Page 21 of Split

“Hm,” he grunts.

Apparently he doesn’t have anything else to say, because he falls silent again as I resume pushing my food around the plate with my fork, trying not to squirm beneath the weight of his stare burning into the side of my face.

“You need to eat,” he grumbles, evidently having noticed that I’m just playing with my food rather than consuming it. “You’re too thin.”

I glance over to meet his eyes again, clenching my jaw. “Men shouldn’t feel entitled to comment on women’s bodies.”

“And women shouldn’t starve themselves to achieve some impossible standard of beauty,” he deadpans, nodding down to my plate. “Noweat.”

His stern tone brokers no room for argument, and for the sole purpose of escaping the humiliation of being fed another meal by his hand, I comply, flaking off a piece of salmon onto my fork and bringing it to my lips.

Even though it’s delicious, my stomach twists when I swallow it down, as if it’s rioting at his directive. When I glance back over at Roman, he’s still watching me, irritation bubbling up inside me in response to his scrutiny.

I set down my fork with a gentle click, lifting my napkin to wipe the corner of my mouth. “Is my stuff ever going to come?” I ask.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“When you brought me here, you said you’d arrange for my things to be delivered,” I remind him. “They haven’t been.”

Roman stares at me for a long moment, the muscle in his tightly-clenched jaw feathering. “Is there something you’re lacking?”

“My laptop, my phone…”

“There’s a computer in the study, and there’s a phone in the hall.”

“I want my own,” I reply, unable to keep the edge of desperation out of my voice. “Plus, I’ve seen that dinosaur of a desktop you’ve got in the study. Can you even access the internet on that thing?”

He stares at me, his jaw ticking over. Then he drops his gaze to his plate with a sigh, spearing a piece of asparagus onto his fork. “Make a list,” he grumbles. “Give it to Clara, and I’ll see to it that Andrew gets you what you need.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, a whoosh of air leaving me and some of the tension draining from my shoulders. Though I’m not sure why I’m thanking him for something as simple as fulfilling his prior promise.If he’s trying to condition me to be dependent on him, it’s working.

I lift my fork again, picking at the potatoes on my plate. “Who was here earlier?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He arches a brow in my direction as he swallows his bite of food. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“When I was coming in for dinner, I heard you talking to someone down the hall,” I say nonchalantly, setting my fork down and reaching for the glass of wine. There’s only a sip left, and I swallow it eagerly, setting the empty glass back down in front of me.

“Business associates stop by from time to time,” he mutters.

I flinch as he drops his fork with a clatter, wiping his mouth off on his napkin. Then he rises from his seat, leaning forward to grab the bottle of wine off the table. He swivels toward me,tipping the neck of the bottle into my glass and refilling it, then sets the bottle back down, dropping into his chair again.

It’s a good thing he’s not looking this way, because I can’t contain the shock playing out on my face. That might’ve been the first nice thing my new husband has done for me. And the fact that it’s something as simple as refilling a glass of wine speaks volumes as to how this relationship is going.

“I occasionally take meetings in my office here,” Roman supplies as he rearranges his napkin on his lap.

“That’s the door down the hall?” I ask innocently, as if I wasn’t snooping on him before dinner. “Your office?”

“Yes.” He picks up his silverware and resumes eating, while I lift my newly refilled glass of wine and mull over his words.

If he takes meetings here, maybe I’ll recognize one of his business associates from my father’s dealings. A few of them were sweet on me. Maybe I could ask them for help, and that’d give me another potential option for getting out of here.

“But I didn’t see anyone leave,” I mumble, thinking aloud.

Roman glances over at me, arching a brow in question.

“You had a meeting in your office before dinner, but I didn’t see anyone else pass by this room,” I say, squinting my eyes in consideration. “They would’ve had to pass by here to get to the front door.”

“Niko knows his way around the manor,” Roman replies with an edge of annoyance. “Sometimes he goes out the back.”

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