Page 30 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

" A little higher on the left, please."

I stand perfectly still as two tailors make final adjustments to my wedding gown, their fingers moving with practiced precision around the bodice.

The dress is objectively stunning—ivory silk with hand-embroidered beading that catches the light with every breath, a tasteful train that will trail elegantly down the aisle, custom-designed to complement my copper hair and fair complexion.

Three days until the wedding. Three days until I walk down the aisle toward Gage Blackwood, speak vows I don't mean, and legally formalize my captivity.

"What do you think, Miss Everett?" the head seamstress asks, stepping back to assess her work. "Is the fit to your liking?"

I study my reflection in the three-way mirror without expression. The woman staring back is beautiful in an ethereal, untouchable way—polished and perfect and utterly empty. "The fit is fine."

"Just 'fine'?" Isabella interjects from her position near the window, tablet in hand as always. "Angelique has created a masterpiece, Penelope. This gown is exclusive couture that brides would kill for."

"It's exquisite," I amend, giving the seamstress the response she deserves for her evident skill. "The beadwork is remarkable."

Angelique beams, professional pride momentarily overriding concern about my obvious detachment. "We've incorporated the pearl accents Mr. Blackwood requested. They complement the silk perfectly."

Of course Gage had input on my wedding dress. Another detail selected and approved, another aspect of my presentation carefully managed.

The door opens, and my mother glides in, immaculate as always in a pale blue suit that likely cost more than most people's monthly salary. Her critical gaze scans the dress, my posture, the room's arrangements in one comprehensive sweep.

"The neckline is perfection," she declares, circling me like a curator assessing a new acquisition. "Much more appropriate than the original sketch. And the train length is precisely correct for the venue."

"Mrs. Everett was concerned about the silhouette," Isabella explains to me, "but Mr. Blackwood insisted on retaining your preference for the modified A-line."

I'd forgotten expressing a preference about the dress silhouette weeks ago, back when I still believed my input might matter.

"You'll need the diamond earrings with this," my mother continues, touching the bare lobe of my ear. "The ones your father had made for your twenty-first birthday. The teardrop settings will balance the neckline."

"They've already been selected for the ceremony," Isabella confirms, consulting her tablet. "Mr. Blackwood approved the full jewelry suite yesterday."

My mother nods, satisfied. "Violet will be devastated to miss your final fitting. She and Charles extended their honeymoon through next week."

Convenient timing. I wonder if that was her choice or a decision made by others.

"That's fine," I say. "She's seen the sketches."

The seamstress completes her pinning, making a final note about a minute adjustment to the hemline. "We'll have the finished gown delivered tomorrow evening. The veil is already complete."

I step carefully from the pedestal as they help me out of the dress, leaving me in the silk slip I wore underneath. My mother dismisses the tailors and Isabella with a practiced gesture, waiting until the door closes behind them before turning to me with a critical eye.

"You're still too thin," she observes without preamble. "The dress fits perfectly, but your collarbones are more prominent than they should be. Are you eating properly?"

"I eat," I reply, reaching for my robe. "The chef keeps precise records for Gage's review."

She frowns at my flat tone. "This detachment isn't becoming, Penelope. You're marrying one of Chicago's most influential men. Many women would consider that a victory."

"Many women aren't being traded to cover their father's crimes," I counter, tying the robe's sash with precise movements.

"We've discussed this already." She sighs, settling onto the small settee near the window. "The arrangement with the Blackwoods protected this family from catastrophe. Your cooperation ensures continued stability for all of us, including Violet."

"My cooperation was never in question," I remind her. "Only my enthusiasm."

"Enthusiasm can be cultivated," she says pragmatically. "I wasn't initially enthusiastic about your father, yet we've built a successful marriage."

I study her carefully, searching for signs of genuine belief in her words. "Is that what you call it? Successful?"

She looks stricken. "Success has many definitions, Penelope. Gage Blackwood offers significant advantages beyond what your father achieved. He's younger, more controlled, less prone to public indiscretion."

"High praise indeed," I murmur. "Less publicly humiliating than Father."

