Page 29 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

D ays blend together after signing the prenuptial agreement, the mansion's rhythms becoming a fog through which I move without fully engaging.

I attend fittings for my wedding dress—ivory silk with delicate beading, objectively beautiful though I view it with detachment.

I review final floral arrangements, approve menu selections, and stand for jewelry consultations.

I speak when spoken to, nod when expected, sign documents placed before me, all while feeling increasingly disconnected from my own body.

Eleven days until the wedding becomes nine, then seven, the countdown proceeding with mechanical precision while I retreat further inside myself.

"You've barely touched your breakfast," Marta observes on a rain-streaked morning, concern evident in her usually professional demeanor. "Should I have the kitchen prepare something different, Miss Everett?"

I stare at the untouched eggs and fresh fruit, having forgotten they were even there. "No, thank you. I'm just not hungry this morning."

"You weren't hungry yesterday either," she notes, removing the tray with practiced efficiency. "Or the day before. Mr. Blackwood has asked to be informed of your wellbeing."

Of course he has. My body is now his investment, my health a business concern like any other asset requiring maintenance.

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just wedding preparations consuming my appetite."

Marta doesn't believe me—her expression makes that clear—but she nods and withdraws, leaving me alone in my suite. I move to the window, watching raindrops trace patterns down the glass, each following an inevitable path determined by forces beyond its control.

The garden below stands empty, usually bustling staff kept inside by the downpour.

Wedding preparations continue regardless, the pavilion now covered with temporary structures protecting elaborate floral installations from the weather.

The empty chairs waiting for guests, the ceremonial arch where vows will be exchanged, the reception tables with perfect place settings—all proceed toward completion without requiring my presence or input.

I've stopped fighting. Stopped arguing. Stopped challenging Gage's authority or questioning arrangements.

The prenuptial signing broke something in me, the physical manifestation of my captivity too concrete to deny.

What's the point of resistance when every aspect of my future has been documented in triplicate, signed and notarized, locked in a vault with copies distributed to relevant parties?

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Not Marta's usual discrete tap, but something more authoritative.

"Come in," I call, not turning from the window.

"Penelope."

Gage's voice. I turn slowly, finding him standing just inside the doorway, dressed casually in dark slacks and a charcoal sweater. His expression carries something I haven't seen before—concern, perhaps, or uncertainty.

"You missed yesterday's menu tasting," he says, stepping further into the room. "And the final review with the orchestra. Isabella mentioned you've been difficult to reach for decisions requiring your input."

I shrug slightly. "The chef knows his business. The orchestra will play what they play. My presence changes nothing about the outcomes."

He studies me, his usual calculating assessment now mixed with something else. "You've lost weight. Marta reports minimal food consumption for several days."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're not sleeping either, according to household staff. Lights in your suite remain on throughout the night."

I turn back to the window, watching the steady rain. "Is my insomnia interfering with wedding preparations?"

He doesn't respond immediately, and I hear him move further into the room, stopping several feet behind me. "Your physical wellbeing concerns me, Penelope."

"How touching," I murmur, the words lacking their usual bite. I simply don't have the energy for sarcasm anymore.

"Look at me," he says quietly.

I don't move, continuing to stare at the rain.

"Penelope." His voice carries unexpected gentleness. "Please look at me."

Something in his tone penetrates my fog. I turn slowly, meeting his gaze without really seeing him.

He frowns, studying me with growing concern. "This isn't what I wanted."

"No?" I ask tonelessly. "I've stopped fighting. Stopped arguing. Signed your documents. Attend your events. Stand where I'm told, wear what's selected, speak the approved phrases. Isn't that precisely what you required?"

"I wanted partnership with a woman of intelligence and spirit," he says, stepping closer. "Not a hollow performance from someone sleepwalking through her existence."

A distant part of me recognizes the irony of his complaint. This very outcome was what I had warned him about—breaking my will would destroy the very qualities he claimed to value. But even that recognition feels remote because it just didn’t matter anymore.

"You get what you paid for," I reply flatly.

He reaches out suddenly, taking my hand in his. I let him, feeling nothing at the contact beyond distant awareness of his warmth against my cold fingers.

"Your hands are freezing," he says, genuine concern crossing his features. "How long have you been standing at this window?"

I consider the question, realizing I have no idea. Time has become increasingly meaningless, hours blending into one another without clear distinction. "I don't know."

His frown deepens. "This isn't acceptable, Penelope."

"What isn't? My failure to pretend? I’m sorry I’m not performing to standard."

He turns away, pacing the length of my suite with uncharacteristic restlessness. "This situation isn't productive for either of us."

"Productive," I echo. Another business assessment, measuring my value against expected returns. "Perhaps you should return me for a refund. Clearly the merchandise is defective."

He stops pacing, turning to face me with unexpected intensity. "Enough. This self-destructive spiral benefits no one, least of all yourself."

"Benefits," I murmur. "Tell me, what benefits should I expect from our arrangement? What advantages justify my captivity?"

"Financial security. Social position. Protection from your father's misguided control. Professional continuation of your business. Future children with every advantage?—"

"Stop," I interrupt, the mention of children finally penetrating my emotional distance. "Don't speak of children as if they're another business asset to be acquired and managed."

