requiring your input."

"I've made decisions where my input actually matters," I respond. "The rest seems predetermined regardless of my preferences."

"Your preferences have been incorporated where necessary," he counters.

A staff member approaches before I can respond, maintaining respectful distance until acknowledged. "Mr. Blackwood, the conference call with Tokyo has been rescheduled for six this evening. Mr. Chen apologizes for the change."

Gage nods dismissal, turning back to me once we're alone again. "The wedding invitation distribution completes tomorrow. Three hundred formal announcements to Chicago's elite, business associates, and select political connections."

The number strikes me suddenly—three hundred witnesses to my captivity disguised as celebration.

"So many guests for an arrangement that's essentially a business merger," I observe bitterly.

"I've scheduled a visit to Wildflower tomorrow afternoon," he continues, consulting his phone calendar. "You'll have two hours with Sandra to review operations, supervised by Victor naturally. The business appears to be thriving under interim management."

The unexpected concession momentarily disarms me. "Thank you," I say, genuine gratitude mixing uncomfortably with resentment that such permission is required at all.

"Your continued cooperation warrants appropriate recognition," he says, the subtle reinforcement of our power dynamic unmistakable despite the surface generosity. "The prenuptial agreement requires your signature by tomorrow evening. Legal counsel will be available to answer questions."

"Legal counsel chosen by you," I clarify. "Not independent representation."

"The sensitive nature of certain clauses precludes truly independent review," he confirms without apology. "However, Mr. Geller is a respected attorney with ethical obligations that extend beyond his client relationship with me."

I resist the urge to argue further, recognizing the futility of challenging arrangements already finalized. "What time should I be ready for the Wildflower visit?"

"One o'clock. Victor will drive you directly, allowing arrival during Sandra's lunch break to minimize staff interaction. Two hours on-site, returning by three-thirty for the final meeting with the caterers."

I nod in acceptance.

"Is there anything else you require for the Wildflower visit?" he asks, his tone shifting slightly toward something almost considerate. "Materials from your suite, perhaps, or specific items currently at the shop?"

The unexpected consideration, however limited, creates momentary dissonance. "My design notebook in the upper desk drawer," I reply after brief consideration. "And perhaps my personal scissors from the conservatory equipment."

"I'll have them ready for tomorrow," he promises, glancing at his watch. "I have calls until dinner. We'll review the Tokyo discussion over the meal, as the project may have implications for our honeymoon scheduling."

The casual reference to "honeymoon" sends an involuntary shiver through me—the physical aspect of our arrangement that remains carefully undiscussed since the kiss in the conservatory.

"One more thing," Gage adds, his expression shifting toward something more serious. "Your father will attend the prenuptial signing tomorrow evening."

"I understand," I say simply.

He studies me for a moment longer, then nods farewell and turns toward the house, leaving me alone amid the half-constructed trappings of our approaching wedding.

I remain in the garden until sunset, watching workers dismantle equipment for the day, the wedding pavilion taking shape piece by careful piece. Two weeks from Saturday, I will stand beneath that structure and speak vows I don't mean to a man who purchased me through arrangement with my father.

I turn toward the house as darkness settles over the garden, the weight of the diamond ring on my finger a constant reminder of the countdown underway.

The wedding date looms ever closer.