Chapter 2

Jillian Andrews POV

The cake sat on the nightstand, gleaming like a ruby in the dim light.

Red velvet.

Thick swirls of cream cheese frosting.

To the naked eye, it was a masterpiece.

Alex sat on the edge of the bed, loosening his tie with slow, deliberate movements.

He watched me, his eyes gleaming with a dark, predatory amusement that made the hair on my arms stand up.

"Eat up, Jillian," he murmured, the softness of his tone betraying the cruelty beneath.

"Charlotte recommended this bakery. She said it's simply... to die for."

My stomach lurched violently.

The image of the text message burned behind my eyelids.

A little souvenir from my Rottweiler.

Excrement.

He was feeding me actual filth.

He knew.

He was testing me, waiting to see if I would play the role of the obedient little wife.

If I hesitated, if I refused, the charade would shatter.

He would know I saw the chat.

My escape plan would burn to ash before it even began.

I reached for the fork.

My hand trembled so hard the silver clattered against the plate.

"You're shaking," Alex observed, his voice devoid of sympathy.

He reached out, wrapping his large hand over mine to steady it.

His skin was warm, but his touch felt like a branding iron against my flesh.

"Let me help you," he purred.

He took the utensil from my unresisting fingers.

He sliced a generous piece of the crimson cake, dragging it through the frosting.

He brought it to my lips.

"Open," he commanded.

I stared into his eyes, seeing the monster lurking behind the cool blue irises.

I opened my mouth.

The taste was masked by an overload of sugar and cocoa, but my mind knew what lay beneath the sweetness.

My entire being screamed in revolt.

I forced it down. I swallowed.

He smiled.

"Good girl," he praised. "Again."

He fed me three more bites.

Each one was a violation.

Each swallow felt like a piece of my soul was breaking off and dying.

Ten minutes later, the cramping started.

It wasn't a subtle ache; it felt like a serrated knife twisting in my gut.

I scrambled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet.

I retched until my throat burned raw and my eyes watered.

I collapsed onto the cold marble tiles, clutching my midsection as the pain blinded me.

Alex stood in the doorway.

He wasn't panicking.

He wasn't rushing to help.

He was texting.

"Alex," I gasped, the word tearing from my throat. "Help me."

He finished typing his message before he finally looked down at me.

"You probably just have a bug," he said, his tone dismissive. "You've always had a weak stomach, Jillian."

He called Dr. Ricci.

The family's personal physician-the Mob Doctor.

Ricci arrived twenty minutes later, smelling of antiseptic and expensive cologne.

He administered a shot for the nausea and patted my hand patronizingly.

"Acute gastritis," Ricci told Alex, his face a mask of professional neutrality. "She needs rest."

Not poisoning.

Gastritis.

They covered for each other, a silent brotherhood of sinners.

Alex walked Ricci to the door.

I lay in bed, shivering in a cold sweat, the taste of bile and betrayal coating my tongue.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A notification from Instagram flashed on the screen.

Charlotte had posted a story.

I opened it. A picture of two crystal champagne glasses clinking against a blurred city skyline.

The caption read: Celebrating a successful prank. The look on her face must have been priceless.

Alex walked back into the bedroom, shrugging into his suit jacket.

"I have an emergency meeting with the Capos," he lied smoothly. "I'll be late."

He wasn't going to a meeting.

He was going to her.

He was going to laugh about how he had fed his wife filth.

"Okay," I whispered, closing my eyes.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my clammy forehead.

"Rest up," he said. "We have the Charity Gala next week. I need you perfect."

He turned and left.

The apartment fell into a heavy silence.

I curled into a tight ball, trying to hold myself together.

The pain in my stomach was nothing compared to the fire igniting in my veins.

I didn't sleep.

I counted.

Seventy-one days.