Page 80 of Wicked Sinner
I should be relieved. I should be glad he's giving me space. Instead, I feel more alone than ever, trapped in a gilded cage with no idea how to escape.
—
Over the next few days,Caesar seems determined to prove that he can be the perfect husband. I wake up to fresh flowers every morning—not always roses, but tulips, then lilies, then daisies, like he's trying to figure out what I prefer. He cooks breakfast most mornings, and when he doesn't cook, he has food deliveredfrom restaurants I've never heard of but that serve the most incredible meals I've ever tasted.
He buys me more books when he notices me reading, brings home art supplies when I mention missing the sketching I used to do in my spare time. There are pieces to a new wardrobe appearing in the guest room every other day or so—not fancy designer stuff, but jeans and T-shirts, and sundresses in my size and colors I actually like. There’s a lot of green, as if he wants me to realize that he remembered my favorite color.
It's thoughtful. Too thoughtful.
"You don't have to keep doing this," I tell him one evening as we're eating dinner on the rooftop. He had someone set up a bistro-style table and chairs, complete with candlelight and a multi-course meal from a fine-dining Italian restaurant nearby.
"Doing what?" He sets down his fork, looking at me from across the spread on the table. Charcuterie, caprese salad, the most delicious bolognese I can ever imagine eating. I know what he’s trying to accomplish, and I’m determined for it not to work, even as I can feel the smallest cracks appearing in my armor.
Because the truth is—there are parts of this I like. I never knew what it would be like to be wined and dined, spoiled, brought flowers, and surprised with elaborate breakfasts every morning. I’ve never had a man treat me like this, and it’s difficult to remember how this began, that at one point, Caesar was keeping me a prisoner in this house.
It’s groveling at its finest, a constant stream of wordless apology, and it’s difficult to keep up my walls in the face of it. Especially not when, as much as I miss my life, I can’t help but think sometimes that I’ll miss this too, when it’s over.
"This." I gesture at the elaborate meal. "The gifts, the romantic dinners, the constant pampering. I'm not going to fall in love with you just because you're nice to me. And I’m notgoing to stay just because I’ve gotten a taste of the finer things in life."
Caesar is quiet for a moment, twirling pasta around his fork. "What if I'm not just trying to convince you to stay?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "Then what are you trying to do?"
"Make up for how this started." He sets down his fork and looks at me directly, a look in his eyes that I can’t entirely read. "I kidnapped you, Bridget. I held you prisoner, tried to force you into marriage. And I’m sorry for it, for how I let things spin out of control. I know I can't undo that, but maybe I can show you that I'm not just the man who did those things."
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. "Caesar?—"
"I want you to be happy," he continues. "Even if it's just while you're here. Even if you leave the minute this is all over. I want you to have good memories mixed in with the bad ones."
I don't know what to say to that. Part of me wants to stay angry, to keep my walls up and remember that this is all temporary. But another part of me—a part that's growing stronger every day—is touched by his efforts.
"I am happy," I say quietly. "Or at least, I'm not miserable. You don't have to try so hard."
He shrugs, looking back down at his plate. "Maybe I want to try hard."
On Friday night, he takes me to dinner at a restaurant that requires reservations months in advance, followed by the theater. I've never been to a real theater production before—the kind with an orchestra pit and velvet seats and programs thick as magazines.
The restaurant is the kind of place where they don't put prices on the menu, and the entire place looks like a palace, all marble and crystal and leather, with a huge aquarium taking up one wall filled with exotic fish. Caesar bought me a new dressdespite my full closet, a spring-green lace dress that fits me perfectly, and pearl jewelry to go with it.
The food is incredible. I try truffled salmon and squid-ink pasta and a scallop with some kind of airy cream puffed on top of it, dish after tiny dish that looks more like art than food. It’s beautiful and delicious, but I can’t help feeling that this is once again all an act. I’m never going to fit in at places like this. I wasn’t meant to live this kind of life.
But for once, I try not to let on that I feel like that. Something in me wants to not make Caesar feel like the night is another failure, to preserve his feelings, and that startles me. When did I start to care about his feelings?
The play at the theater is in a different language, but I enjoy it anyway for the spectacle, sipping carbonated water while Caesar enjoys a glass of wine. He keeps glancing at me during the performance, and I can tell he's trying to gauge whether I'm enjoying myself. During intermission, as he brought champagne and more fizzy water for me, he leans over, a smirk on his lips as he murmurs in my ear.
"You know what I like about this?"
I force myself not to turn my head. My mouth would be much, much too close to his if I did that. "What?"
Caesar lets out a hum of satisfaction. "You're not trying to run away anymore."
"I'm not running because there's nowhere to run to," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "You made sure of that."
He leans back, taking a sip of the champagne, his gaze holding mine. "Is that the only reason?"
I let out a breath as I look at him—this man who I’m beginning to realize is more complicated than I knew. When I was his captive, it felt simple. He was an asshole who kidnapped me, and I wanted to get free.
But now he’s my husband. He’s a man who buys me jewelry and comes up with thoughtful dates despite my insistence that this all has an end date, who brings me flowers and cooks for me.
