Page 7 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

I shake my head, unwilling to follow his implication. "I saved. I planned. I worked hard."

"Yes, you did," he acknowledges. "But none of that would have mattered without my intervention."

"You're lying." But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. The business space had come together suspiciously easily. The apartment had been available exactly when I needed it. Sandra had appeared with perfect qualifications just as I'd begun thinking about hiring help.

Gage moves to a desk in the corner, opens a drawer, and withdraws a folder. "Your father worried when you ran away. He came to me, concerned about your safety, your future. I agreed to provide both—at a distance, allowing you the illusion of independence you so desperately craved."

He holds out the folder. When I don't take it, he places it on the coffee table between us.

"Everything is documented," he says quietly. "The shell corporation that owns your building. The payments to expedite permits. The background checks on every employee and major client. We even subsidized your grandmother's inheritance to ensure you had adequate startup capital."

My knees give out, and I sink into the nearest chair. "No."

"Your freedom was an illusion we allowed you, nothing more."

The words strike like physical blows. I open the folder with trembling hands, finding lease agreements, bank statements, security reports—all bearing unfamiliar company names that trace back to Blackwood Investments.

"Why?" I whisper. "Why the elaborate charade? Why not just?—"

"Force you?" He sits across from me, his posture relaxed despite the tension between us. "I wanted you willing, Penelope. Forcing a woman into marriage creates a prisoner, not a wife."

"And yet, here I am. Brought by force to your home."

"Circumstances changed." His voice hardens slightly. "Your father's patience ran out. He wants our arrangement concluded before Violet's wedding—a double celebration for the Everett family."

I close the folder, unable to look at the evidence of my fabricated freedom any longer. "You keep saying 'arrangement.' What exactly did my father get in exchange for selling his daughter?"

Gage studies me for a long moment. "Your father's company was facing criminal charges ten years ago—fraud, embezzlement, tax evasion. Evidence that would have destroyed not just Everett Enterprises, but your family's reputation, your sister's future... everything."

"And you had this evidence?"

He nods. "I acquired it specifically to leverage against William. His criminal activities had begun affecting my own interests."

"So instead of turning him in, you—what? Blackmailed him into giving you his daughter?"

"I offered an alternative," Gage corrects. "Financial restructuring, legal protection, and eventually, a formal alliance through marriage. Your father agreed readily. He seemed to think I was doing him a favor, taking you off his hands."

The casual cruelty of the statement makes me flinch. "And what do you get out of this arrangement, Mr. Blackwood?"

His gaze becomes more intense, almost predatory. "A wife from an appropriate social background. Legitimacy in certain circles where my own family name carries... different connotations. And you, specifically—intelligent, resilient, beautiful."

"You don't know me," I argue, though the fight is draining from my voice.

"I know you better than anyone," he counters.

"Better than your friends, your sister, perhaps even better than you know yourself.

" He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

"I know you wake at 5 AM most mornings to arrange flowers in the quiet before the shop opens.

I know you take your coffee black with a single sugar.

I know you keep a journal hidden beneath the floorboard under your bed, where you write your true thoughts, your fears, your dreams."

Each revelation feels like an invasion, peeling back layers of privacy I'd thought protected. "Stop."

He continues as if I hadn't spoken. "I know you've had three lovers since leaving home—all brief relationships you ended before they became serious.

I know you send anonymous donations to the women's shelter on Michigan Avenue every month.

I know you visit the Art Institute when you're stressed, always lingering longest in front of Monet's water lilies. "

"Stop it!" I rise to my feet, hands clenched at my sides. "You don't get to claim intimacy through surveillance. That's not knowing someone—that's stalking them."

Gage stands as well, his height allowing him to look down at me. "Call it what you will. The fact remains—your life as you knew it is over, Penelope. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier this transition will be."

"Transition?" I laugh bitterly. "Is that what we're calling kidnapping now?"

"You weren't kidnapped. You were protected from a dangerous situation and brought to safety."

"Semantics." I walk to the door, testing the handle. Locked, of course. "Let me leave, and I won't press charges."

He actually smiles at that—a small, almost pitying expression.

"Press charges against whom? Your father, who signed the legal documents?

My security team, who saved you from an attacker?

Me, for providing you with shelter after a traumatic event?

" He shakes his head. "Even if you could find a sympathetic ear in law enforcement—which you won't—there's nothing illegal about our arrangement. "

"Forced marriage is illegal," I insist.

"No one is forcing you to marry me, Penelope."

I stare at him incredulously. "You've locked me in a room in your home after staging a violent attack to get me here!"

"I've provided secure accommodations following a traumatic incident," he corrects smoothly. "The door is locked for your safety, not your imprisonment. As for marriage..." He shrugs elegantly. "You have options."

"What options?"

"Marry me willingly, and your life continues much as before—your shop, your creative work, your independence within defined parameters.

Refuse..." His expression hardens. "Refuse, and I withdraw all financial support from Wildflower, expose the subsidies that have kept you afloat these five years, and allow your father's legal troubles to resume—troubles that will inevitably entangle you as his daughter and likely heir. "

My stomach drops. "You'd destroy everything I've built."

"I'd stop protecting what you mistakenly believed you built alone," he corrects. "The distinction matters, Penelope."

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thin. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold together the pieces of my life that seem to be crumbling around me.

"I'll give you two weeks," Gage continues, his voice softening slightly. "Time to process this change, to review your options, to come to terms with your new reality."

"And if I still refuse?"

His expression shows nothing but calm certainty. "You won't. You're practical beneath your rebellious exterior. You'll choose the path that preserves what matters most to you."

He moves to the door, producing a key from his pocket. "Rest now. We'll continue this discussion tomorrow, when you're more... amenable to reason."

"I'll never be amenable to this," I say, but my voice lacks conviction even to my own ears.

Gage pauses in the doorway, studying me with those unsettling blue eyes. "I don't need your love, Penelope," he says quietly. "But I will have your obedience."

The door closes behind him, the lock engaging with a soft click that somehow sounds like finality.

I stand frozen in the center of the room, my mind racing. Outside the window, security lights illuminate grounds surrounded by high walls. Beyond those walls lies my shop, my apartment, my friends—the life I thought I'd built but apparently never truly owned.

And beneath it all, the most disturbing realization—that Gage Blackwood has been watching me for years, learning my habits, my preferences, my weaknesses. Preparing for this moment when he would finally claim what he believes is rightfully his.

Claim me.

I curl onto my side, still fully dressed, and stare at the moonlight casting patterns on the wall.

Sleep will not come easily tonight—not with my mind replaying every moment of the past five years, searching for the signs I missed, the strings I didn't see, the cage I never realized was being built around me, bar by invisible bar.