Page 33 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

At precisely one fifty, Isabella returns with my escort—not my father as tradition would dictate, but Richard Blackwood. Gage's final pointed exclusion of the man who traded his daughter.

"Penelope," Richard greets me, genuine appreciation in his assessment. "Absolutely stunning. My nephew is a fortunate man indeed."

I accept his extended arm, bouquet held at the perfect angle against ivory silk. "Thank you for escorting me," I say, the practiced phrase emerging with appropriate gratitude.

"The honor is mine," he replies with smooth courtesy. "Though I must admit, I'm merely a substitute for what should have been your father's role. Gage was quite insistent about William's removal from this particular moment."

We move toward the garden entrance where the processional will begin, Isabella conferring with ceremony coordinators via headset, confirming final positions and timing.

Through open doors, I can see the assembled guests—nearly three hundred of Chicago's elite seated in precise rows, heads turning occasionally to watch for the bride's appearance.

The string quartet plays softly, creating elegant background music that will transition to the processional at exactly two o'clock.

At the end of the white carpet stretching between rows of seated guests, Gage stands beneath the flower-adorned arch, his tall figure impeccable in formal attire that emphasizes his imposing physicality.

"Two minutes," Isabella murmurs, checking her tablet one final time. "Places, everyone."

Richard positions himself beside me, arm extended at the perfect angle for my hand. "Ready, my dear?"

I nod, unable to form words as reality crystallizes in this final moment before transformation. In two minutes, I will walk toward Gage Blackwood. In thirty minutes, I will become his wife. In hours, I will be entirely his property in every legal sense.

The music shifts, the quartet beginning the processional piece selected months ago. Isabella gives a final nod, and the doors open fully to reveal the garden transformed into wedding fantasy.

"That's our cue," Richard murmurs, taking the first step forward.

I move beside him, steps measured and precise as rehearsed.

The guests rise in unison, faces turning to watch my procession down the aisle.

Cameras capture each moment—professional photographers positioned strategically throughout the space, guests lifting phones discreetly despite requests for unplugged ceremony experience.

The walk feels endless and instantaneous simultaneously, reality blurring at the edges as I move steadily toward Gage's waiting figure. His expression remains controlled, though something in his eyes shifts as I approach—satisfaction perhaps, or appreciation of the visual perfection I present.

When I reach him, Richard places my hand in Gage's with formal precision, the symbolic transfer of possession enacted with society elegance.

"Dearly beloved," the officiant begins, voice carrying clearly across the hushed gathering. "We are assembled here today to witness the union of Penelope Arabella Everett and Gage Alexander Blackwood in holy matrimony."

The words wash over me as I stand perfectly still, bouquet held at the prescribed angle, expression serene despite the internal emptiness expanding with each passing moment. Gage's hand remains wrapped around mine, warm and solid and inescapable.

Vows are exchanged—traditional phrases spoken in clear voices, promises of love and fidelity that mean nothing in the context of our arrangement. Rings are presented—platinum bands sliding onto fingers with symbolic permanence.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant declares after precisely twenty-eight minutes. "Mr. Blackwood, you may kiss your bride."

Gage turns to me, lifting the delicate veil with practiced hands. His expression is unreadable to the audience, though I detect something in his eyes—possession certainly, but something more complex beneath it.

His kiss is gentle, appropriate for public viewing, neither demanding nor perfunctory. My lips neither respond nor reject, accepting the contact without engagement.

Applause erupts around us as we turn to face the assembled guests, formally presented as Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood for the first time. Gage's hand settles at the small of my back as we begin our processional back down the aisle.

The reception proceeds according to schedule—cocktails on the east terrace, formal dinner beneath the enormous tent erected over the south lawn, speeches and toasts from approved speakers, first dance choreographed to appear romantic without requiring excessive physical contact.

Through it all, I perform flawlessly—smiling at appropriate moments, accepting congratulations with gracious words, placing my hand in Gage's when social convention requires. The perfect society wife making her debut performance.

"You've exceeded expectations," Gage murmurs during a brief moment alone between formal photographs and cake cutting. "Everyone is thoroughly convinced of our ideal match."

"Performance has always been part of society requirements," I reply quietly. "My mother trained me well."

His expression shifts slightly, something almost like regret flickering briefly before controlled neutrality returns. "The cake cutting is scheduled for nine fifteen. After that, we can make our departure without disrupting remaining festivities."

I nod, accepting the timeline without comment. The honeymoon awaits—two weeks alone with my new husband in an isolated villa. The physical consummation of our arrangement drawing nearer with each passing hour.

At precisely ten o'clock, we make our formal departure—guests forming lines to shower us with flower petals as we walk to the waiting car. I've changed from wedding gown to traveling attire, a cream-colored dress with matching jacket that transitions elegantly from ceremony to departure.

Gage hands me into the car with practiced courtesy, closing the door before walking around to join me. As we pull away from the illuminated estate, cheers and well-wishes fading behind us, silence falls between us.

I stare out the window, watching familiar grounds recede into darkness. Mrs. Blackwood now, legally and irrevocably. The ceremony complete, the performance delivered flawlessly, the arrangement formalized before hundreds of witnesses.

"You were perfect today," Gage says finally, breaking the silence as we approach the private airfield where his plane waits. "Every detail executed precisely as planned."

I turn to him, meeting his gaze directly for the first time since our vows. "I never said yes," I say quietly.

His expression doesn't change. "You didn't have to."

I hold his gaze for a moment longer, then turn back to the window, watching darkness envelop the car as we drive toward whatever comes next.

The ceremony is complete. The cage door has closed.