Page 41 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

For several long moments, we remained locked together, both breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sliding against skin. He kept me pinned against the wall, still inside me, unwilling to break the connection.

When he finally lifted his head to look at me, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. His hand came up to brush hair from my face with surprising gentleness.

"Welcome home, wife," he murmured, voice roughened by exertion but carrying an undercurrent I couldn't quite identify.

I said nothing, words impossible in the aftermath of such complete surrender.

Afterward, as we shower together in the enormous marble bathroom, his hands soap my body with proprietary thoroughness. "You're quiet," he observes, fingers massaging shampoo into my hair.

"Just processing the transition," I reply, the partial truth easier than articulating the complex emotions swirling beneath the surface.

"From Paris to Chicago?"

"From honeymoon to reality."

His hands pause briefly, then resume their rhythmic motion. "The distinction isn't as significant as you imagine," he says after a moment.

I say nothing, allowing hot water to cascade over us, washing away evidence of our latest encounter.

Dinner passes in polite conversation about practical matters—schedules for the coming weeks, social obligations, business commitments that will occasionally require Gage's presence elsewhere. I listen, respond appropriately, play my role with practiced precision.

The next days establish our new routine.

Mornings begin with Gage claiming my body before business claims his attention.

Days find me in the conservatory studio, arranging flowers with the same skill that once defined my independence, now merely a pastime within gilded confinement.

Evenings bring social engagements or private dinners, followed inevitably by further physical surrender in our shared bed.

I perform perfectly in every setting—the appropriate wife at business functions, the gracious hostess at private gatherings, the responsive partner in our marriage bed. I speak when expected, smile at appropriate moments, fulfill every requirement of my position with flawless execution.

Gage watches, gradually relaxing as days become weeks with no sign of resistance. Security measures ease slightly.

"You've exceeded expectations," Gage observes one evening as we prepare for the Children's Hospital fundraiser—the first major public appearance since our return from Paris.

He stands behind me at the dressing table, watching as I fasten diamond earrings that complement the midnight blue gown selected for the occasion.

"Everyone is genuinely impressed by your adaptation. "

I meet his gaze in the mirror. "I'm nothing if not practical."

His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs tracing slow circles at the base of my neck. "You're many things beyond practical, Penelope," he corrects, voice carrying that edge that still sends unwelcome heat through my veins. "Intelligent. Resilient. Exquisite."

Before I can respond, his lips press against the sensitive spot behind my ear, tongue tracing a path that makes me shiver despite myself. "Unfortunately," he murmurs against my skin, "we don't have time to explore those qualities further if we're to arrive at the event on schedule."

The fundraiser proves exactly as anticipated—expensive champagne, strategic networking thinly disguised as philanthropy, Chicago's elite performing carefully choreographed social rituals.

I move through it all with practiced grace, my hand resting on Gage's arm, my smile perfectly calibrated for each interaction.

"Mrs. Blackwood," Judge Harrison greets me with genuine warmth, his daughter Caroline beside him. "You're positively glowing. Marriage clearly agrees with you."

"Thank you, Judge," I reply, the practiced phrase emerging smoothly. "Gage and I are still adjusting to post-honeymoon reality, but Paris was magical."

"I can imagine," Caroline says, her gaze sliding appreciatively over my husband's tall form. "And how are you finding married life? Everything you expected?"

Gage's hand settles at the small of my back. "Penelope has transitioned seamlessly," he answers before I can formulate response. "As if she was always meant for the position."

The phrasing sends a chill through me despite the crowded ballroom's warmth. Position. Not partnership, not relationship—position. Like a chess piece placed precisely where the player intended.

"If you'll excuse us," Gage continues, nodding to the Harrisons, "the governor has just arrived. A matter requiring brief discussion."

I follow his lead across the ballroom, accepting fresh champagne from a passing waiter, scanning the crowd with careful attention. Recognition pulses suddenly—Malcolm Wei, the technology investor from our dinner party, deep in conversation with the mayor near the silent auction displays.

"I should review the auction items," I say, touching Gage's arm lightly. "Appropriate support for the cause."

