Page 64 of Sinful Bride

Elena notices. "You're not eating," she murmurs during a lull in conversation. “Are you feeling all right?”

I let out a slow breath. “I’m allergic to everything they’re serving. I can’t eat any of it.”

Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”

I nod. “It’s fine. We’ll just get through this.” But my stomach is cramping with hunger, and my head is starting to ache from the champagne on an empty stomach.

The evening drags on, and I'm exhausted and hungry, frustrated beyond measure. I'm about to excuse myself to find a bathroom—anywhere to get away from this for a few minutes—when Elena appears at my elbow. "We're leaving," she says quietly.

"What?"

"I don't feel well. We need to go." Her voice is firm.

"Elena—"

"Now, Declan." She takes my arm, her grip insistent. "Make our excuses. We're leaving."

I don't argue. I’m not going to force my sick wife to stay at the gala. I find our hosts, apologize for the early departure, and follow Elena out to the car. “What happened?” I ask as we stop outside. “Did you catch a bug or something?”

She shakes her head. “No. Where do you want to go eat?”

I blink, confused. “I—what?”

“I’m fine.” She looks at me as if I’m too slow to catch up to what she’s saying. "But you're clearly miserable. And hungry. I'm not going to watch you suffer through another two hours of that."

I stare at her. "You lied to get me out of there?"

She shrugs. It’s the most casual gesture I’ve ever seen her make. "Yes."

Now I’m thoroughly confused. "Why? Elena, you said you were sick⁠—"

"I'm not sick. But you're hungry and having a terrible time. So where do you want to go?" She pauses. "Somewhere you'd actually enjoy."

I don't know what to say. Elena—my wife who barely speaks to me, who I humiliated in front of my men, who has every reason to hate me—just lied to get me out of a hostile situation and is now asking where I want to eat.

"There's a diner," I say slowly. "Nothing fancy. Just good food and no judgment."

"Perfect." She leans forward as we get into the car and gives the driver the address I provide. Then she sits back and looks at me. "Let's go there."

14

ELENA

The diner is nothing like anywhere I've ever been.

The car pulls up to a corner in a neighborhood I don't recognize. The buildings are all brick, and the streetlights cast everything in harsh yellow. The sign above the door reads Rosie's in faded red letters, half the bulbs burned out. Through the windows, I can see vinyl booths and Formica tables. It looks like it hasn't been updated since the seventies.

I look down at my black silk gown and the diamonds at my throat and wrists. I look ridiculous.

"Elena." Declan's voice is quiet. "We don't have to⁠—"

"No." I reach for the door handle before I can second-guess myself. "Let's go."

The driver opens my door, and I step out onto the sidewalk in my Louboutins. The concrete is cracked and uneven. I can hear music coming from inside, and a guitar accompanying a woman's voice, rough and soulful. The smell of grease and coffee hits me immediately.

Declan comes around the car, and I notice the way his shoulders relax. The tension that's been coiled in him all night starts to ease, and he looks at the diner like it's home. "You sure about this?" he asks.

I’m definitely not. But I nod anyway. He opens the door for me, and we step inside.