Page 4 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

I spend more time than I should selecting what to wear to Violet's engagement party.

After trying on and discarding four different outfits, I settle on a forest green silk dress that brings out my eyes but isn't flashy enough to draw unnecessary attention.

The goal is to blend in, gather information, and leave as quickly as possible.

My copper hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, and I apply just enough makeup to look polished.

The woman staring back at me from the mirror looks composed, controlled—nothing like the churning anxiety I feel inside.

I practice my neutral expression, the one I perfected during countless society functions as a teenager.

Reveal nothing. Feel nothing. Escape as soon as possible.

The black SUV remains stationed across the street as I leave my apartment building.

I ignore it pointedly, getting into my rideshare once it arrives.

The driver makes casual conversation about the weather as we head toward the wealthy enclave where my parents' sprawling estate occupies two manicured acres.

As we approach the iron gates, memories flood back—the countless parties where I stood beside my father like an ornament, the stifling expectations, the day I finally walked away. I push these thoughts aside as the car slows to join the line of luxury vehicles waiting to enter.

A security guard with a clipboard approaches. "Name?"

"Penelope Everett," I reply, the formal name feeling strange on my tongue after years of being Poppy Knight professionally.

He checks his list, nods, and waves us through. I pay the driver and step out, immediately aware of eyes tracking my movement. The mansion looms ahead, windows ablaze with light, classical music drifting across the immaculate lawn.

A staff member checks invitations at the entrance. I hand him the red envelope from my purse.

"Miss Everett," he says with a slight bow. "Welcome home."

The grand foyer gleams with polished marble and crystal chandeliers. Chicago's elite mill about in designer finery, champagne flutes in hand, fake laughter reverberating off high ceilings. I accept a glass from a passing waiter, using it more as a shield than a beverage.

"Poppy!"

My sister appears from the crowd, resplendent in a pale blue gown that complements her blonde hair and fair complexion. She's always been the delicate one, the perfect princess. Even now, there's something fragile about her smile as she embraces me.

"You came," she whispers, genuine surprise in her voice. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Your text made it sound important," I reply, stepping back to study her face. "You look beautiful, Vi."

"Thank you." Her eyes dart around the room nervously. "We can't talk here. Not now. Too many eyes." She squeezes my hand. "Just... be careful tonight. Some of the guests aren't what they seem."

Before I can ask what she means, she's pulled away by her fiancé, Charles Montgomery III—tall, generically handsome, with old money written in every line of his posture. Exactly the kind of man our father would approve of for his youngest daughter.

I weave through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces but avoiding lengthy conversations. My mother finds me near the bar, her practiced smile never reaching her eyes.

"Penelope, darling. What a surprise." She air-kisses my cheek, her perfume expensive and understated. "I'm so glad you could join us for your sister's special night."

"Wouldn't miss it," I lie smoothly. "Violet looks radiant."

"Doesn't she?" My mother glances toward where Violet stands with her fiancé. "The Montgomerys are an excellent family. Charles will provide well for her."

I bite back a retort. "I'm sure he will."

"Your father would like a word before you leave," she adds, her tone making it clear this isn't a request.

"Of course," I respond, the perfect dutiful daughter for just a moment. My mother nods, satisfied, and glides away to greet other guests.

I spend the next hour circulating through the party, making pleasant small talk with people I barely remember, all while watching for my father. I find him eventually in his study, speaking with a group of business associates. When he sees me in the doorway, he excuses himself and approaches.

William Everett looks much the same as he did five years ago—silver-streaked dark hair, immaculate suit, the confident bearing of a man used to having his orders obeyed without question. His smile doesn't reach his eyes, much like my mother's.

"Penelope." He kisses my cheek, his cologne expensive and familiar. "I'm glad you decided to join us."

"It's Violet's engagement," I say simply. "I wanted to be here for her."

"Yes, well." He gestures for me to join him at the windows overlooking the garden. "You've been missed at family functions."

"Have I?" The words come out sharper than intended.

His expression hardens momentarily before smoothing back into practiced pleasantness. "Your little... adventure has gone on long enough, don't you think? You've proven your point. It's time to come home."

