Page 23 of Sinful Bride

He's wearing a black suit that's better tailored than what I've seen before, although he still looks like he doesn't want to be wearing it. His copper hair is styled back from his face, and even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding himself rigid.

He looks uncomfortable. Out of place. Good, I think viciously. Now you know how I feel.

But there's something else too, that I don't want to acknowledge and never have, any time I've seen him before. But today of all days, it feels harder than ever not to notice. He's so handsome. Roughly, dangerously handsome in a way that makes my stomach flip despite everything. The suit emphasizes his broad shoulders, his height, the raw masculinity that seems to radiate from him even in this sacred space. There's something about him, some leashed violence, some roughness that I've never known in any other man, and it stirs something in me that I desperately don't want unearthed.

And when his eyes find mine across the cathedral, I feel that same electric shock I felt when we danced.

The organ begins to play the traditional wedding march. My father offers me his arm, and I take it because I have no choice. We begin the long walk down the aisle, and I keep my eyes forward, my spine straight, my expression serene.

Smile. Be graceful. Do your duty.

The faces blur past me. I'm aware of people watching, of whispers and speculation, of the weight of their attention. But all I focus on is Declan at the end of the aisle, watching me approach with an expression I can't read.

When we reach the altar, my father places my hand in Declan's. His palm is warm and rough with calluses. Strong.

I meet his eyes, and it takes everything in me to keep my spine straight and my face in the proper expression for a willing bride.

The priest begins the ceremony with Latin prayers and then the traditional vows that have been spoken at countless weddings before ours. I respond when I'm supposed to, my voice steady and clear even though my heart is racing.

"Do you, Elena Maria Capetti, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

A pause. The entire cathedral seems to hold its breath.

"I do." My mouth feels dry as I say it.

Declan's turn. His voice is deeper than mine, rougher, but just as steady.

"I do."

The priest pronounces us husband and wife and tells Declan he may kiss the bride.

Declan turns to me and leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. As if I could. As if I could refuse his kiss at the altar and make a scene.

I want to. But instead I remain still, a lifetime of training keeping me in place as I wait for my new husband to kiss me… my first kiss. The first time another man's lips will ever touch mine.

His lips brush mine—soft, brief, almost chaste. But even that small contact sends heat racing through me and makes my breath catch, makes me acutely aware of how our bodies are close but not quite touching.

When he pulls back, there's something in his expression that looks almost like regret. Then it's gone, replaced by the same calm expression I'm wearing.

We turn to face the congregation as husband and wife, and the applause is deafening.

—

The reception is held at the Drake Hotel. The ballroom is decorated in white and gold, with elaborate floral arrangements, crystal chandeliers, and a string quartet playing classical music. There's champagne and a five-course meal, and a gorgeous wedding cake in the same colors.

It’s all beautiful, and I feel utterly suffocated.

I play my role flawlessly. I smile and accept congratulations from guests I barely know, from the other daughters I’m friends with, from business associates and family members. I dance with my father, with Alessio, with any guest who asks. I cut the cake with Declan's hand over mine, the knife slicing through layers of white fondant while cameras flash.

I'm the perfect bride, but inside, I'm counting the minutes until this is over.

Declan is beside me through most of it, his hand occasionally resting on the small of my back or taking mine for another dance. He's playing his role too, of the attentive groom, the man who's honored to marry into the Capetti family.

But I can feel the tension in him. I can see the way his jaw tightens when someone makes a comment about his background within his hearing. And I can feel the way his hand flexes against my back when my father makes a toast about tradition and legacy.

He doesn't belong here any more than I want to be here.

We're halfway through dinner when Declan's phone buzzes. He pulls it out discreetly, glances at the screen, and his entire body goes rigid.