Page 46 of Wicked Sinner
She looks at me with what might be sympathy, if I didn't know better. "Miss Lewis, I understand this situation feels overwhelming. But you're carrying the child of a very powerful man who cares about your well-being. Many women would consider themselves fortunate."
"Fortunate," I repeat flatly.
"Mr. Genovese has arranged for the finest prenatal care, the best nutrition, a safe environment for you and your baby. You could do much worse." She pauses. “I’ve seen much worse. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt you.”
I want to scream at her, to shake her until she understands what she's saying. Instead, I just nod and watch her pack up her things.
"I'll send my report to Mr. Genovese," she says, heading for the door. "And I'll see you in a month."
The door closes behind her with a soft click, and I hear the lock engage. I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling more alone than I have since this nightmare began.
Even the doctor—someone who's supposed to help people, to "do no harm"—is working for him. How many people in thiscity are on Caesar's payroll? How many potential sources of help have already been bought and paid for?
I'm still sitting there, feeling numb and defeated, when Caesar returns about an hour later. He's carrying a takeout container and two bottles of water, which he sets down on the dresser. In his other hand are two large shopping bags, which I eye with distaste. I don’t need more clothes; he’s already bought me more than I could possibly wear. But I suppose excess is a normal way of life for him.
“I brought you a club sandwich and fries from a bistro down the street,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Their food is excellent. How did the appointment go?"
"Fine," I say flatly, not looking at him. I’m not going to volunteer any details that I don’t have to. I have no interest in discussing this with him.
"Dr. Ackley said everything looks normal." He's clearly pleased about something, and it makes me want to throw something at his head.
"She told you everything, didn't she?" I ask flatly, unable to summon any real emotion. "Even though it's supposed to be confidential."
"Doctor-patient confidentiality is a luxury," he says calmly, a sound that’s rapidly becoming maddening to me. "When it comes to my child, there are no secrets."
I laugh then, a sharp, snorting sound. “The truth comes out. You’ve been so careful to call the babyourchild, but you slipped, Caesar. You saidyourchild.”
His lips press together, and I see a flash of irritation in his gaze. "Of course it's ours. But I'm the one responsible for protecting them."
“From what?” I shake my head. “Basic human rights?”
Instead of answering, he gestures to the shopping bags. "I brought you something."
"I don't want anything from you." I look away, and I hear him sigh.
“You’ll want this. I’m taking you out to dinner tonight.”
That gets my attention. My gaze snaps toward him. "Out? As in, outside this building?"
“Yes.” Caesar looks at me, clearly calculating whether or not this was the wrong move. “We’ll be getting out of the penthouse for a few hours.”
Hope and suspicion war in my chest. On one hand, getting out of this room, breathing fresh air, seeing other people—it sounds like paradise. I was never a social butterfly before, but a week in this room with no one to talk to but Caesar, his lackey Marco, and now the unhelpful doctor has left me a little stir-crazy and wanting human interaction.
On the other hand, this is Caesar we're talking about. He doesn't do anything without an ulterior motive.
"Why?" I ask suspiciously, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Because you said you wanted fresh air,” Caesar replies calmly. “And I want to show you that I’ll give you anything you ask for, Bridget, as long as it’s in my power to do so. I also want to show you something of the life we could have together. The kind of life you’ll live with me.”
We.As if there’s really a “we” in any of this.
I nod, though, because even a supervised trip outside is better than staying locked in this room for another night. Even a few hours in Caesar’s company is better than this… and maybe I can think of a way to escape. We’ll be in public. In a restaurant. Surely… surely I’ll have an opportunity, if I look for one.
"Good," he says, looking pleased. "Everything you need is in the shopping bags. We have reservations at eight." He glances at the takeout and then at me. “Please eat, Bridget,” he says finally, and then slips out, locking the door behind him.
I’m hungry, whether I want to admit it or not. I leave the bags alone for now, going to examine the sandwich he brought. It smells delicious, all the accoutrements of a club sandwich on thick sourdough bread, with crispy fries and a garlic aioli on the side to dip them in. As much as I don’t want him to think I like what he brought me, I dig in anyway, unable to stop myself. My hunger strike has been difficult to keep up with. For one, I have no desire to hurt the baby, and I know I need nutritious food.
For another, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve never eaten anything in my life like the kind of food Caesar brings me. It’s incredibly delicious, and if I ever do get out of here, I’m going to be going back to cheap spaghetti and burgers made from on-sale ground beef.
