Page 8 of Guilty as Sin

Connor refills his glass and tops off mine, then clinks our flutes with more force than necessary.

“To you, Cora. The strongest woman I know.”

I give him a grateful look, but say nothing. I needed to hear that today.

As the Dom floats over my tongue, I focus on savoring it. When I convinced myself I didn’t miss the finer things, it was a lie. I keep my attention on my crystal flute, on the ornately carved cabinet, on the mist drifting out of the opened bottle.

I do not look at the enormous bed in the next room, all plush and white and empty. I’ll be sleeping on the wide daybed back in the bridal suite, thank you very much. More likely than not, it was intended for hungover bridesmaids waiting for their turn with the stylists, but it will suit me just fine.

I tell myself I’m not anxious about my wedding night and take another sip of champagne.

Chapter 4

Brady

The first time I see my wife in person, she’s walking down the aisle. And fuck me.

She’s gorgeous.

I knew she was pretty. There aren’t many photos of my “Samantha Greene” online. But in all of them, she’s cute. In a meek and mousy sort of way. Like she’s trying to blend in with the background. Ready to skitter away if you look directly at her.

As she walks toward me, she does a decent job of concealing her meekness. Her head is high. Her stride is steady. She’s taking her role as my bride seriously. Good. I’m inclined to think she’ll take her role as my wife seriously too.

Playing her bridal part nicely, she’s in a long white dress with no frills, just smooth fabric that hugs her every curve. And the way she’s carrying herself.

She knows she looks good.

And definitely not in a mousy way. Her hair is brown, but now it’s rich like chocolate, pinned up so I have a full view of her face.

If she weren’t looking at me, I might describe her features as delicate or fragile. But she is looking at me.

She’s fucking staring me down.

And that expression is anything but fragile.

It’s then that I realize she’s walking down the aisle by herself. Da was supposed to give her away. Her father certainly wasn’t going to be here. It’s one thing to tolerate Connor on our turf. But unlike his son, Cormac Muloney knows to stay away from Chicago. He and his wife sent their regrets as soon as the marriage was agreed upon.

With Muloney unavailable, Da should be the one walking Cora down the aisle. I’m positive that was the plan. Mam said it twice. I scan the room for Da, but there’s no sign of him. When I glance at Mam in the front row, she’s smiling, but it’s closed-lipped.

No, my bride is not supposed to be walking by herself.

It’s the first time I’m seeing my future wife in person. And already she’s disobeying my family’s instructions.

Interesting. So my wife-to-be is apparently not the submissive type. I should feel frustrated, trapped. Or at the very least, annoyed. Instead, my lips twitch into a grin.

I’ve always loved a challenge.

“Hello.” Cora greets me tersely when she reaches the altar. As if this is a business meeting she’s ready to be done with.

“Hello.” I keep my voice pleasant. I’d like to add more. A compliment about how gorgeous she looks. But the priest clears his throat.

“Welcome, beloved family and friends…”

Mam had surprised me when she’d told me the Catholic ceremony would be in one of my hotels’ chapels, rather than our regular South Side church. I’d figured it was a matter of keeping things simple. Easier if the ceremony and reception are at the same venue. I was never faithful about attending Mass or confession at our church anyway, so it didn’t matter much to me. But now, I’m glad we’re in the modern chapel I designed with exposed brick walls and wrought iron chandeliers.

Cora’s glare would burn down church beams.

She has her pointed chin lifted, as if daring me to oppose her. A telling indication of what’s in store for me. All I can do is smirk at her as the priest drones on.