Page 47 of Wicked Sinner

brIDGET

The next morning, there are fresh flowers on the counter, but no sign of Caesar, and I wonder if he took the conversation last night partially to heart.

The flowers this morning are a mixture of red roses and white daisies, and I can’t resist walking over to the vase to breathe them in. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to smell fresh flowers after this, without thinking of Caesar.

Next to them is a pastry box from the bakery, and a sticky note that says: Had to go to a meeting. Sorry for leaving early. -C

I press my lips together, leaving the note where it is and taking an apple danish out of the box.

I go to make myself a cup of tea, retreating to the couch that faces the floor-to-ceiling glass window to enjoy my breakfast. My days have started to take on a routine—breakfast, workout, read, lunch, go up to the hot tub or pool, stretch in the living room, dinner, watch television, or read until I fall asleep.

It’s more free time than I’ve ever had in my life, and it’s beginning to make me feel like I have cabin fever.

It feels like a vacation I didn’t ask for, and one that’s making me increasingly more restless. I loved my job. I want to go back to work, back to fixing cars and helping the locals with their automotive troubles. I want to work on the Corvette.

I miss Jenny.

My chest tightens at the thought of her, and my breakfast is no longer so relaxing.

I have no idea what she must think. She’s probably assumed I’m dead by now, and the thought of that makes tears burn at the back of my eyes.

I’d give anything to be able to tell her otherwise, and I make a firm decision to tell Caesar later that I need to contact her.

My requests to do so are the only thing he’s continually brushed off, and I know it’s because of the danger out there.

He’s worried that contacting anyone he doesn’t know and trust explicitly will lead to another attack.

But I can’t leave my best friend thinking that I’m dead, or worse.

I go through my usual routine, showering after my workout and putting on a pair of tiny black spandex shorts and a loose black T-shirt before retreating back to the living room. The day is bright and sunny, and I opt to spread out on the living room couch with a book and a cup of tea.

Then, just as I’ve settled in, there’s a knock at the door.

I frown, glancing at the clock. It’s just after two in the afternoon. Caesar is off at meetings. But whoever is at the door must be someone he knows. The hall in front of the penthouse is full of security—no one could just walk up to it unless they were a friend of his.

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. I frown, setting down my book. Who would just show up unannounced?

I walk to the door, looking out through the peephole—and I see Isabella standing there. My jaw tightens instantly. Of all the people I’d like to see today—and there aren’t many—she’s not anywhere on that list.

I wonder if I can get away with just tiptoeing away and pretending like I didn’t see or hear her. Like no one’s home. But I’m a few steps away when she knocks again, harder, and I hear her irritated voice from the other side of the door.

“I know you’re in there. I saw you. Just open the door like an adult, Bridget.”

I blow a sharp breath out from between my lips, narrowing my eyes at the door. Against my better judgment, I walk back, opening the door partway with the chain lock still engaged. “Can I help you, Isabella?”

“I assume Caesar isn’t home?” She purses her lips at me, slicked in red lipstick, and I take in her outfit.

She’s perfect, as always, and I hate it.

She’s wearing slim grey dress pants, a silk blouse that somehow accentuates her figure rather than looking boxy and shapeless, and delicate diamond jewelry, her blonde hair up in a perfect bun. “We need to talk, Bridget.”

Hell no. I can’t imagine, after the way she acted toward me at the party, that this woman has anything to say to me that I want to hear. “I don’t think we do,” I say firmly, starting to close the door.

But Isabella is faster than she looks, and stronger. She pushes against the door, shoving her shoulder into it with a lack of decorum that I wouldn’t have expected from her. The chain lock, apparently not designed to withstand a determined socialite, snaps with a sharp crack.

"Excuse me!" I step back as she strides into the penthouse like she owns the place. "You can't just—"

"Can't I?" She looks around the living room with the air of someone conducting an inspection.

"This is interesting. All this modern nonsense.

So bland. I expected Caesar to have better taste in decor.

