Page 43 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he first hint of something wrong comes with my father's voice—a roar of fury echoing through the mansion's marble hallways. I'm in the conservatory arranging black dahlias, their dark petals like velvet beneath my fingertips, when the sound reaches me.

"Where is she? Where's my daughter?"

I freeze, scissors suspended mid-cut. It's been three weeks since my failed escape attempt in Indianapolis, three weeks of settling into a routine that I've stopped actively fighting. Three weeks of Gage's watchful gaze gradually softening as I perform my role with increasing conviction.

Mrs. Henderson appears at the conservatory entrance, her usually composed face tight with concern. "Miss Everett—Mr. Blackwood requests you remain here. Your father has arrived unexpectedly and is... quite agitated."

Before I can respond, my father's voice bellows again, closer now. "Penelope! Show yourself!"

"I'll handle this," I say, setting down my scissors with deliberate calm. "It's fine, Mrs. Henderson."

She hesitates, clearly conflicted between my assurance and Gage's instructions. "Mr. Blackwood was very clear?—"

The decision is made for us as my father storms into the conservatory, his face flushed with rage, Victor and another security guard following close behind but not yet restraining him.

"There you are," he snarls, advancing toward me. "The obedient little wife, playing with flowers while you humiliate our family name."

I straighten my spine, facing him directly. "Hello, Father. I wasn't aware we had an appointment."

"Appointment?" He laughs, the sound brittle and dangerous. "I don't need an appointment to see my own daughter, especially when she's becoming the talk of Chicago society."

Victor steps forward. "Mr. Everett, I must insist you lower your voice and maintain appropriate distance."

My father ignores him completely, focus locked on me. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The Montgomery connection was decades in the making. Your little elopement with Blackwood has set our family back years in negotiations."

"Elopement?" I repeat, genuinely confused. "We had a wedding with three hundred guests. You were there."

"A wedding you tried to run from!" His voice rises again, spittle flying from his lips. "James Montgomery Senior approached me at the club yesterday. Said his sources confirmed you were caught trying to flee your husband at some godforsaken bus station in Indiana."

The blood drains from my face. I hadn't realized that information had spread beyond Gage and his security team.

"The Montgomerys are reconsidering the alliance with Violet," he continues, stepping closer. "Your selfishness threatens everything I've built."

"That's enough." Gage's voice cuts through the conservatory, calm but carrying unmistakable authority. He stands in the doorway, impeccable in a charcoal suit despite the early hour, his expression controlled but eyes dangerously cold. "This conversation is over, William."

My father whirls toward him. "You. You can't even control your own wife. What kind of man?—"

"My marriage is not your concern," Gage interrupts, moving to stand between us. "And you're no longer welcome on this property."

My father's face contorts with rage. "She's my daughter!"

"She's my wife," Gage counters, voice dropping to that dangerous tone I've come to recognize. "And you've just forfeited any visitation privileges you might have retained."

"You arrogant bastard." My father lunges forward suddenly, shoving past Gage to grab my arm with bruising force. "This isn't over, Penelope. Your disobedience has consequences."

Before I can react, his other hand swings up, connecting with my cheek in a stinging slap that snaps my head sideways. The shock of it freezes me in place, taste of copper flooding my mouth where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.

What happens next blurs in my memory—Gage's controlled demeanor shattering as he grabs my father by the throat, slamming him against the nearest wall with enough force to rattle the glass panels of the conservatory.

Victor and the second guard moving swiftly to restrain rather than separate, following some unspoken protocol that suggests this reaction was anticipated.

"You will never touch her again." Gage's voice is barely recognizable, a primal growl that raises the hair on my arms. His forearm presses against my father's windpipe, not quite cutting off air but making breathing a conscious effort.

"You will never speak to her again. You exist in this city solely by my tolerance, William. Remember that."

My father's face purples, eyes bulging as he claws ineffectively at Gage's arm. For a terrible moment, I think Gage might actually kill him.

"Gage," I say quietly, the word emerging as barely more than a whisper.

It's enough. His head turns slightly toward me, though his grip doesn't loosen.

"Not here," I continue, voice steadier now. "Not like this."