"My shop isn't an adventure, Father. It's my business. My life."

"A phase," he dismisses. "Playing with flowers when you could be helping run Everett Enterprises."

"I'm not playing at anything." I keep my voice level despite my rising anger. "Wildflower is successful, and it's mine. I built it without your money or connections."

Amusement flickers across his face. "If that's what you need to believe." He sips his drink. "Nevertheless, there are family matters that require your attention. Obligations that can't be ignored indefinitely."

"I have no obligations to this family beyond what I choose to give." I set down my barely-touched champagne. "I should rejoin the party. Congratulate Violet properly."

He catches my arm as I turn to leave, his grip just tight enough to convey authority. "This conversation isn't finished, Penelope. There are things you don't understand yet—arrangements that were made long ago."

"Let go of my arm." My voice is quiet but firm.

Something in my tone must register, because he releases me immediately. "We'll speak again soon," he says, the words carrying weight beyond their surface meaning.

I walk away without responding, my heart hammering in my chest. Five years away, and nothing has changed. He still believes he owns me, still thinks he can bend me to his will.

The rest of the party passes in a blur of faces and conversations I won't remember tomorrow.

By ten-thirty, I've decided I've fulfilled my familial obligation and discreetly call for a rideshare.

Whatever Violet wants to tell me, I'll learn some other time. I’m done for the night.

While waiting for the car to arrive, I step onto an empty side terrace for some fresh air.

"Running away again, Penelope?"

I turn to find a man watching me from the shadows.

He steps forward into the light, and I recognize him immediately from the charity gala photo I found online—Gage Blackwood.

In person, he's taller than I expected, broad-shouldered in an impeccably tailored suit that emphasizes his athletic build.

Dark hair, cut short and styled perfectly.

Strong jaw, straight nose, and eyes so intensely blue they're almost unsettling.

"I'm not running," I reply, straightening my spine. "I'm leaving. There's a difference."

His lips curve in a slight smile. "Is there? I suppose it depends on whether you're moving toward something or away from it."

"I don't believe we've been introduced," I say, though I know exactly who he is.

"Gage Blackwood." He extends a hand, which I reluctantly take. His grip is warm and firm, lingering a second longer than necessary. "I've admired your work at Wildflower. You have a gift for creating beauty from fragile things."

"Thank you. I appreciate your business."

"I appreciate beauty in all its forms." His gaze is direct, assessing. "You've built something impressive these past five years."

"You seem to know a lot about me, Mr. Blackwood."

"Gage, please." He moves to stand beside me at the balustrade, close enough that I can smell his cologne— something woodsy and expensive. "And yes, I make it my business to know about things that interest me."

"And I interest you?" I keep my voice neutral despite the warning bells ringing in my head.

"More than you know." He glances at his watch, an understated piece that probably costs more than my annual rent. "Your car will be here soon. You should be careful. Chicago can be dangerous after dark."

My phone buzzes with a notification that my rideshare is approaching. "I can take care of myself."

"I'm sure you believe that." His tone isn't condescending, just matter-of-fact. "Nevertheless, safety is an illusion we allow ourselves to maintain sanity. The truth is, we're all vulnerable—even those who think they've carved out independence."

I frown, trying to decipher his cryptic words. "Is that a threat, Mr. Blackwood?"

"A observation." He steps back, creating distance between us. "We'll speak again soon, Penelope. Perhaps somewhere less... performative."

Before I can respond, he walks away, disappearing into the crowd inside. I stand frozen, processing the encounter. His words weren't overtly threatening, but the underlying message was clear: he knows me, has been watching me, and believes our paths are destined to cross again.

My phone buzzes again—my ride has arrived. I gather my purse and make my way to the front of the house, deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone who might delay my departure. The night air is cool against my flushed skin as I climb into the waiting car.

"Heading home?" the driver asks cheerfully.

"Yes, please." I give him my address, then lean back against the seat, suddenly exhausted. The tension of the evening—seeing my family, the cryptic conversations—has drained me.