Her chamber door shut behind her with a quiet click, and this time, she did not lean against it.
Penelope moved back and forth, obviously restless. Her hands pulled at her gloves until they slipped free, discarded somewhere unseen. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing inward with every thought that circled her mind.
The conversation with Lord Philip settled on her shoulders like a rock against her bones. A discreet examination, she recalled, and her breath hitched faintly.
It wasn't the request alone that terrified her, but what it represented. Control. Ownership. Reduction. A future decided not by who she was… but by what she could produce.
The thought coiled tightly in Penelope's chest, pressing and pressing until she could scarcely draw breath. She turned sharply, pacing the length of her chamber as though movement alone could outrun the weight of it.
One week.
