Page 8 of Devoted

I stomp away from the intercom. I grab the water bottle that came with the first meal I got and go into the bathroom. Might as well make it look like I had a legitimate request. I’d hate to lose the only contact I have with another person.

The bathroom might be a basement room, but this is a Bel Air mansion. The shower has six showerheads. The towels are soft and fluffy, and all the toiletries I could want for a year are stocked. All but a fingernail clipper, a nail file, tweezers, or any other metal object that I could jam into a lock.

The bathroom door doesn’t have a lock either. That makes my skin crawl.

There’s got to be a way out, but I’m not the person to think of one. Which Roman probably banked on.

Is Roman literally banking on anything with me? Am I worth money to him?

I mentally scroll through our history together. I signed so many papers when we married, it’s a blur. I wanted to seem sophisticated and didn’t realize that asking questions would prove I am. I unflinchingly signed documents for the prenup, to change my name, and to pay off my student loans. Did I sign life insurance papers?

I close my eyes. Think. I picture myself signing the prenup. I can see the lawyer who was the same age as Roman but a little more approachable telling me the specifications.

Life insurance. Yes. I recall being pleased Roman thought I was worth so much. My young brain equated it with love. He must really think my loss could devastate his business.

Two hundred…million?

Is that right?

Am I insured for two hundred million?

Darling, your talent is worth more than you think. That was the only time Roman didn’t disparage my career in the arts after the ring was on my finger.

I blow out a hard breath, and I’m weightless, like I’m floating away.

I’m going to die. And my husband is going to be behind it. The only question is, Who is going to kill me?

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