Page 81 of Wicked Sinner
He’s also a bloody, violent criminal who’s done things I don’t know about and can’t begin to imagine. "Does it matter?"
Caesar’s lips press together. "It matters to me."
The second act starts before I have to answer, but his words stay with me for the rest of the evening. During the car ride home, as we sit in silence watching the city lights blur past, I find myself thinking about how easy this is becoming.
Too easy. I’m starting to look forward to the mornings. To finding out which flowers will appear on the counter. I’m starting to wonder what plans Caesar might have for the evening. What he’s doing—it might not be working exactly the way he intended, but it is doing something to me, and I need to slam on the brakes.
I turn to him as we walk upstairs to our rooms, my pulse thudding at the thought of how easy it would be to go to the same room together. To take that final step into pretending this is something it isn’t.
“Caesar—” I pause, swallowing hard as I look at him in the dim light of the hallway. "All of this—the dinners, the gifts, the pampering—it's not going to change anything."
His expression is unreadable. "What do you mean?"
As if he doesn’t know. I let out a sharp breath. "I mean, I'm still leaving when this is over. I'm still getting a divorce. I'm still going back to my real life." I touch the pearl necklace at my throat, a drop pendant surrounded by diamonds. "I don't want you to think that being nice to me is going to make me change my mind."
Caesar sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know," he says quietly.
"Do you? Because sometimes it feels like you're trying to seduce me into staying."
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is careful. "Would it work? If I was?"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "This isn't real, Caesar. This marriage, this life—it's all just a temporary arrangement to keep me safe. I won't let myself forget that, no matter how many flowers you buy me."
The silence that stretches between us feels tense, shimmering like a thread ready to break. He nods slowly. "Goodnight, Bridget."
"Goodnight."
I step into my room and close the door behind me, my heart beating hard as I listen to the sound of his footsteps disappearing down the hall. The pendant feels heavier against my skin, and I resist the urge to take it off.
Because the truth is, his effortsareworking. Not the expensive dinners or the fancy theater tickets—those just make me feel like he's trying to buy me. But the small things, the thoughtful gestures, the flowers and the dinners at home, and remembering my favorite color—those are getting to me.
It would be so easy to let myself believe this is real. To pretend that we're just a normal couple who fell in love and got married, and are building a life together. To forget about the kidnapping and the forced marriage, and all the reasons this can never work.
But I can't let myself go there. Because at the end of the day, Caesar Genovese is still a criminal. He still runs an organization that hurts people, still solves his problems with violence, still lives in a world where people like me don't belong.
And my child would be born into that world. Raised in it. Influenced to become a man like Caesar, or Konstantin, or Tristan—or a woman like Isabella.
No amount of thoughtful gifts or romantic dinners can change that.
And there’s nothing he could do that would ever make me stay.
20
BRIDGET
The next morning, there are fresh flowers on the counter, but no sign of Caesar, and I wonder if he took the conversation last night partially to heart.
The flowers this morning are a mixture of red roses and white daisies, and I can’t resist walking over to the vase to breathe them in. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to smell fresh flowers after this, without thinking of Caesar.
Next to them is a pastry box from the bakery, and a sticky note that says:Had to go to a meeting. Sorry for leaving early. -C
I press my lips together, leaving the note where it is and taking an apple danish out of the box. I go to make myself a cup of tea, retreating to the couch that faces the floor-to-ceiling glass window to enjoy my breakfast. My days have started to take on a routine—breakfast, workout, read, lunch, go up to the hot tub or pool, stretch in the living room, dinner, watch television, or read until I fall asleep. It’s more free time than I’ve ever had in my life, and it’s beginning to make me feel like I have cabin fever.
It feels like a vacation I didn’t ask for, and one that’s making me increasingly more restless. I loved my job. I want to go backto work, back to fixing cars and helping the locals with their automotive troubles. I want to work on the Corvette.
I miss Jenny.
My chest tightens at the thought of her, and my breakfast is no longer so relaxing. I have no idea what she must think. She’s probably assumed I’m dead by now, and the thought of that makes tears burn at the back of my eyes. I’d give anything to be able to tell her otherwise, and I make a firm decision to tell Caesar later that I need to contact her. My requests to do so are the only thing he’s continually brushed off, and I know it’s because of the danger out there. He’s worried that contacting anyone he doesn’t know and trust explicitly will lead to another attack.