He nods, attention already shifting to the governor's approaching figure. "The Monet sketch is genuine, if you're interested," he says. "Third display from the left."

I move toward the auction displays, champagne glass in hand, smiling at appropriate intervals as acquaintances nod recognition in passing.

The Monet sketch is indeed exquisite—a preliminary study for the water lilies that captivated me in Paris.

The opening bid already exceeds what Wildflower earned in its best month.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I turn to find Caroline Harrison beside me, her own glass nearly empty. "Extraordinary," I agree. "The technique evident even in preliminary form."

"I meant your necklace," she clarifies, gesturing toward the sapphires at my throat—another gift from Gage, delivered this morning. "Though the sketch is lovely too. Gage's taste is impeccable, as always."

"Thank you," I say, fingers rising automatically to touch the stones. "It was a recent gift."

"He was always generous with Eliza as well," she observes, the casual mention of Gage's previous relationship carrying deliberate weight. "Though nothing quite so... permanent as marriage."

Before I can formulate appropriate response, a commotion near the entrance draws attention—flashbulbs popping as some celebrity arrival creates a momentary stir. Caroline turns toward the disturbance, champagne sloshing slightly in her glass.

"Excuse me," I murmur, setting my own glass on a nearby table. "Powder room."

She nods distractedly, already moving toward the entrance to investigate the disruption. I walk in the opposite direction, toward ladies' lounges located near the ballroom's service entrance.

The bathroom is surprisingly empty when I push through the heavy door—no attendant offering hand towels, no society women refreshing lipstick or exchanging gossip. Just gleaming marble, soft lighting, and silence.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back wears sapphires at her throat that catch the light with every breath.

Her copper hair has been styled into an elegant updo that took Marta an hour to perfect.

Her emerald silk gown was selected by Gage himself to "complement both the jewels and her coloring. "

Mrs. Blackwood, Chicago society's newest acquisition.

I grip the counter's edge, suddenly dizzy with a realization that hits me like a physical blow.

I'm alone.

Truly alone for the first time in weeks. No security hovering in my peripheral vision. No Gage with his hand at the small of my back. No Marta monitoring my movements under the guise of assistance.

Just me, for this brief, unexpected moment.

I'm alone and I know this venue. The Palmer House Charity Gala uses the same layout each year.

I attended twice during my former life as an Everett daughter.

I remember the service corridor beyond these restrooms that leads to the kitchens.

The employee exit that opens to the alley where delivery trucks park.

My heart pounds against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears.

I hadn't planned this. Hadn't even considered it tonight.

For weeks I've played my role perfectly, convinced Gage I've accepted my fate.

His security has gradually relaxed, Victor taking a rare night off—family emergency that required Gage's reluctant permission.

The opportunity unfolds before me like a map to freedom.

Without conscious decision, my fingers move to the sapphire necklace, unhooking the clasp with practiced ease. The matching earrings follow. I stare at them in my palm—gaudy symbols of ownership that could fund months of anonymity if pawned correctly.

I slide the engagement ring—that beautiful prison with its embedded tracker—from my finger, placing it deliberately beside the sink. The wedding band follows, a dull platinum clink against marble.

My wrap can pass as a dress if belted properly. The silk gown is too distinctive—I can't be seen in it once I leave. Working quickly, I twist my hair into a tight bun, securing it with pins I remove from the more elaborate style.

A final glance in the mirror. I look different enough. Not invisible, but not obviously Mrs. Blackwood either.

I crack the bathroom door, peering out to confirm the hallway remains empty.

Two quick steps take me to the service corridor.

I walk with purpose, shoulders back, expression neutral but determined.

A kitchen worker passes, barely glancing my way—society ladies often wander where they shouldn't, demanding and imperious.

The service exit appears ahead, illuminated by a red emergency light. I push through into night air thick with urban summer heat and kitchen exhaust.

The alley opens to a side street where, miraculously, a taxi idles as a hotel worker loads luggage for another fare. I approach quickly, wrap pulled tight around my shoulders.