Page 31 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

"Thank you," I say, taking a spoonful of soup—butternut squash with subtle spices, gentle on the stomach. "Has Gage returned from his morning meetings?"

"Not yet. He's expected by three for the final security briefing." Mrs. Henderson studies me over her teacup, her expression unreadable. "The wedding guests begin arriving tomorrow afternoon. The rehearsal dinner is scheduled for seven."

I nod, continuing to eat.

"Miss Everett," Mrs. Henderson says after a moment of silence, her voice lower despite the kitchen's ambient noise. "May I speak candidly?"

I look up, surprised by the unusual request from someone who maintains professional boundaries with religious dedication. "Of course."

"I've served the Blackwood family for nearly twenty years," she begins, setting down her teacup. "I was here during Mr. Blackwood's father's time, and I've witnessed the changes since Gage assumed control of both the estate and the family interests."

I listen without interrupting, curious where this was heading.

"The differences between father and son are significant," she continues carefully. "Edward Blackwood ruled through fear and unpredictability. Gage governs through calculation and strategic certainty. Both methods achieve control, but from very different foundations."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask when she pauses.

She studies me for a long moment, seeming to weigh her words carefully. "Because understanding that may help you navigate what comes next. Gage observed his father's methods and consciously constructed alternatives. He witnessed the destruction that volatile control created."

"Still control," I observe. "Still confinement."

"Yes," she agrees surprisingly. "Edward's household never knew what might trigger rage or retribution. Gage's household always knows exactly where the lines are drawn."

"Thank you for the perspective," I say, genuinely appreciative. "It's helpful to understand."

Mrs. Henderson nods, rising from the table as a staff member approaches with questions about wine selections. "The hair stylists have arrived early," she informs me before turning away. "They're setting up in the east salon rather than your suite."

I finish my soup, having consumed perhaps half of what she gave me.

The east salon has been transformed into a professional styling suite, with specialized lighting, multiple mirrors, and an array of products that would rival a high-end salon. Two stylists and a makeup artist wait with practiced smiles, portfolios ready for my review.

"Miss Everett," the lead stylist greets me with professional enthusiasm. "I'm Marcos, and this is my team—Sophia and Vincent. We're thrilled to be working with you for your special day."

"We have several options based on the preliminary consultation," Marcos continues, opening a portfolio of elegant updos and sophisticated styles. "Mr. Blackwood specified that your copper hair should remain the focal point, so we've designed accordingly."

Of course Gage's preferences were noted and incorporated into every decision. I review the options without comment, selecting an elegant but relatively simple design that will complement the dress without requiring painful pins or excessive products.

"Excellent choice," Marcos approves, beginning to work with my hair immediately. "This will highlight your natural color while maintaining classical lines appropriate for the ceremony."

I sit motionless as they begin the trial, applying products, curling sections, pinning and unpinning as they refine the design. The physical sensation of their hands in my hair is almost soothing, the methodical process requiring nothing from me beyond passive presence.

"You have beautiful bone structure," Vincent comments as he begins applying foundation for the makeup trial. "We'll enhance your natural features with a palette that compliments both your coloring and the floral arrangements."

Isabella enters as they work, tablet in hand as always. "The jewelry will be delivered tomorrow morning for final coordination," she informs me, checking items off her endless list. "Would you prefer to keep it in your suite or have it secured in the main vault until the ceremony?"

"The vault," I reply, careful not to move my head as Marcos works. "I have no need to review it beforehand."

She nods, making a note. "The final guest count stands at two hundred and ninety-seven. Four last-minute additions from the governor's office, but two cancellations from your father's list."

The numbers wash over me without impact—hundreds of witnesses to a ceremony that means nothing to me. People who will smile and toast and admire.

"The south gardens have been tented as a precaution, though the weather forecast remains favorable," Isabella continues. "Mr. Blackwood upgraded the champagne for the toast to vintage Dom Pérignon, with standard Veuve Clicquot for general service."

I listen without commenting, allowing the details to flow around me like water around a stone. None of it matters—not the champagne selection, not the tent precautions, not the exact shade of eyeshadow being applied to my lids.

"Perfect," Marcos declares after nearly two hours of work, stepping back to assess the completed look. "Sophia, the diamond hairpins will be placed here and here for the ceremony, correct?"

"Yes, with the veil anchor positioned centrally," she confirms, making notes in their portfolio. "The entire arrangement is designed for easy transition between ceremony and reception."

Isabella studies the final result. "The hair height balances the neckline perfectly. Mr. Blackwood will be pleased with the approach."

Of course. Gage's approval remains the ultimate metric for every decision, every selection, every detail.

