Page 76 of Wicked Sinner
"Great," I mutter, looking down at the ring again. It feels heavier now, like a rock on my finger.
"Bridget." His voice is softer now, and when I look up, there's something almost gentle in his eyes. "You're my wife. That means something."
“It doesn’t.” I swallow hard. “It’s not real. This doesn’t change that.” I hold up my hand, prisms of light flashing from the diamond.
For a moment, something flickers across his face—hurt, maybe, or frustration. But it's gone so quickly, I might haveimagined it. "You'll need something to wear," he says instead of answering. "I'll have some options sent tomorrow."
And just like that, the conversation is over. He stands, straightening his suit jacket, and I'm left sitting there with a diamond ring on my finger and the sinking feeling that I'm about to be thrown to the wolves, whether Caesar means for that to be how it is or not.
The next morning, the hallway looks like a high-end boutique exploded. There are at least a dozen dresses hanging from a portable rack, each one more expensive-looking than the last. Jewelry boxes are in a separate bag, and there are boxes of shoes in another for me to choose from, all of it waiting for me to bring it into my room and sort through it until I’ve decided what I’m going to wear tonight.
I stare at it all, overwhelmed. I've never owned anything this expensive in my life, and now I'm supposed to choose something to wear to rub shoulders with Miami's criminal elite. The irony isn't lost on me.
I settle on a deep emerald green dress that's elegant without being too flashy. It hugs my curves in all the right places, and the color brings out my eyes. The neckline is modest enough that I don't feel completely exposed, a high sweetheart neckline with off-the-shoulder sleeves. I pair it with simple diamond earrings and a matching bracelet, trying to ignore how much they probably cost. I ignore all of the heels that whatever personal shopper Caesar chose sent over, opting for the flats he bought me before instead. I’m not going to make a fool out of myself wearing heels, no matter what the other women there think.
Makeup and hair, I keep simple—soft curls and light champagne tones that flatter my skin. When I look at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks sophisticated, polished—like she belongs in Caesar's world. The thought makes my chest tight.
I don’t want to belong here. This isn’t my world, and it won’t ever be.
I don’t want it to be our child’s world, either.
Caesar is waiting for me in the living room when I come downstairs, and the way his eyes darken when he sees me makes heat pool low in my belly. He's wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders and muscled figure, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
I have to remind myself that I don’t want him. That this isn’t real.
That I’m not ever going to let him touch me again.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges as his gaze slides over me again, taking me in. “Perfect choices.”
He steps closer, his hand brushing my upper arm as he looks at me, that intensity back in his eyes. “I didn’t choose you because you clean up well,” he murmurs. “But no one is going to doubt my choice after they see you.”
I can smell his cologne, a smoky, woodsy scent that sends that heat spiraling through me again. I want to lean into him and take a step back all at once, but I force myself to remain still, to not back down already.
I’m going to have to get through an entire night of being on his arm. I can’t falter now.
"Ready?" he asks, offering me his arm.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and let him escort me to the elevator. The ride down to the garage is silent, the tension between us crackling. I know he can feel it too, from the way he puts a little space between us on the ride down. I don’t dare look at him—the space is too close, too confining for me to see that heat in his eyes again.
He leads me to the Ferrari, and I force every filthy thought that it reminds me of out of my mind.
I force myself not to glance below his hips, to see if he was telling the truth when he said that just seeing the car arouses him, remembering what we did on it.
The drive to the gala is a blur of city lights. I try to focus on the scenery outside the window instead of the way his hands look on the steering wheel, or the way his thigh muscles flex when he shifts gears. We pull up in front of a sprawling white stone mansion, the lawn expansive and green and manicured—something that costs a fortune in Florida. Women in designer gowns are getting out of equally expensive cars on the arms of men in expensive suits, as valets scurry around taking keys. I feel like I'm walking into a movie.
"Remember," Caesar murmurs as we approach the entrance, his hand warm on the small of my back, "you belong here. You're my wife."
I want to tell him that I don't belong here, that I never will, but there's no time. We're walking into a grand foyer, a crowd around us as Caesar escorts me through the entryway and down a hall until we reach a grand ballroom. String music floats out from the double doors, and I stare in awe as we step inside.
The ballroom is stunning—crystal chandeliers cast warm light over marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows offer views of the gardens on the other side of the expansive space. A string quartet plays in one corner while servers in white jackets circulate with champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
"Caesar!" A woman's voice cuts through the ambient noise, and I turn to see a stunning blonde approaching us. She's tall and willowy, moving with the kind of effortless elegance that comes from a lifetime of privilege and expectation. Her figure is perfect, draped in a tight red silk dress that probably costs more than I made in six months at the shop. More, even. She’s dripping in diamonds, her makeup and hair perfect, her beautyso polished that I can only imagine how much it costs to be that gorgeous.
"Isabella," Caesar says, his voice carefully neutral. "You look lovely."
Isabella Torrino. One of the women he was offered as a potential wife. My stomach clenches as she air-kisses Caesar's cheeks, her hand lingering on his arm just a beat too long. I’m trying not to stare, but it’s difficult. I can’t imagine a man turning down a woman who looks like that. She’s what every man wants.
"And you must be Bridget," she says, turning to me with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "How… interesting to finally meet you."