He studies me for a moment. "Children would be loved, Penelope. Whatever you believe about my capacity for emotion, I wouldn't repeat my father's failures with my own offspring."

The statement carries unexpected vulnerability, catching me off guard. Before I can respond, he continues:

"This current state is unsustainable. You require intervention."

Alarm flickers through my fog. "What kind of intervention?"

"I'm bringing in Dr. Fielding this afternoon," he says, reaching for his phone. "Your physical decline warrants medical attention."

"No." The word emerges sharper than anything I've said in days. "No doctors with their convenient diagnoses and prescribed drugs."

He pauses, watching my sudden animation with interest. "Your objection is noted but overruled. Your health supersedes your preferences at this point."

"My health is fine," I insist, moving away from the window for the first time. "I'm not ill. Surely even you can understand the emotional impact of signing away one's freedom."

"Processing doesn't involve physical deterioration," he counters, though he returns his phone to his pocket.

Your father has already suggested pharmaceutical approaches to ensure appropriate behavior through the wedding and beyond.

I've resisted that path, but continued deterioration leaves fewer options. "

The threat of medication sends a chill through me that penetrates even my emotional withdrawal. My father would indeed have me drugged into smiling submission if given the opportunity.

"Fine," I concede. "I'll eat. I'll sleep. I'll speak in complete sentences."

"It's a beginning," he says, apparently satisfied with even this minimal concession. "Join me for lunch in the conservatory. One hour."

When he's gone, I sink onto the edge of the bed, temporary energy fading as quickly as it appeared. Marta returns thirty minutes later, drawing a bath without being asked, laying out fresh clothing with quiet efficiency.

"Mr. Blackwood mentioned you'll be joining him for lunch," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "Would you like assistance with your hair?"

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the hollow-eyed woman staring back. My copper hair hangs limp and dull, my skin pale from lack of proper nutrition, dark circles emphasizing the emptiness in my gaze.

"Yes," I say finally. "Thank you, Marta."

The small kindness in her expression nearly breaks me.

I turn away quickly, focusing on the practical tasks of washing, dressing, making myself presentable.

By the time I've finished, I look more like myself on the surface, though the emptiness remains beneath the carefully applied makeup and styled hair.

The conservatory glows with diffused light despite the continued rain, glass walls amplifying what little sunshine breaks through the clouds. Gage waits beside a small table set for lunch, rising when I enter. His expression reveals nothing of his thoughts as he assesses my improved appearance.

"You look better," he says simply, holding a chair for me.

I sit, noting the simple meal prepared—soup, bread, fruit without excessive richness that might overwhelm a system accustomed to minimal intake. A surprisingly thoughtful selection.

"I still don't have much appetite," I warn him, unfolding my napkin with mechanical politeness.

"Eat what you can," he replies, taking his own seat.

We eat in silence for several minutes, the quiet broken only by the sound of rain against the glass ceiling. Finally, I speak.

"Seven days," I say.

He glances up. "Until the wedding. Yes."

"What happens after?"

He considers the question, setting down his spoon.

"Practically speaking, we depart for a two-week honeymoon in the Paris.

Privately secluded villa, staff minimized for discretion.

Upon return, we begin establishing regular routines—your continued work with Wildflower, my business operations, gradual integration of separate activities into shared life. "

I manage a few more spoonfuls of soup, the first real sustenance I've consumed in days. "And physical expectations? The prenup mentioned 'reasonable intimacy' with particularly vague language."

"Physical intimacy will develop at an appropriate pace following the wedding. I have no interest in unwilling participation, Penelope."

"Yet you expect it eventually. Thank you for lunch," I say changing the subject before giving him a chance to respond.

"Penelope," he calls as I turn to leave. "Dr. Fielding remains available should your condition not improve."

The warning is clear—perform adequately or face medical intervention.

That evening, I force myself to eat a small dinner, to prepare properly for sleep, to maintain at least the appearance of functionality. When I finally lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as has become my habit, I'm surprised when exhaustion actually pulls me toward unconsciousness.

Just before sleep claims me, I become aware of a presence in the room.

Opening heavy eyelids, I find Gage seated in the chair near the window, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the clouds.

He doesn't speak, doesn't approach, simply maintains quiet vigil as if guarding against the demons that have kept me awake for days.

I should feel violated by his uninvited presence, should demand he leave my private space. Instead, I feel only a strange relief that I'm not alone with my thoughts for the first time in days.

"You don't need to stay," I murmur, voice thick with approaching sleep.

"I know," he replies softly. "Sleep, Penelope. I'll be here."

The simple statement carries unexpected comfort, though I'd never admit it aloud. I close my eyes, surrendering to exhaustion, dimly aware of his continued presence as consciousness fades.

When I wake hours later, he's gone, the chair empty, the room bathed in early morning light. For the first time in days, I've slept through the night without interruption.

A note rests on the bedside table, Gage's precise handwriting unmistakable:

Progress, not perfection. One day at a time. -G

I stare at the note, trying to reconcile this small kindness with the man who orchestrated my captivity, who maintains my gilded cage with meticulous attention.

Seven days until the wedding. Seven days to rebuild enough strength to face whatever comes next.

I rise from bed, moving to the window where rain has finally given way to timid sunshine. The garden below hums with renewed activity, staff making up for weather delays, wedding preparations proceeding with military precision.

Seven days.