"He's also," she continues, ignoring my sarcasm, "more inclined toward building a genuine relationship with you."

"Partnership with limited agency isn't partnership at all."

She rises, smoothing her skirt with practiced precision. "All marriages have boundaries, Penelope. All partnerships involve compromise. Your inflexible idealism serves no purpose."

"Is that what you told yourself when Father came home drunk and raging? That your compromise served a purpose?"

Her hand strikes before I register her movement, the slap resounding in the quiet room. I don't flinch, don't raise my hand to the stinging cheek, simply meet her gaze steadily.

"I apologize," she says after a moment, her composure returning like a mask sliding back into place. "That was unwarranted. Wedding preparations create tension for everyone involved."

"Indeed," I reply, voice steady despite the burning in my eyes. "So many details to manage when transferring human property."

She sighs, retrieving her purse from the side table. "I had hoped to have a constructive conversation about your marriage. Clearly that's not possible today."

"Clearly."

"Your hair and makeup trial is scheduled for two o'clock," she reminds me as she moves toward the door. "Please be punctual. The team has limited availability."

When she's gone, I remain standing in the center of the room, mind strangely calm despite everything.

I dress methodically, selecting simple clothing for the hours before my next scheduled appointment.

Three days until the wedding, each hour blocked and organized with meticulous precision by Isabella's team.

Hair trials, makeup consultations, final fittings, seating arrangement reviews, menu confirmations—the machinery of the event grinding forward.

My suite has become wedding central, constantly invaded by various specialists and consultants. The only space that remains truly mine is the conservatory during early morning hours.

The previous evening, Gage had unexpectedly visited while I worked with the flowers, silently observing my selection of blooms for several minutes before speaking.

"Not using any black dahlias?" he'd asked, noting the white and pale blue flowers I'd selected.

"No," I'd replied, trimming a stem with precise cuts. "They wouldn't photograph well with the dress."

He'd nodded, accepting my practical explanation without pressing for the deeper truth—that I couldn't bear to include the dark blooms, couldn't allow them to touch my skin during the ceremony that would formalize my captivity.

"The bouquet is smaller than I expected," he'd observed, moving closer to examine my work.

"It's not finished. The final design will be appropriately scaled." I'd continued working, refusing to be distracted by his presence.

He'd watched for several more minutes, then departed without further comment. White roses for endurance. Thistle for independence and strength. Ivy for resilience. Small personal meanings woven into the arrangement I would carry down the aisle.

Now, as I walk through the quiet mansion toward the kitchen, I pass staff members preparing for the influx of wedding guests expected to begin arriving tomorrow.

Additional security teams coordinate with Victor near the main entrance, reviewing protocols for the high-profile attendees.

Florists from Valhalla consult with housekeeping about placement of arrangements being delivered throughout the day.

In the kitchen, I find Mrs. Henderson overseeing the preparation of lunch, her efficiency managing the controlled chaos of multiple culinary teams working simultaneously.

"Miss Everett," she greets me with practiced warmth. "You're just in time. I was about to send a tray to your suite."

"I thought I'd eat here today," I reply, suddenly unwilling to return to the wedding command center my rooms have become. "If that's not inconvenient."

"Of course not." She gestures toward a small table in the corner where staff sometimes take their breaks. "I'll have something brought right over."

I sit at the simple wooden table, watching the kitchen's rhythmic activity with detached interest.

Mrs. Henderson places a bowl of soup before me, along with fresh bread and a small salad. "Eat what you can manage," she says, her tone more maternal than her usual professional distance. "You'll need your strength for the coming days."

I nod, accepting the food. Since my spiral and Gage's intervention four days ago, I've made consistent effort to maintain basic physical health, recognizing that self-destruction serves no one.

"The guest rooms are prepared for early arrivals," Mrs. Henderson continues, sitting opposite me with her own cup of tea. "Mr. Blackwood's uncle arrived this morning and has been settled in the east wing, as requested."

Richard Blackwood's presence creates mixed emotions—wariness at his unpredictable influence over Gage, but also curiosity about the family dynamics he inadvertently reveals through casual comments.