Page 75 of Wicked Sinner
My pulse leaps in my throat despite myself. "I'm not?—"
"Yes, you are." He sets his coffee cup down, his gaze holding mine. "Whether you want to admit it or not."
And then he gets up and walks out of the room, leaving me there.
After Caesar is gone, I organize the dishes in the sink for the cleaning lady—I don’t have to clean up for once in my adult life, and I’m going to enjoy it—and explore the penthouse a little more. It’s beautiful, if overly perfect for my taste, and the kitchen, entertainment room, and another room that seems to be used as a library are a dream. When Caesar doesn’t emerge again, I change into workout clothing and go to the gym, following a careful workout plan that should be fine for my pregnancy.
I'm reading in the living room when Caesar returns around five, and I can tell from his expression that the meeting didn't go well.
"That bad?" I ask, closing my book.
"About what I expected." He loosens his tie and sits down across from me. "Three angry fathers demanding to know why their daughters aren't good enough for a Genovese, and Konstantin making it clear that my marriage is a political liability."
"I'm sorry." And I am, even though part of me wants to point out that he brought this on himself.
"It's not your fault." He runs a hand through his hair. "How was your day?”
“I worked out, walked around, read.” I force myself not to say anything about how badly I wish I was at work, grease under my fingernails, and the smell of hot metal in my nose. “It was fine.”
Caesar clears his throat. "There's something else." He looks almost nervous, which is strange for a man who usually exudes confidence. "I got you something."
He reaches into his pocket and slides out a jewelry box. I stare at it, my stomach twisting as I register the size and shape, and wonder what’s going to be in there. I have a feeling I know.
“Caesar, is that?—”
He flips it open, and a ring stares back at me. My first thought, before I take in the fact that it’s forme, is that it’s beautiful. It’s a marquis solitaire on a thin gold band, bigger than any diamond I’ve ever seen in my life, and I swallow hard as I look at Caesar.
“That’s not necessary,” I manage.
“You should have a full wedding set. If you don’t want to wear it after—” His voice falters for a second before he continues, “you can keep it for our child. If it’s a boy, he can give it to his own bride one day. If it’s a girl, maybe she’ll want it as an heirloom. But it’s yours, whatever you want to do with it.”
He holds the box in his palm, and I’m grateful that he’s at least not trying to slip it onto my finger himself, in some parody of a real engagement. I gingerly take the ring from the box and slide it onto my finger, next to the gold wedding band, and the diamond flashes brilliantly in the light.
It’s gorgeous… and it’s nothing I’d ever have worn in any other situation. I use my hands too much for something like this. But right now, when I have nowhere else to be and nothing else to do… I have to admit, it suits me. It’s simple and beautiful, and it fits me perfectly, which sends a strange feeling slithering through my stomach.
I like it more than I should.
“It’s perfect on you,” Caesar murmurs, reaching to touch my hand and turn it into the light. It takes everything in me not to snatch it away. Heat slides down my spine the minute his fingers touch my hand, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.
He still affects me, no matter how much I want him not to.
“I got this because I wanted you to have it,” Caesar says slowly, finally letting go of my hand. “But also because there’s a gala tomorrow night. And I need you to come with me.”
My eyes widen as I turn to look at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
"A charity gala," he explains, his voice taking on that businesslike tone that I've come to recognize means he's not going to be swayed from whatever he's decided. "It's important that we make an appearance together, especially now. Konstantin and the other bosses need to see that I'm not backing down on my choice of wife."
The way he says it makes my stomach clench. "So I'm supposed to be your trophy wife for the evening?"
"You're supposed to be my wife," he corrects, his voice carefully measured. "In all the ways that matter, for as long as we're married. That was our agreement."
I want to argue with him, but he's right. I did agree to this marriage, even if it was under duress. Even if I made it clear it was temporary. "Will they be there?" I ask, pressing my lips together. "The women you were supposed to choose from?"
Caesar's jaw tightens slightly. "At least two of them, likely. Isabella Torrino and Elisa Romero."
The names hit me like a punch to the gut. Of course, they have elegant, sophisticated names. Of course, they're probably everything I'm not—polished, connected, bred for this life.
Why do I care? I don’t.I remind myself of that. I didn’t want any part of this. If they think they’re better than me, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t want to be here, and I don’t want to stay.
