Page 46 of Wicked Sinner

Caesar is quiet for a moment, twirling pasta around his fork. "What if I'm not just trying to convince you to stay?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Then what are you trying to do?"

"Make up for how this started." He sets down his fork and looks at me directly, a look in his eyes that I can’t entirely read.

"I kidnapped you, Bridget. I held you prisoner, tried to force you into marriage. And I’m sorry for it, for how I let things spin out of control.

I know I can't undo that, but maybe I can show you that I'm not just the man who did those things. "

The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. "Caesar—"

"I want you to be happy," he continues. "Even if it's just while you're here. Even if you leave the minute this is all over. I want you to have good memories mixed in with the bad ones."

I don't know what to say to that. Part of me wants to stay angry, to keep my walls up and remember that this is all temporary. But another part of me—a part that's growing stronger every day—is touched by his efforts.

"I am happy," I say quietly. "Or at least, I'm not miserable. You don't have to try so hard."

He shrugs, looking back down at his plate. "Maybe I want to try hard."

On Friday night, he takes me to dinner at a restaurant that requires reservations months in advance, followed by the theater. I've never been to a real theater production before—the kind with an orchestra pit and velvet seats and programs thick as magazines.

The restaurant is the kind of place where they don't put prices on the menu, and the entire place looks like a palace, all marble and crystal and leather, with a huge aquarium taking up one wall filled with exotic fish.

Caesar bought me a new dress despite my full closet, a spring-green lace dress that fits me perfectly, and pearl jewelry to go with it.

The food is incredible. I try truffled salmon and squid-ink pasta and a scallop with some kind of airy cream puffed on top of it, dish after tiny dish that looks more like art than food.

It’s beautiful and delicious, but I can’t help feeling that this is once again all an act.

I’m never going to fit in at places like this.

I wasn’t meant to live this kind of life.

But for once, I try not to let on that I feel like that. Something in me wants to not make Caesar feel like the night is another failure, to preserve his feelings, and that startles me. When did I start to care about his feelings?

The play at the theater is in a different language, but I enjoy it anyway for the spectacle, sipping carbonated water while Caesar enjoys a glass of wine.

He keeps glancing at me during the performance, and I can tell he's trying to gauge whether I'm enjoying myself.

During intermission, as he brought champagne and more fizzy water for me, he leans over, a smirk on his lips as he murmurs in my ear.

"You know what I like about this?"

I force myself not to turn my head. My mouth would be much, much too close to his if I did that. "What?"

Caesar lets out a hum of satisfaction. "You're not trying to run away anymore."

"I'm not running because there's nowhere to run to," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "You made sure of that."

He leans back, taking a sip of the champagne, his gaze holding mine. "Is that the only reason?"

I let out a breath as I look at him—this man who I’m beginning to realize is more complicated than I knew. When I was his captive, it felt simple. He was an asshole who kidnapped me, and I wanted to get free.

But now he’s my husband. He’s a man who buys me jewelry and comes up with thoughtful dates despite my insistence that this all has an end date, who brings me flowers and cooks for me.

He’s also a bloody, violent criminal who’s done things I don’t know about and can’t begin to imagine. "Does it matter?"

Caesar’s lips press together. "It matters to me."

The second act starts before I have to answer, but his words stay with me for the rest of the evening. During the car ride home, as we sit in silence watching the city lights blur past, I find myself thinking about how easy this is becoming.

Too easy. I’m starting to look forward to the mornings.

To finding out which flowers will appear on the counter.

I’m starting to wonder what plans Caesar might have for the evening.

What he’s doing—it might not be working exactly the way he intended, but it is doing something to me, and I need to slam on the brakes.

I turn to him as we walk upstairs to our rooms, my pulse thudding at the thought of how easy it would be to go to the same room together. To take that final step into pretending this is something it isn’t.

“Caesar—” I pause, swallowing hard as I look at him in the dim light of the hallway. "All of this—the dinners, the gifts, the pampering—it's not going to change anything."

His expression is unreadable. "What do you mean?"

As if he doesn’t know. I let out a sharp breath.

"I mean, I'm still leaving when this is over.

I'm still getting a divorce. I'm still going back to my real life.

" I touch the pearl necklace at my throat, a drop pendant surrounded by diamonds.

"I don't want you to think that being nice to me is going to make me change my mind. "

Caesar sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know," he says quietly.

"Do you? Because sometimes it feels like you're trying to seduce me into staying."

He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is careful. "Would it work? If I was?"

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "This isn't real, Caesar. This marriage, this life—it's all just a temporary arrangement to keep me safe. I won't let myself forget that, no matter how many flowers you buy me."

The silence that stretches between us feels tense, shimmering like a thread ready to break. He nods slowly. "Goodnight, Bridget."

"Goodnight."

I step into my room and close the door behind me, my heart beating hard as I listen to the sound of his footsteps disappearing down the hall. The pendant feels heavier against my skin, and I resist the urge to take it off.

Because the truth is, his efforts are working. Not the expensive dinners or the fancy theater tickets—those just make me feel like he's trying to buy me. But the small things, the thoughtful gestures, the flowers and the dinners at home, and remembering my favorite color—those are getting to me.

It would be so easy to let myself believe this is real. To pretend that we're just a normal couple who fell in love and got married, and are building a life together. To forget about the kidnapping and the forced marriage, and all the reasons this can never work.

But I can't let myself go there. Because at the end of the day, Caesar Genovese is still a criminal. He still runs an organization that hurts people, still solves his problems with violence, still lives in a world where people like me don't belong.

And my child would be born into that world. Raised in it. Influenced to become a man like Caesar, or Konstantin, or Tristan—or a woman like Isabella.

No amount of thoughtful gifts or romantic dinners can change that.

And there’s nothing he could do that would ever make me stay.