Page 26 of Wicked Sinner
"I'm the father of your child," I say simply. "And I'm going to take care of you both, whether you want me to or not."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her mind working, trying to find an angle, a way out. But there isn't one. Not anymore.
"I'll never forgive you for this," she says quietly.
The words sting, exactly as she meant them to. No—theyburn, right down to my heart, searing through me.She doesn’t mean it, I tell myself. She’ll understand, and shewillforgive me. But right now, I need to show strength. I need her to understand that things have changed.
"You don't have to forgive me," I reply. "You just have to accept it."
I step back toward the door, and she realizes what's about to happen.
"Caesar, wait?—"
But I'm already closing the door, already turning the key in the lock. The sound echoes in the hallway, final and absolute.
Almost immediately, I hear her on the other side, pounding on the door, shouting my name. But I don't turn back. I can't. This is for her own good, for our child's good. She'll understand that eventually.
I'm halfway down the hall when I hear her voice, clearer now, as if she's pressed against the door.
"You think you've won," she calls out, her voice carrying a promise that makes my blood run cold. "But you have no idea the kind of enemyyou’vemade."
9
BRIDGET
The first thing I do after Caesar locks me in this room is scream.
At first, I yell his name until I hear his footsteps fade, and I know he’s left me here. And then I just scream, a raw, primal sound of fury that tears from my throat and echoes off the finely painted walls of what I'm sure he considers a perfectly exquisite prison. The sound surprises even me with its intensity, coming from somewhere deep inside that I didn't know existed.
I scream until my throat is raw. When my voice gives out, I pound on the door with both fists until my knuckles are raw and bleeding. The door doesn't budge. Of course it doesn't. It's probably reinforced, knowing him. Knowing the kind of man he is.
The kind of man who kidnaps pregnant women.
When the pounding doesn't work, I examine every inch of the room with the methodical precision my father taught me when troubleshooting a stubborn engine. There has to be a way out. There's always a way out if you're smart enough to find it.
The windows are floor-to-ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of Miami at night that would probably take my breath awayunder different circumstances. Right now, all I can think about is the fact that we're clearly dozens of stories up. Even if I could get the windows open—which I can't, because they don't open—jumping would be suicide.
And I have more than just myself to think about now.
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, still flat but already harboring a secret that I should never have given away. The reminder makes my throat tighten with a tangle of emotions I'm not ready to examine. Love, fear, protectiveness—and underneath it all, a burning rage at Caesar for putting us both in this situation.
I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have gambled that he’d walk away, that he’d run from responsibility.
Instead, he decided that coming inside of me made me his.
The bathroom is equally escape-proof. There’s just a small window, too high up and too small anyway. No access panels, no convenient air vents like in the movies. Just expensive marble and fixtures that probably cost more than I make in a year. Everything here is insanely luxurious, a display of wealth that I feel uncomfortable inhabiting. I don’t belong here.
I belong in my old house with the creaky pipes and the quilt that my mother made me on the bed. My tiny kitchen with the yellowed linoleum that I don’t want to replace because I helped my parents pick it out when I was a kid. The garage that I’ve refused to let go of, struggled to keep running, that now?—
My throat tightens, and I turn back to the bedroom, surveying it all in an effort to keep myself from crying.
The bedroom itself is larger than my entire living room back home. There’s a king-sized bed with pristine white linens and a tufted grey taffeta duvet, elegant furniture that looks like it belongs in a magazine, and artwork on the walls that's probably worth a fortune. It's beautiful and cold and completely impersonal, like a high-end hotel room. I’d bet money I don’thave that an interior designer decorated this place, not Caesar. He probably didn’t have input on any of it.
It’s a remarkably gorgeous, very expensive cage.
I’m exhausted, and I should go to sleep, but I’m too keyed up. It also feels like crawling into that massive bed and falling asleep here is a concession, like I’m admitting he’s won. Instead, I comb the entire room again for an escape route, then for something I could use as a weapon. There’s no phone, nothing that would really be helpful. I could throw the heavy lamp at him, and I probably will, but there’s not much else. The hangers in the closet are attached, like ones in the hotels.
This entire place feels like a hotel fancier than anything I’ve ever stayed in, and it makes me more uncomfortable than I would have imagined.
