Page 54 of Sinful Bride

I shower first, standing under water hot enough to turn my skin pink, scrubbing at myself like I can wash away what happened. Like I can erase the memory of his taste, his touch, his voice telling me to get under the desk.

It doesn't work.

I dress carefully in a black silk shift dress and pin my hair up in a ballerina bun, then do my makeup lightly. I look fine. Perfectly fine. No one would know that yesterday I was on my knees under my husband's desk while his men pretended not to notice.

The thought makes my stomach turn again. I grip the edge of the sink and breathe through it until the nausea passes. Then I test the door, find that it’s unlocked now, and head downstairs.

The penthouse is quiet. Morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making everything look clean and bright and normal, like yesterday never happened. Like this is just another day in a perfectly ordinary marriage.

I find the kitchen empty. There's coffee already made, and the breakfast table is set for one. My place. Not his. And on the table, next to the empty plate, are two things that make me stop in my tracks. A black credit card, and a small cream-colored card with elegant script.

I pick up the second card with trembling fingers. Sanctuary Day Spa. 10:00 AM appointment. Full-day package.

What the fuck?

"I wasn't sure if you'd come down."

I spin around. Declan is standing in the doorway, dressed in dark jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes, and his hair is slightly disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it. He looks like he didn't sleep any better than I did.

"What is this?" I hold up the spa card, my voice sharp and accusatory.

"An apology." He moves into the kitchen slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. "I thought you might want⁠—"

"You thought you could buy me off with a spa day?" The fury rises hot and fast, burning away the numbness I've been wrapped in since yesterday. "You think a fucking massage is going to make up for what you did?"

"No." His voice is quiet. "I don't think that. But I wanted to do something. To show you that I⁠—"

"That you what?" I throw the card down on the table. "That you're sorry? That you regret humiliating me in front of your men? That you feel bad about using me like a—like a⁠—"

I can't finish the sentence.

Declan's jaw tightens. "Elena⁠—"

"You're a violent man." I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together. Trying to maintain the cold, aloof mask I've perfected over years of navigating my father's world. "I don’t know what I expected, really. That you'd be gentle with me? That you'd treat me with respect?"

"Yes." His voice is tight. "You should expect that."

I laugh harshly. "Really? Because yesterday suggested otherwise."

"Yesterday I was an asshole." He takes a step closer, and I instinctively take a step back. He stops immediately, his hands coming up in a gesture of surrender. "Yesterday I let my anger and my frustration get the better of me, and I took it out on you in a way that was completely unacceptable."

I stare at him, my lips thinning as I press them together.

"I'm a violent man," he continues, his voice rough. "You're right about that. I've done terrible things to people who crossed me or threatened what's mine. I've hurt people. Killed people. I’m sure that kind of behavior is nothing new to you, in the mafia world."

He pauses, and something shifts in his expression that looks almost like shame. "But I've never been that way with a woman. Never. I've never punished or humiliated anyone like I did to you yesterday. I've never used someone's body to assert my dominance or prove a point." His eyes meet mine. "What I did to you was wrong. And I'm ashamed of it."

The kitchen goes very quiet. I can hear my own heartbeat and the distant sound of traffic from the street below. That was an apology. A real apology. Not an excuse, or a justification, or a dismissal. Just an acknowledgment that he was wrong, and he's sorry.

No one has ever apologized to me for anything. Not my father, when he arranged my marriage without asking what I wanted. Not Alessio, when he told me to stop being selfish and do my duty. Not any of the men in my family who've made decisions about my life without consulting me, who've treated me like a chess piece to be moved around the board according to their strategy. No one has ever looked me in the eye and said, "I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Until now.

"The spa appointment is just a gesture," Declan says quietly. "I know it doesn't fix anything. But I wanted you to have a day to yourself to relax and get away from me and this place and everything that happened." He gestures to the credit card. "And that's yours. No limits. Buy whatever you want. Do whatever you want. It's not a bribe or a payment. It's just… it's yours."

I don't know what to say. My entire life, I've been taught that men like him—men in this world—don't apologize or admit weakness.

But here he is, doing exactly that.