His expression takes on a calculative look. With deliberate control, he releases my father, stepping back as Victor and the guard move in to secure him.

"Remove him from the property," Gage instructs, straightening his cuffs with precise movements. "Full restriction protocol. No exceptions."

My father, still gasping for air, manages to spit out one final threat as they drag him toward the door. "This isn't over, Penelope. You'll regret choosing him over family."

When they're gone, silence falls over the conservatory. I stand perfectly still, one hand rising unconsciously to touch my cheek where the skin still burns from the impact.

Gage crosses to me in three long strides, his fingers gentle as they tilt my face toward the light, examining the mark that's surely reddening already.

"Ice," he says, the word clipped. "And the doctor should examine you."

"It's just a slap," I reply, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I've had worse."

His expression darkens at the implication. "That's not a comfort, Penelope."

Before I can respond, Mrs. Henderson appears with an ice pack wrapped in a soft cloth. Gage takes it, pressing it gently against my cheek.

"I've already called Dr. Fielding," she informs us. "He'll be here within the hour."

"That's not necessary," I begin, but Gage's expression silences my protest.

"It is," he says firmly. "Not just for the slap. Your quarterly examination was scheduled for this week anyway."

I'd forgotten about that—the regular health checks stipulated in our arrangement, monitoring my physical condition like maintenance for valuable property.

"Fine," I concede, taking the ice pack from his hand to hold it myself. "I'll see the doctor. But I'm perfectly all right."

His gaze searches mine, looking for something I can't identify. "This won't happen again," he promises, voice low and certain. "He will never have access to you again."

The protective declaration should feel like another form of possession, another man claiming authority over my interactions. Instead, it sends an unexpected wave of relief through me.

"Thank you," I say simply.

He looks surprised at my genuine gratitude. Before he can respond, his phone buzzes with what is clearly an urgent message.

"Security protocols," he explains, checking the screen. "I need to ensure the perimeter adjustments are implemented correctly. Will you be all right for a few minutes?"

I nod, still holding the ice against my cheek. "Go. I'm fine."

He hesitates, then presses his lips briefly to my forehead—a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it catches me off guard. "I'll return before the doctor arrives."

When he's gone, I sink onto the nearest bench, suddenly exhausted. The confrontation with my father has left me shaken in ways I hadn't anticipated. Not from fear—I've endured his rage before—but from the realization that Gage's protection felt like safety rather than another form of control.

Dr. Fielding arrives precisely on schedule, his professional demeanor unchanged since my pre-wedding examination. He sets his bag on the dining room table that's been cleared for his use, withdrawing instruments with practiced efficiency.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he greets me formally. "I understand there was an incident this morning."

"A minor one," I reply, removing the ice pack to reveal what I'm sure is visible bruising now. "Nothing serious."

He examines my cheek with clinical detachment, checking for fractures or deeper tissue damage before pronouncing it a superficial injury that will heal without intervention.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to proceed with your scheduled examination," he says, opening his medical bag wider. "It's been approximately three months since your last complete assessment."

The routine is familiar now—blood pressure, heart rate, basic reflexes. He draws blood for the standard panel of tests, makes notes about my weight (slightly increased since Paris), and asks clinical questions about my general health.

"Any changes in your menstrual cycle?" he asks, not looking up from his notepad.

I pause, mentally calculating dates. "It's late," I realize aloud. "About two weeks now."

This catches his attention. He glances up, setting aside his pen. "Are you typically regular?"

"Yes." The implications of the question hit me suddenly. "But that's not unusual with stress, and there's been plenty of that recently."

He nods noncommittally. "Any nausea? Breast tenderness? Unusual fatigue?"

I think back over recent days—the morning queasiness I'd attributed to anxiety, the exhaustion that seemed natural given emotional circumstances.

"Some," I admit. "But nothing significant."

Dr. Fielding reaches into his bag and withdraws a small plastic cup. "I'd like to perform a pregnancy test as part of your examination. Standard procedure given the circumstances."

The clinical phrasing doesn't disguise the significance of his request. I take the cup with suddenly unsteady hands, following his directions to the nearby bathroom.