Page 24 of Sinful Bride

"I need to take this," he says quietly, leaning close so only I can hear. His breath is warm against my ear, and I hate that I notice. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"What's wrong?"

"Business." His voice is clipped, but I can hear the anger underneath. His Irish accent thickens, and I’m reminded of who it is that I married. "Nothing for you to worry about."

He stands, excusing himself with a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes. I watch him leave the ballroom, his phone already pressed to his ear, his shoulders tense. And I'm left alone at the head table, surrounded by hundreds of guests but feeling more isolated than I've ever felt in my life.

The relief is immediate and shameful. With Declan gone, I can breathe a little easier and stop being so acutely aware of his presence beside me, of the heat of his body, of the way he smells. Something about the scent of his skin, mingled with his smoky cologne, makes my head spin.

And when he speaks, that Irish burr bleeding into his words… my heart beats a little faster than it should. A feeling I refuse to acknowledge or look at too closely.

Strangely, there's disappointment too. A strange, unwelcome disappointment that he left. That whatever business pulled him away was more important than staying here with me.

You're being ridiculous, I tell myself. You don't want him here. You don't want any of this.

But the disappointment doesn't fade.

I make small talk with the guests at my table and accept more congratulations. The minutes stretch into an hour, and Declan still hasn't returned.

Finally, my father comes over. "Where is your husband?"

The word husband sounds wrong in his mouth. Foreign. "He had business to attend to," I say smoothly. "He'll be back soon."

My father's expression darkens. "On his wedding day?"

"Apparently it was urgent."

He mutters something in Italian that I don't quite catch, but the tone is clear enough. Disapproval. Disappointment. It seems Declan has already failed some unspoken test.

I should feel vindicated, satisfied that my father is seeing exactly what I saw—that Declan Murphy doesn't understand our world or know how to navigate it properly.

But I just feel exhausted, more than anything else.

—

It's nearly midnight when Declan finally returns. I'm in the bridal suite—a lavish room at the Drake with a four-poster bed and huge windows overlooking the city. A cousin came up and helped me out of my wedding dress so that I could change into something else. Something I chose specifically for tonight.

Even in this, a thing I didn’t choose and don’t want, I can’t help but strive for perfection. I chose a white silk nightgown that ends at mid-thigh, edged in lace, with a dip at the neckline that shows off my small breasts. It clings to my skin, showing the peaks of my nipples, accentuating everything that could possibly make a man’s mouth water on his wedding night while still looking delicate and virginal.

Just like me.

I'm sitting on the edge of the bed when the door opens. Declan steps inside, and my breath catches despite my best efforts to remain composed.

He looks furious.

His tie is loosened, his jacket gone. There's a tension in his shoulders still, a tightness around his mouth that speaks of barely controlled anger. His green eyes are dark and stormy, fixed on me in a way that makes my skin prickle.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, his voice rough. "Had to deal with some idiots who thought my wedding day was a good time to test my authority."

"Is everything handled?"

"For now." He closes the door behind him, and the soft click of the lock feels impossibly loud in the quiet room. "They won't try that shit again."

I nod and fold my hands in my lap, trying to look calm even though my heart is racing.

This is it. The moment I've been dreading all day. All week. My entire life, if I’m being honest.

My wedding night.