Page 21 of Guilty as Sin

His masculine scent washes over me, a scent I could’ve been smelling all night. Lying in this bed with my husband, his muscular arms around me, holding me close against his firm body as I feel the hard press of his⁠—

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I fling the pillow aside and push myself off the bed. Succumbing to Brady would mean further stoking his already sizable ego, which I’ve promised myself I’m not going to do. I’ve promised him the same thing, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of me breaking that promise.

I unzip my suitcase and don my dark jeans and striped cotton blouse. They’re staples of my wardrobe, both purchased secondhand, and I honestly don’t care if Orla judges me for it.

You’re both… You’ll see.

Can’t wait to find out what Brady meant by that.

I grab my purse and confirm my wallet’s inside. Realizing I don’t have my phone, I rush back to the bridal suite. Brady is exactly the type of man to go snooping through a woman’s phone.

Good thing I keep it locked.

When I reach the suite, the door to the hallway is closing behind him.

What the hell?

“Br—” I stop myself from calling out for him.

Irritation flares in my chest. He’s just leaving me like this? No goodbye, no nothing?

I want to throw something. I grab one of the hand mirrors from the vanity, ready to hurl it at the door, to hear the glorious sound of shattering glass.

I blink several times as I regain control of myself. I’d like to pretend I don’t know where that violent urge came from. But it’d be a lie.

When I first left my old life behind, I thought of myself as a snake sloughing off her old skin, emerging shiny and new and glorious, ready to strike down every enemy in her path. But as I adjusted to my civilian life in Chicago, I realized that striking down enemies is an attitude best left in the mafia world. I needed to keep my head down, to be the anonymous Samantha Marie Greene, nonconfrontational and dull.

I made the viper inside me coil up and retreat. She became my inner strength, but I never unleashed her violence.

Eventually I grew to like being the peaceful Samantha Greene. After I got used to containing my more vicious tendencies, I learned to revel in Samantha’s tranquility. Calmness, whether or not it’s a forced calmness, brings its own sort of comfort. Even with my neck aching from keeping my head bent low, I knew I’d gladly live with the pain of horrible posture for the rest of my life if it meant I’d never be a Muloney again.

And now, well. A legal-ish piece of paper says my name is Cora O’Sullivan, the ish being the gray area surrounding Samantha Greene’s existence. For some reason, the seemingly well-informed Orla O’Sullivan believes that my identity change to Samantha Greene wasn’t official. She’s wrong. It’s the first stroke of luck I’ve had with this goddamn family.

It could come in handy that I’m not quite legally a member of their clan. They insisted that I take their surname to cement our alliance. Fine by me. With my secret knowledge of a certain little loophole, I don’t really give a shit what’s on that piece of paper.

And it says my name is Cora O’Sullivan.

Gone is the safety I had as Samantha Greene. Gone is the comfort of her tranquility. Now that I’m Cora again, I can feel my inner viper uncoiling, stretching out muscles that have been bound up for ten years. Even though Samantha Greene had my stubborn self-reliance, I never allowed her my lust for power, nor the heady thrill of violence necessary for gaining that power.

And now, it’s ready to be released. But I have to be smart about this. Revealing too much too soon would be risky.

I loosen my death grip on the hand mirror and set it gently back on the vanity. I remind myself I don’t care where Brady’s going. My husband and I will be leading separate lives for the duration of our marriage. Why not start now?

I shrug off the niggling feeling that he’s up to something.

Since my lunch with Orla will be in one of the hotel’s restaurants, I flop onto the suite’s couch with my phone in my hand and time to kill. I feel like staying here is a middle finger to the O’Sullivans’ intimidation tactics. They want to schedule my wedding prep, ceremony, reception, night, and lunch the day after, all in the same building that they control? No problem for me. Intimidation tactics only work if I’m intimidated. And I couldn’t care less.

I unlock my phone. I don’t text Brady, because fuck him.

There’s no sign of him all morning. A female server appears to collect our remaining food, but I see no one else.

I exchange a few texts with Connor. My brother is persona non grata in both Boston and Chicago right now. Reluctantly, he agreed that it’d be best for him to stay in Chicago for the time being. I want to be able to keep an eye on him, to protect him as much as I can. And he wants to live by himself in my apartment, skipping rent payments as often as I’ll let him.

For the past several months, I’ve been living alone in the two-bedroom above our eye clinic. The apartment came with the practice’s lease, and Jennifer insisted we split the entire building’s rent fifty-fifty. Although she lives with Dave, she claims she likes having a “home base” away from him. Another sign their marriage isn’t something to force. I sigh.

Introducing Connor to Jen was part two of my “By the way my name is really Cora” confession. I felt guilty for excluding Lucy, but I didn’t want her to see Connor’s battered face. Jennifer, with her horrified grimace, didn’t ask any questions. I’d already told her that Connor had been in trouble, and so I let her draw her own conclusions. When I asked Jen if my brother could stay in her unused bedroom, she agreed right away.