Page 44 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

When I return, he conducts the test with efficient movements, adding drops of my sample to a small device that looks more sophisticated than the drugstore tests I've seen in advertisements.

"This will take a few minutes," he says, setting a timer. "In the meantime, let's continue with the examination."

I comply mechanically, responding to questions about sleep patterns and nutrition while my mind races ahead to possibilities I've refused to consider until now.

Gage's words from our honeymoon echo in my memory: "Going to keep you full of my cum until you're swollen with my child." The deliberate crudeness had seemed like just another aspect of his possession at the time. Now those words take on new significance.

The timer beeps, drawing my attention back to the present. Dr. Fielding checks the test result, his expression professionally neutral.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he says, looking up to meet my gaze directly. "The test is positive. You're pregnant."

The words land like physical blows, rearranging reality around me even as I sit perfectly still.

"How... how far along?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

"Based on your reported last menstrual period, approximately six weeks," he answers, making notes in my file. "Likely conceived during your honeymoon in Paris. I'll want to schedule an ultrasound to confirm dating, but the timing aligns with your wedding."

Paris. The memories flood back—Gage claiming me repeatedly in every room of the villa, his possession total and uncompromising. His deliberate refusal to use protection, his explicit statements about wanting to see me carrying his child.

"Does Mr. Blackwood know?" Dr. Fielding asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I shake my head. "No. I didn't suspect myself until just now."

"I'll prepare a complete report for him as usual," he says, returning instruments to his bag. "But perhaps you'd prefer to deliver this particular news personally."

The suggestion surprises me—a small kindness, allowing me to share this life-altering information myself rather than having it delivered through clinical channels.

"Yes," I agree quietly. "I would."

Dr. Fielding completes his examination, providing prenatal vitamins and basic instructions for early pregnancy care. Throughout his clinical explanation, my mind remains fixed on a single, transformative reality:

I'm carrying Gage Blackwood's child.

When the doctor leaves, I remain seated at the dining table, hands resting on my still-flat abdomen.

Everything has changed in the space of a single sentence.

The body I've begun to accept as no longer entirely my own now shelters another life—a life created from both of us, innocent of the arrangement that brought us together.

Gage finds me there an hour later, still sitting in contemplative silence.

"The security protocols have been updated," he says, loosening his tie as he enters. "Your father will never get that close again." He pauses, noticing my expression. "What did the doctor say?"

I look up, meeting his gaze directly. "I'm pregnant."

For once, I witness Gage Blackwood genuinely surprised. He goes completely still, his usually controlled expression revealing naked shock.

"Pregnant," he repeats, the word emerging with unusual softness.

"Six weeks," I confirm. "Paris."

He moves toward me slowly, as if approaching a wild animal that might flee. When he reaches me, he kneels beside my chair, one hand covering mine where it rests against my abdomen.

"You're carrying my child," he says, voice filled with wonder I've never heard from him before.

"Yes."

His free hand rises to cup my face, thumb gently stroking the bruise left by my father's attack. "No one will ever hurt you again," he promises, the words carrying weight beyond physical protection. "Either of you."

The abstract concept of escape that has lingered in the back of my mind these past weeks suddenly seems not just impractical but undesirable.

Where would I go? What kind of life could I provide for this child alone, constantly looking over my shoulder, depriving them of stability and resources? Would I really want to separate this child from their father, regardless of how our relationship began?

"I need to process this," I tell him honestly. "It changes everything."

He nods, still kneeling beside me. "Take whatever time you need. Whatever you require—doctors, specialists, accommodations—you only need to ask."

The offer is genuine, I realize. For the first time, I hold something Gage truly values beyond mere possession.

In the days that follow, I find myself transformed by knowledge that grows inside me. My mornings begin with quiet nausea that passes by mid-day. My body, always sensitive to Gage's touch, now responds with even greater intensity—a biological reaction to the hormones surging through my system.

One week after the doctor's confirmation, I enter Gage's study without knocking, a folder tucked under my arm.