Vincent applies a final touch of setting powder. "All done, Miss Everett. What do you think?"

I study my reflection without expression. The woman in the mirror looks like a stranger—perfectly coiffed, expertly made up, every feature enhanced to photographic perfection. Beautiful in a distant, untouchable way.

"It's suitable," I say finally. "Thank you for your expertise."

Marcos looks momentarily uncertain, clearly having expected more enthusiastic approval after hours of meticulous work. "We can make adjustments if there's anything specific you'd prefer differently," he offers.

"No adjustments necessary," I assure him, rising from the chair. "This is fine."

Isabella dismisses the styling team with practiced efficiency, waiting until they've packed their equipment before turning to me with unusual hesitation.

"There's one more item requiring your attention today," she says, consulting her tablet. "The marriage license requires your signature before the ceremony. Mr. Blackwood has scheduled a private meeting with the official at four o'clock in his study."

I nod, accepting the inevitable with the same detachment that has carried me through recent days.

"I'll be there," I assure her. "Is there anything else requiring my input today?"

"That's all for scheduled appointments," she confirms. "Though Mr. Blackwood mentioned he wished to speak with you privately after dinner this evening. Something about final arrangements for the honeymoon departure."

I nod again, already turning toward the door. "I'll be in the conservatory until four if anyone needs me."

The conservatory offers temporary sanctuary, its humid air and abundant greenery creating a space that feels removed from the wedding preparation consuming the rest of the estate. My bouquet sits in a specialized holder, nearly complete but still requiring final elements to balance the composition.

I work methodically, selecting blooms with precise attention, trimming stems with practiced skill.

"It's beautiful."

I turn to find Gage standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he studies my work. He's dressed more formally than usual—dark suit perfectly tailored, likely having come directly from business meetings in the city.

"Thank you," I reply, returning my attention to the flowers. "It's nearly finished."

He enters the conservatory, moving to stand beside me without touching. "The white roses are an interesting choice."

"Sometimes tradition serves a purpose," I say, positioning a spray of baby's breath with careful precision.

"Indeed." He watches my hands work for several moments, neither offering assistance nor attempting to direct my choices. "The styling team reported successful trials. Isabella showed me photographs."

Of course she did. Nothing proceeds without his assessment and approval.

"The design is appropriate for the occasion," I confirm, reaching for a final white rose. "As is the makeup palette."

"You look troubled," he observes unexpectedly. "More distant today than in recent days."

I glance up, surprised by the perception. "The countdown has shifted from days to hours. Final preparations tend to focus the mind."

"Focus or fragment it?" he asks.

I don't respond immediately. "Neither," I say finally. "Merely clarify reality."

He studies me for a moment longer, then changes the subject with practiced ease. "The marriage license official will arrive at four. A simple procedure requiring signatures and witnesses."

"I've been informed."

"Your father will not be present," he adds, the information delivered neutrally though the decision itself feels significant. "I've arranged for Richard and Mrs. Henderson to serve as witnesses instead."

The deliberate exclusion of my father from this final legal step surprises me. "Why?"

"William's presence introduces unnecessary tension," Gage replies pragmatically. "The legal requirements specify only that signatures be witnessed by adults of sound mind. Your father's absence serves practical purposes."

I return to my flowers, adding a final sprig of ivy to represent resilience.

"There," I say, stepping back to assess the completed bouquet. "Finished."

Gage studies the arrangement with genuine appreciation. "Elegant without being ostentatious. Balanced without being rigid."

The unexpectedly thoughtful assessment catches me off guard. "Thank you."

"Your business will continue," he says, seeming to follow my unspoken thought. "Wildflower remains yours to direct, regardless of other changes."

"It’s not the same," I remind him, referencing the prenuptial restrictions.

"Within reasonable considerations," he corrects with subtle distinction. "Creative direction remains entirely yours."

We stand in silence for a moment, the completed bouquet between us like a physical manifestation of approaching ceremony. Three days has become less than seventy-two hours—time moving with relentless precision toward the inevitable.

"I should prepare for the license signing," I say finally, placing the bouquet in its specialized container where it will remain fresh until the ceremony.

Gage nods, stepping back to allow me space. "After dinner," he says as I move toward the door, "we should discuss your preferences for the honeymoon. Matters that require consideration before departure."

The honeymoon. Two weeks alone with him in a private villa. I push the thought away, unable to process that reality quite yet.

"Of course," I agree, maintaining outward composure while internal uncertainty builds. "After dinner."

Three days until the wedding. Seventy hours until I become Mrs. Blackwood.

The name feels foreign even in thought.