His brow raises.
"We'll have the best chance just after. When I'm ovulating."
He sighs, closing his eyes slightly. "Fucking fine." He buckles his pants. "I'll be back in a week. You're free to do whatever the hell you want."
I already do. Mostly. Kind of.
Saint leaves me alone. During the day anyway. I hate it.
Seven days of reprieve.
Seven days where my body is my own.
I should feel grateful.
Instead, I dread it. How much longer can I be expected to survive this?
CHAPTER 3
Gemma
Week ten of marriage, and I'm still not pregnant.
The relief is becoming harder to feel. Mostly because Antonio's disappointment is becoming impossible to ignore.
And I am so fucking bored. I went from being a graduate student with a vibrant social life to being a half-awake socialite. There's only so much shopping a woman can do before she goes crazy.
Every day someone lines up to remind me I'm not a prisoner. I can do whatever I want, within the bounds of my new life.
Saint doesn't much give a shit what I do, but he's made it clear Antonio does. And we all play by the Don's rules. Even him. So, I try.
My cage exists, even if they all expect me to pretend it doesn’t.
The weekly dinners with Antonio have become routine. Every Thursday, seven o'clock, and more often than not, it’s just the two of us.
Saint works. A lot. And yet, I’m not allowed to bug off. There’s some unspoken agreement that these are Antonio’s times to “check in” on his investment.
I fucking hate it. I hate the way Antonio manages me, and how his dark eyes are always searching me, checking for any sign that my marriage to Saint has been fruitful. It’s just a reminder that Antionio is just as bad as Saint, maybe worse. At least, Saint doesn’t pretend to see me and more than a womb.
Antonio does.
It's why I hate these dinners.
And yet…here I am…like a good little girl.
"How are you feeling?" Antonio asks, cutting into his steak. He always eats steak—bloody.
"Fine."
"Your color looks better. You're eating more. It’s good to see you doing better.”
I give Antonio a small, demure smile, playing into the role that he’s created for me. This is something that Bianca taught me. She could play the part of sweet and simple socialite while planning a murder. I really leaned on that right now. It was the only thing keeping me from screaming. “You’ve all been so kind,” I push food around my plate, “how could I not?”
"Good." He smiles at me. Wide, all-teeth. "You know, my late wife, Saint's aunt, took almost a year to conceive with our first. These things take time." I stiffen, not sure who he is trying to convince—me or himself.
"Did you have weekly dinners with her to discuss her fertility?" I snap, smiling still.
His doesn’t falter. "I didn't have to. She knew her duty. Even before I became Don." He takes a sip of his whiskey. "Back then, we didn't last as long. Sons were important."