He looks up from his desk, surprise evident at my unannounced arrival. "Penelope. Is everything all right?"

"Fine," I assure him, approaching his desk with newfound confidence. "I've been thinking about the nursery."

His expression shifts from concern to something softer, more vulnerable. "The nursery?"

I open the folder, spreading sketches across his desk—designs I've been working on privately in the conservatory studio. "The east wing has that connecting room with southern exposure. Perfect light, and close enough to hear the baby when they wake."

Gage studies the drawings, fingers trailing over pencil lines that show a carefully considered space—not overly gendered, designed for both functionality and beauty.

"These are remarkable," he says finally, looking up to meet my gaze. "You've put significant thought into this."

"It's our child," I reply simply. "They deserve a beautiful beginning."

His expression softens. "Our child," he repeats, the possessive pronoun now encompassing something beyond just me. "Yes, they do."

That evening, I remove my wedding and engagement rings from the jewelry box where I've stored them since our return from Indianapolis. Though I've worn them for public appearances, in private I've maintained this small rebellion—bare fingers as minimal protest.

When I slide them back onto my finger, the weight feels different now—less like shackles and more like anchors, grounding me in a reality I'm choosing to accept.

Gage notices immediately when I join him for dinner, his gaze fixing on my hand as I reach for my water glass. He says nothing, but satisfaction radiates from him like physical heat.

"I've arranged for the top maternal specialist in Chicago to join your care team," he informs me between courses. "Dr. Elizabeth Chen. She'll coordinate with Dr. Fielding."

"Thank you," I say, genuinely appreciative of his thoroughness. "When will I meet her?"

"Next week, if that suits your schedule." The deference to my preferences is new—a subtle shift in our dynamic since the pregnancy announcement.

"That's fine." I hesitate, then add: "I'd like to visit Wildflower tomorrow. Check on operations, review upcoming orders. If that's acceptable."

I watch him consider the request, weighing freedom against protection in this new context.

"Victor will drive you," he says finally. "Four hours should be sufficient?"

"Yes." The small victory sends disproportionate satisfaction through me. "Thank you."

He studies me over the rim of his wine glass. "Pregnancy agrees with you," he observes. "You're glowing."

The observation might once have felt like another form of possession. Now, I accept it with a slight smile. "I'm feeling better. The morning sickness is less severe."

"I'm glad." His tone carries genuine concern rather than mere propriety. "Is there anything else you need? Anything that would make you more comfortable?"

The question opens possibilities I haven't considered.

"Actually, yes," I say after a moment's thought.

"I'd like to resume regular communication with Sandra about Wildflower operations.

Not just occasional visits, but real involvement in decision-making.

The business is still mine, according to our agreement. "

He nods without hesitation. "Of course. I'll have IT set up secure channels on your laptop tomorrow. Video conferencing, collaborative software, whatever you require."

The ease of his agreement catches me by surprise. "Thank you."

"Your continued creative engagement benefits everyone," he says pragmatically. "Particularly now, when your physical presence at the shop may become less practical as your pregnancy progresses."

The controlled businessman remains, I realize, practical considerations never far from his mind. Yet something has shifted since the pregnancy announcement—his possession now extended to include protection, provision, accommodation in ways I hadn't anticipated.

The following day, Victor drives me to Wildflower with minimal security theater. No additional vehicles, no visible earpieces or constant communication checks. Just a discreet presence maintaining appropriate distance as I reconnect with the business I built.

Sandra's delight at my unexpected visit is genuine, though her eyes widen slightly at the sight of my wedding ring catching light as I gesture.

"The store looks amazing," I tell her, admiring new display configurations and seasonal arrangements. "You've done incredible work."

"Just following your vision," she demurs, though pride shines through her modest response. "The Montgomery wedding brought in three new corporate accounts. Apparently, the mother of the bride was very impressed with our work."

The irony doesn't escape me—my sister's wedding to the family my father accused me of betraying has benefited my business.