Page 14 of Sinful Bride

I'd thought I would have time to manipulate the men I would mind marrying least into wanting me and approaching my father, so at least I would have some control. Someone who wouldn't upend my life too much, who would do the bare minimum as a husband and otherwise leave me alone. My other fears can't be assuaged so easily, but not having my life and my routine upended too drastically would help.

Not Declan Murphy. Not the Irish upstart who took over Lachlan Gallagher's organization under questionable circumstances. Not the man who looked so uncomfortable at the party, who doesn't know how to navigate our world, who clearly doesn't belong.

Not the man whose hands felt like fire on my waist when we danced.

I push that thought away. "Papa, please. At least tell me why. What does this accomplish?"

He finally looks up. His dark eyes, a mirror of mine, are cold. "It accomplishes peace. It prevents a war that would cost us resources and attention I don't want to spare. And it creates an alliance that benefits both families."

"An alliance with him?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "He's not even⁠—"

"Careful, Elena." My father's voice drops to something dangerous. "You're questioning my judgment. I know you think you have an understanding of our world, but your understanding is limited to parties and social graces, household management, and conducting yourself as a daughter and a future wife. Not business."

My throat tightens. "No. I'm just trying to understand⁠—"

"There's nothing to understand. The decision is made. You'll marry Declan Murphy next Saturday. The ceremony will be traditional, formal, and you will conduct yourself with the grace and dignity expected of a Capetti daughter." He returns his attention to his papers. "That's all."

I stand there for a moment, frozen, waiting for him to say something else… to explain. To acknowledge that this is my life he's rearranging with a few sentences and a signature on a contract.

But he doesn't look up again.

"Yes, Papa." The words taste like ash.

I turn and walk out of his office, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Each step is controlled. I don't run. I don't stumble. I don't let anyone see the way my hands are shaking.

I make it to my room before the trembling spreads to my legs.

—

Dinner is at seven, as always. The dining room is elegant, glittering with crystal and silver, the table set for eight. My father sits at the head, my brother Alessio to his left and me to his right. Various cousins and associates fill the other seats. I sit up straight, showing no sign of the churning thoughts in my head, outwardly calm. The perfect daughter, the perfect decoration.

I stare at the plate in front of me, arranged with roasted chicken, asparagus, and potatoes with rosemary. Food I normally love. Our cook makes everything perfectly, seasoned just right and presented beautifully.

I can't eat any of it.

My stomach is a knot of painful anxiety. Every time I try to take a bite, my throat closes. The smell of the food makes me nauseous. I push the asparagus around my plate and cut the chicken into smaller and smaller pieces, rearranging everything to make it look like I've eaten more than I have.

"Elena, you're not eating." My father's voice is quiet and flat, a reminder that appearances matter. That not eating suggests something is wrong, and nothing can be wrong in the Capetti family.

"I'm not very hungry." I force a smile. "I had a late lunch."

It's a lie. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and even that was just coffee and half a piece of toast. But my father accepts it with a small nod, returning his attention to his own plate.

The conversation flows around me. Business talk, mostly. Territory disputes. Shipment schedules. This kind of discussion happens at every family dinner, and I've learned to tune it out while still appearing engaged. But tonight, I can't focus on any of it. My mind keeps circling back to the reality that's crashing down around me.

You'll marry Declan Murphy in one week.

Seven days to prepare for a life I never wanted with a man I barely know. Seven days before everything changes.

I've always known I'd have an arranged marriage. That's how things work in our world. Daughters are valuable assets, tools for creating alliances and cementing power. I've been raised for this my entire life—taught how to be the perfect wife, how to manage a household, how to host dinners, navigate social situations, and present the right image to the world.

I thought I mattered more than this.

"Elena."

My father's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I look up, forcing my expression into something attentive.

"Yes, Father?"