" Her gaze lands on me again. "And in wives.

But then again, someone else probably chose the decor. "

The insult is delivered so casually that it takes me a moment to process it. When I do, anger flares hot in my chest.

"Get out," I snap, moving toward the door. "Right now, or I'm calling security. They’re right outside. I can’t believe they didn’t stop you from pushing your way in—”

Isabella snickers. “I’m not stupid, Bridget.

I waited for them to make a round that left the door unwatched for a minute.

They let me up, of course—I’m harmless.” She smiles at me, that practiced, sneering smile that makes me feel uncomfortable in my own skin.

I hate it. I never felt uncomfortable with myself before Caesar dragged me into this world. I fit, where I was before.

I don’t fit here. And she’s reminding me of it all over again.

“Harmless?” I snort. Maybe physically. But she’s emotionally devastating, and she knows it. She knows exactly how to get under my skin and make me feel like shit.

"Oh, please." Isabella waves a manicured hand dismissively. "I'm not here to hurt you, though I suppose I can understand why you'd be nervous. Given your… circumstances."

I eye her, crossing my arms over my chest. "My circumstances?"

"Well, yes." She settles onto the couch like she's been invited. "Married to a man like Caesar Genovese when you're so obviously out of your depth. It must be terrifying."

I cross my arms, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "I'm not terrified of my husband." Husband. The word feels odd on my lips, said with such firmness. As if it’s a lasting marriage, the kind that sticks, not one with an expiration date.

"Aren't you?" Her smile sharpens. "You should be. Do you have any idea what kind of man you've married? What he's capable of? Of course you don’t. I can’t imagine what he was thinking. You don’t have the respect for him that you should.”

My jaw tightens. "I know exactly what kind of man he is."

Isabella tilts her head. “Do you?” She clicks her tongue, looking me over.

“He’s not some man that you met at the auto parts shop, or wherever you go in your spare time.

He’s a violent man, Bridget. I understand a man like that.

I know how to pacify him. How to make him feel appreciated so he never turns on me.

How to soothe and please him. I doubt you understand any of that. ”

I can feel my hands curling into fists. “Oh, I pleased him alright,” I snap. “Where do you think this came from?” I reach down, touching my stomach. “He said I made him come harder than any other woman ever has. So you don’t know what you’re talking about, Isabella.”

Her eyes flare with anger, and I try to keep the surprise at what I’ve just said off of my face. I don’t know where it came from, other than the fact that—Caesar and my marriage being fake notwithstanding—this woman has no business being in his penthouse, talking to me like this about my husband.

And I did please him. I can’t remember if he said those exact words, but for all the hell that’s happened since that night, I’d like to think they’re true. I saw the look on his face when I touched him, when I put my mouth on him, when he sank inside of me. It was as good for him as it was for me.

It’s why we’ve both been fighting not to let it happen again ever since.

“Well.” Isabella looks at her fingernails, inspecting her manicure, before her sharp gaze flicks back up to mine.

“I’m sure he’s told you all about his past, then.

How he left at seventeen because he wanted no part of all of this?

How he tried to come crawling back, but his daddy said no?

He had no use for his prodigal son. How he’s an outcast begging Konstantin for his inheritance now, instead of it being handed over to that handsome Irishman who married the Russo girl? ”

I try to keep my face blank, but I’m not a good enough actress. Caesar has told me very little about all of that. I know what I read when I Googled him, and I know what he admitted to, but it wasn’t much. The story Isabella is telling sounds much more dramatic, and I’m not sure she’s lying.

I lick my dry lips, facing off with Isabella and knowing I’m losing. She knows this world, knows all the gossip, all the families. She knows more than I ever will, which means, despite the fact that he’s been inside me, that I’m carrying his baby, she knows my husband better than I do.

I feel a stab of pain in my chest at that thought, harsher than it should be. This isn’t real—but the thought of this woman knowing Caesar better than I do hurts, and I don’t know why.