Page 55 of Sinful Bride

"I don't expect you to forgive me," he adds. "I don't even expect you to accept the apology. But I needed you to know that I know what I did was wrong. And it won't happen again."

He turns to leave, and I find my voice.

"Why?"

He stops and looks back at me. "Why what?"

"Why are you apologizing? You got what you wanted. You reasserted your dominance. You showed your men that you're in control. Why do you care if I'm upset about it?"

Something flickers across his face. I don’t know him well enough yet to read it. "Because you're my wife," he says simply. "And I don't want you to be afraid of me."

Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

—

I go to the spa. I tell myself it's because I might as well take advantage of the appointment. I'm sore and tense, and a massage sounds good, and I have nothing better to do with my day. Not because his apology meant something to me. Definitely not because of that.

The spa is in a high-end building downtown, with soft lighting and the scent of eucalyptus in the air. The receptionist greets me by name, Mrs. Murphy, which still sounds strange to my ears, and leads me to a private changing room. I strip out of my clothes and into the plush robe they provide, then follow another attendant to the massage room. It's dim and warm, with soft music playing and candles flickering on a side table. The massage table is already prepared, the sheets turned down invitingly.

"Just lie face down," the masseuse says gently. "We'll start with your back and shoulders."

I do as she says, settling onto the table and letting my face rest in the cushioned cradle. The sheets are soft against my skin, and the room smells like lavender. It’s soothing. The masseuse's hands are warm when they touch my back. She starts at my shoulders, working at the knots there, and I try to relax into it and let go of the tension I've been carrying since yesterday. But I can't stop thinking about what Declan said.

I've never been that way with a woman. What I did to you was wrong. I'm ashamed of it.

The words loop through my mind, over and over, like a song I can't get out of my head. I keep hearing his voice and seeing the look on his face when he said he didn't want me to be afraid of him.

"You're very tense," the masseuse observes quietly. "Try to breathe. Let yourself relax."

I try. I really do. But every time I start to drift, my mind snaps back to the same place, and especially when he admitted he was wrong. No one has ever done that for me before. My father has never shown even a hint of regret for the decisions he's made about my life. When he told me I was marrying Declan, he didn't ask how I felt about it or care that I was terrified. He just expected me to obey.

And I did. Because that's what daughters do in our world. We obey. We do our duty. We sacrifice our own wants and needs for the good of the family. But Declan apologized and admitted he was wrong. He looked me in the eye and told me he was ashamed of what he did.

I don't know what to do with that.

The masseuse works her way down my back, then my legs, then asks me to turn over so she can work on my front. I comply, my mind still elsewhere. After the massage, there's a facial, then a manicure and pedicure. Then they offer me champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries in a private relaxation room with a view of the city. I sit there in my plush robe, sipping champagne I don't really taste, and try to figure out what I'm feeling.

Confusion, mostly, and something that feels dangerously close to softening. I don't want to soften toward him or start seeing him as anything other than the man I was forced to marry. The man who doesn't belong in my world, and who humiliated me yesterday in front of his men.

But he apologized. And that changes something, whether I want it to or not.

By the time I get back to the penthouse, it's late afternoon. I'm relaxed, finally, my body loose and warm from the massage, my nails perfectly manicured, my skin glowing from the facial. I feel almost human again.

The penthouse is quiet when I enter. I don't see Declan anywhere, which is a relief. I'm not ready to face him yet. I haven’t even figured out what I'm supposed to say or how I'm supposed to act after this morning.

I head upstairs to get ready for tonight. We have a charity gala to attend, some fundraiser for children's hospitals that all the major families are expected to show up to. It's the kind of event I've been attending my entire life, where appearances matter more than anything else. I'll need to play the role of the perfect mafia wife.

I stand in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear. Something elegant but not too flashy. Something that says I'm confident and composed and completely unbothered by the fact that my marriage is a disaster.

I settle on a deep emerald-green gown, fitted through the bodice and hips, that flows out in a dramatic skirt that brushes the floor. The neckline is modest, but the back is open, showing a tasteful amount of skin. It's sophisticated and expensive, exactly the kind of dress a Capetti daughter would wear and the kind of dress that will make people forget for a moment that I married down.

I do my makeup carefully with smoky eyes, nude lips, and a subtle highlight on my cheekbones. I pull my hair up in an elegant twist with a few tendrils framing my face, and add diamond earrings and a matching bracelet, family heirlooms that my mother wore before she died.

When I'm finished, I study myself in the bathroom mirror. I look perfect and polished, like I have my life completely together. And a small part of me doesn’t mind the fact that Declan will no doubt be going mad inside with lust the moment he sees me. I know exactly how beautiful I look, and I know I have no intention of letting him touch me again until I have to. If he really meant his apology this morning, he won’t try, and he’ll be miserable.

The thought makes me smile.

There's a soft knock on the bedroom door. "Elena? Are you ready?"