Page 27 of Wicked Sinner

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.

When I’ve polished off the food and a bottle of water, I go to wash my hands and come back to investigate the shopping bags. What I find is a startling array of, well… everything I could possibly need for a luxurious night out, exactly as Caesar said.

There’s a smaller bag inside one of the large ones, which I find has a variety of makeup items in it—foundation, concealer, eyeshadow, mascara and liner, lipstick.

I find it hard to believe Caesar picked any of this out himself—he probably just showed a photo of me to a sales associate and asked for whatever she thought would look good on me.

But whoever did pick it out did a good job.

I don’t usually wear makeup, but what’s in the bag is close to what I’ve picked out the few times I have: neutral tones and matte finishes.

I reach into the second, larger bag, and pull the tissue paper away to feel silk slither through my fingers. My jaw almost drops when I pull out the dress.

It’s gorgeous—a delicate cream silk with a flower motif in a watercolor style that looks as if they’ve been painted on.

The straps are thin and fragile, the neckline draped, and there’s a slit up one side that I have a feeling will likely go very high.

I stare at it for a long moment, hating how much I love it.

I’ve never owned anything so beautiful in my life.

It’s a work of art on fabric, and I’m almost afraid to put it on.

Draping the dress over the bed, I move on to the next bag.

I find shoes—Dior—in a box, a pair of nude flats with pale pink pearls on the toes in a delicate floral pattern.

I hold the shoes for a moment, trying not to feel appreciation for the fact that Caesar didn’t expect me to wear heels.

That he has, at the very least, paid enough attention to me to figure out that I wouldn’t know how to walk in heels to save my life.

I gingerly set the shoes down, finishing my excavation of the bags.

I find a pair of earrings, blue enamel violets with a pearl center and gold edging, and a matching cocktail ring.

It’s all beautiful, all items that I’ve never imagined myself wearing but want to put on despite myself, and I set the jewelry down, hating the thrill of excitement that runs down my spine at the thought of putting this on.

I’m not a girly-girl. I’ve lived my life in jean shorts and mechanic’s coveralls… but looking at the gorgeous clothing and shoes and jewelry spread across my bed, I can’t help but wonder what I’ll look like in all of this.

I also can’t begin to imagine how much all of this costs. To me, it’s probably a fortune, but to Caesar, it was probably pocket change. The gulf between us seems more vast than ever as I run my fingers over the silk dress again.

I don’t care about any of this, I tell myself, but I can't deny that part of me is curious. I've never owned anything this beautiful, never worn clothes that weren't bought on sale or from a thrift store. What would it feel like to put on something that costs more than most people's rent?

I find out soon enough. At six-thirty, I get in the shower, then blow-dry my hair and spend an inordinate amount of time figuring out my makeup, putting it on with a light hand until I feel like I’ve gotten it right.

I find a nude thong in the underwear that Caesar bought for me not long after I got here—I still feel uncomfortable, knowing he did that—and go without a bra, since there’s no way I could wear one under the silk dress.

When I slide the dress over my head, it flows over me like water, clinging to me perfectly. It fits me like it was made for me, and as I look at my reflection in the mirror, I can’t believe the girl looking back at me is me.

It’s been years since I’ve even worn a dress. I’ve never worn anything like this. I look beautiful, I think, staring at my reflection. I look… expensive. Polished. Sophisticated.

I look like I belong here, and the thought sends a shudder down my spine.

The shoes are surprisingly comfortable. I slip them on, put on the jewelry, and check my hair once more just before I hear the lock turn.

"You look beautiful," Caesar says from the doorway, and something in his voice makes me turn around.

He's staring at me like he's never seen me before, his blue eyes heated in a way that makes my pulse quicken despite everything. He's changed into a different suit—charcoal gray this time, perfectly tailored and hinting at the muscles beneath the fitted cloth. “I knew that dress would suit you.”

“It fits well,” I say carefully, swallowing hard.

I don’t want him to see the way that look in his eyes affects me, the way it makes me feel like heat is licking through my blood.

The way it reminds me of being on my knees on cold concrete, of running my tongue over him, of all the ways he made me feel things I never knew I could before that night.

"It's perfect," he says, moving closer. "You look stunning, bellissima.”

I manage a smile, feeling shaky. Because I might find a way to get away from him tonight, I tell myself firmly.

Not because of the way he’s looking at me, or the way his cologne washes over me as I step closer to him, a faint scent of orange in it that reminds me of sunny Florida afternoons.

Not because of anything other than anticipation at finally getting free.

He leads me downstairs, and I get another look at the penthouse.

The last time I was so frantic and angry that I barely looked at anything, but this time, I glance around as I follow Caesar to the front door.

It’s huge, all open-concept with leather and gleaming brass fixtures and polished dark wood floors, an iron staircase leading down to the main floor.

It looks like a professional decorated it, without personal touches.

Everything looks perfect—too perfect, like a catalog.

“Did you buy this recently?” I ask, curious despite myself. “Or did you inherit this?”

“I bought it just before I came back. Picked up the keys just before I bought the Ferrari.” Caesar glances at me, and heat snakes down my spine at the knowing look in his eyes. A look that reminds me of what we were doing, not too long after that.

I hope against hope that he’s going to take a different car, have a driver, call an Uber.

But whether he’s particularly attached to it or just wants to torture me, he leads me to the Ferrari, and I force memories of myself spread out over the hood out of my head.

The way his mouth felt on me, the way his cock—

Caesar opens my door just as I nearly trip, and he gives me another of those knowing looks as my cheeks flush. “I’m very attached to this car,” he says, a smirk on his lips, and I resist the urge to slap it off of his face.

“You shouldn’t be,” I say flatly, sliding into the passenger side. “It’s clearly defective.”

He grins as he leans down to close my door. “Just looking at it reminds me how good you felt around me, bellissima. And every time I go for a drive, I’m so turned on I can’t think straight.”