Page 32 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he morning of my wedding day dawns with mocking perfection—clear blue skies, gentle breeze, temperature mild enough for comfort but warm enough for the outdoor ceremony. Nature itself conspires to create the ideal backdrop for this elaborate charade.

I stand at my bedroom window, watching staff make final adjustments to the pavilion that has transformed the south garden.

White marble columns wrapped with climbing roses form an elegant framework, the structure gleaming in morning sunlight.

Beneath it, rows of white chairs await guests, their pristine surfaces already adorned with small floral arrangements secured with ivory ribbon.

The ceremonial arch where vows will be exchanged stands at the focal point, Marcus Valhalla himself directing assistants as they attach final blooms to its framework.

Beyond the pavilion, reception tables with perfect place settings stretch across the lawn, each centered with elaborate arrangements that follow the strict white and pale blue color scheme Gage approved.

The south gardens have been tented with gossamer fabric that ripples gently in the breeze—a precaution against weather that seems unlikely to intrude on Gage Blackwood's meticulously planned event.

"Miss Everett?" Marta's voice breaks my reverie. "The hair and makeup team has arrived. They're setting up in the adjoining suite."

I turn from the window, nodding my acknowledgment. The machinery of this day has been set in motion, its momentum now unstoppable.

"Please inform them I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I reply, voice steady despite the turmoil beneath. "I'd like a few moments alone first."

Marta hesitates, clearly weighing her instructions against my request. "Of course," she finally concedes. "Fifteen minutes. I'll let them know."

When she's gone, I return to the window, cataloging details of the production below.

Workers adjusting the height of floral arrangements along the processional path.

Security personnel in formal attire that barely disguises their vigilance, positioned strategically throughout the grounds.

Mrs. Henderson conferring with catering staff near the champagne pavilion, where vintage Dom Pérignon awaits in precisely chilled containers.

Everything perfect. Everything controlled. Everything expressing Gage Blackwood's power and precision.

My wedding dress hangs on a specialized form near the closet—ivory silk catching morning light, hand-embroidered beading creating subtle patterns across the bodice and trailing down the elegant train.

Beside it, the veil waits on its own stand, gossamer light and edged with delicate lace.

The ensemble cost more than many people earn in a year, a physical manifestation of Gage's wealth deployed to create the perfect image.

I touch the fabric briefly, considering again how beautiful the garment truly is. Gage's taste is impeccable—the design neither trendy nor overly traditional, balanced perfectly between classic elegance and contemporary sensibility.

A knock at the door signals the end of my solitude. I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders and arranging my features into the neutral mask I've perfected these past weeks.

"Come in," I call.

Isabella enters, tablet in hand as always, her expression professionally enthusiastic. "It's going to be perfect," she declares without preamble. "The weather is cooperating beautifully, the flowers are exceptional, and the first guests will begin arriving in approximately three hours."

I nod, accepting her assessment without comment.

"The schedule is precisely timed," she continues, consulting her ever-present tablet.

"Hair and makeup will take two hours. Dressing with final adjustments, forty-five minutes.

Photography of preparation, twenty minutes.

Your entrance is scheduled for exactly two o'clock, with the ceremony lasting twenty-eight minutes according to the officiant's confirmed timing. "

The day measured in minutes, each activity allocated its precise duration. My transition from Penelope Everett to Mrs. Blackwood quantified with stopwatch precision.

"Has Gage approved the final arrangements?" I ask, knowing the answer but seeking confirmation nonetheless.

"Mr. Blackwood conducted a final inspection at dawn," Isabella confirms. "Everything meets his specifications exactly."

Of course it does. Nothing in Gage Blackwood's world falls short of expectations, especially not the ceremony formalizing his acquisition of a wife.

"Then we should proceed," I say, moving toward the adjoining suite where beautification awaits. "We wouldn't want to disrupt the schedule."

The next hours pass in a blur of activity.

Marcos and his team transform me into the bride Gage envisioned—hair arranged in the approved style, makeup enhancing without overwhelming, skin prepped and polished to photographic perfection.

