Page 32 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
"Third, when Mr. Visconti is home, don't disturb him. He'll call if he needs something."
"Fourth, and most important—" She eyed me, gray eyes cold as stone. "Remember your place. You're here because he needs the child in your belly. Nothing else. Understand?"
I nodded.
"Understood."
She seemed satisfied and dipped her head. "Dinner at seven. Someone will fetch you."
She left.
Door closed behind her.
I stood in the massive room, hearing my own breath.
Then I went to the window, pushed it open.
Cold air rushed in, grass and earth scents. I breathed deep, hand on my belly.
"Baby," I said. "It's okay. We got windows now."
Over the next few days, I barely saw Ezio.
Breakfast came to the room in the mornings, lunch and dinner too. Food fancy, plated nice, but bland—steamed chicken breast, boiled veggies, white rice, some nameless soup.
No spice, no fried, nothing I craved.
Third night, I couldn't take it.
I carried the plate of boiled broccoli downstairs, found the kitchen.
A cook in a white uniform cleaned the counter. She saw me, paused.
"Miss Adrian?"
"Can I get something else?" I said. "Like... spicy?"
She frowned.
"Nutritionist says no spice. Bad for the baby."
"Just a little," I said. "I really need it. Please."
"No." Firm. "Rules. Meals are for the fetus's optimal growth, not your selfish cravings. Do your part, Miss Adrian."
That hit like a slap.
I stood there, holding the plate, speechless.
"Go back to your room." She turned away, kept cleaning. "Don't make trouble."
I turned, walked out.
In the hall, I saw Ezio leaving the study.
Dark suit, sleeves rolled to elbows, collar open. Looked like he'd just finished a meeting, face tired.
I stopped.
