Page 50 of Wicked Sinner
When we finally leave, I feel like I'm walking back into a cell.
Caesar glances over at me as we drive back. The mood in the car is heavy, even from him—I can tell that the night hasn’t gone the way he’d hoped. “Did you enjoy dinner?”
"The food was excellent," I say neutrally. I’ve barely looked at him since we got into the car. I stare at the passing lights, wondering what he’d do if I opened the door and flung myself out of the car. I can’t, because of the baby.
I can’t, regardless. I glance at the locks and see that he has them engaged. He doesn’t trust me at all, then. Fine by me.
"But?"
"But it doesn't change anything," I tell him flatly. "You can dress me up in expensive clothes and take me to fancy restaurants, but I'm still your prisoner. You can't buy my cooperation with pretty things."
"I'm not trying to buy your cooperation.” Caesar sighs. "I'm trying to show you what your life could be like. What our child's life could be like."
“No, you’re trying to manipulate me," I correct. "And it's not working."
He's quiet for the rest of the ride, and when we reach the penthouse, he walks me back to my room without another word. I wait for him to say something, to start another argument, but he just walks right back out, locking the door as he goes. The room is still and silent, dark except for the glow of the Miami skyline, and I feel my heart inexplicably drop as he leaves.
I don’t understand why. I don’t want to be around him. But I feel lonely the moment the door closes behind him.
I sit on the bed, still wearing the expensive dress and diamond necklace, feeling more trapped than ever. Tonight was supposed to show me what I could have with him, but all it did was reinforce how completely he controls every aspect of my life.
Even dressed like a princess, I'm still just a prisoner in a very pretty cage.
And I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever find a way out.
14
CAESAR
Two weeks.
It's been two weeks since I brought Bridget home, and she's no closer to accepting the situation than she was that first night. If anything, she's become more defiant, more determined to resist everything I offer her.
My new life in Miami has become a routine that I don’t at all enjoy. In the morning, I wake up, usually from dreams fraught with flashes of that night with Bridget in her garage, hard and aching for her. I tried ignoring it for a few days, wondering if I could brute-force myself to stop wanting her, but all it did was make me frustrated and irritable. So now I end up jerking off the moment I wake up or going to the shower, giving myself a little relief before I start my day.
I check on Bridget two or three times a day when I’m at the penthouse, and I’m always met with a version of the same conversation. The same resistance. She’s stopped trying to go on hunger strike, which is a small mercy, but that’s it.
I don’t ask her out on another date. I don’t try to spoil her again. For the next week, I focus on work as much as possible, try to avoid getting into arguments with her, see the womenKonstantin wants me to see in an effort to ‘make a decision’ about my future bride, and do everything I can to try to figure out how to make Bridget crack.
One night, I even went out to a fancy martini bar, looking to pick up a woman and bring her home, just to feel the pleasure of a warm body under mine instead of fucking my own fist. But in the end, I couldn’t do it.
I don’t really want to make her jealous. I don’t want to hurt her.
I just want her to see fucking sense.
I lean back in my office chair, staring out at the Miami skyline while I contemplate my next move. Every tactic I've tried has failed spectacularly. Bridget isn't like other women—she can't be bought with expensive gifts, intimidated with displays of power, or seduced with romantic gestures.
It feels as if she’s completely beyond my control. As if there’s nothing I can do to make her move forward on the path that I see for us.
The irony isn't lost on me that the very qualities that make her impossible to manage are the same ones that drew me to her in the first place. Her strength, her independence, her refusal to back down—those are the traits that turned me on in the first place, that made me want to possess her for that one night, and those are the same things that make her absolutely determined never to be mine.
My phone buzzes with a text from Konstantin, reminding me about our meeting this afternoon. Another opportunity for him to pressure me about Isabella Torrino, no doubt, who I’m well aware is his first choice for me to marry. The woman has been calling me almost daily, finding excuses to invite me to various social events. I know where she got my number, too—either Konstantin or Tristan, the meddling brat.
Yesterday it was a charity luncheon. A few days before that, an art gallery opening. Each invitation comes with barely concealed hints about what a suitable wife she would make, how perfectly she understands the demands of our world.
The thought of spending the rest of my life married to Isabella makes me want to put my fist through my monitor.
But first, I need to check on Bridget. Again.