I sit motionless through it all, a mannequin being prepared for display.

"You're the calmest bride I've ever worked with," Sophia comments as she secures another section of copper hair. "Most women are either crying with happiness or nervous wrecks by this point."

I say nothing, offering only a slight smile that reveals nothing of my thoughts.

By noon, I've been transformed. The woman in the mirror looks ethereal, perfect, untouchable. A living artwork rather than a person with thoughts and feelings.

"Time for the dress," Isabella announces, consulting her schedule with religious devotion. "Angelique is waiting in the dressing room."

The process of being dressed requires three assistants—one holding the gown, one managing the train, one fastening the dozens of covered buttons that track up my spine. The weight of silk settles around me, the bodice fitted precisely to my measurements despite recent weight fluctuations.

"Perfection," Angelique declares, stepping back to assess her creation. "Not a single adjustment needed."

The veil comes last, secured with diamond pins that catch light with every slight movement. When fully assembled, I stand before the full-length mirror, studying the final result with detached objectivity.

The bride who stares back is undeniably beautiful—copper hair gleaming beneath gossamer veil, ivory silk complementing fair skin, emerald eyes emphasized by expert makeup. A vision straight from bridal magazines, lacking only the requisite joyful smile to complete the fantasy.

"Mr. Blackwood will be speechless," Isabella pronounces, genuine appreciation in her voice as she circles me. "Truly breathtaking, Penelope."

A knock at the door interrupts the moment of assessment. Mrs. Henderson enters after Isabella's acknowledgment, her expression softer than usual.

"Miss Everett, your bouquet has been delivered from the conservatory," she says, presenting the arrangement I created days ago—white roses for endurance, thistle for independence, ivy for resilience, all bound with silk ribbon that matches the dress precisely.

I accept it with gloved hands, the familiar weight grounding me momentarily in the reality of my skills, my profession, the one aspect of this spectacle I truly controlled.

"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson."

"The guests are arriving," she informs Isabella. "Mr. Blackwood asked me to confirm the final preparation timing."

"We're perfectly on schedule," Isabella assures her. "Miss Everett will be ready for the procession at precisely one fifty-five."

Mrs. Henderson nods, then turns to me with uncharacteristic hesitation. "If I might have a moment alone with the bride?"

Isabella consults her tablet, frowning slightly. "We have the photographer arriving in seven minutes for preparation documentation."

"Five minutes," Mrs. Henderson insists with quiet authority that even Isabella doesn't challenge. "I'll ensure she's ready for photography afterward."

When the room clears, Mrs. Henderson approaches me with genuine warmth in her expression. "You look beautiful," she says simply. "But that's not why I wanted a moment of your time."

She reaches into her pocket, withdrawing a small velvet pouch.

"This belonged to Mr. Blackwood's mother," she explains, opening the pouch to reveal a delicate silver bracelet with a single small sapphire.

"She asked me to keep it safe before she passed, to give to the woman her son eventually married. "

I stare at the bracelet, unexpected emotion rising at this connection to Gage's mother—the woman who suffered under his father's cruelty, who protected her son as best she could, who died shortly after gaining freedom.

"She would be pleased to know it's with you," Mrs. Henderson continues, offering the bracelet. "Though we never discussed her son's future wife directly, I believe she would approve of your strength."

I extend my wrist wordlessly, allowing her to fasten the delicate chain beneath the edge of my glove, hidden from view but present nonetheless.

"Thank you," I say, voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll send the photographer in," she replies, professional demeanor returning. "Five minutes until scheduled documentation."

When she's gone, I touch the hidden bracelet beneath my glove. A connection to a woman who understood captivity, who protected her son, who ultimately lost herself to years of control and fear. The parallel isn't lost on me.

The photographer enters without knocking, assistant trailing behind with equipment bags. "Beautiful light in here," he declares without preamble. "Let's start with some classic bride preparation shots before the ceremony."

I assume the positions directed, holding my bouquet at the precise angle requested, turning my face to catch light in the manner specified, shifting my train to create the elegant cascade desired. Performance without emotion, technical execution of requirements.