Page 41 of Sinful Bride

I can't focus on work. All I can think about is her—the way she moves, the way she sounds when she speaks, the way she looked on that bed with her hand between her legs.

But she won't admit she wants me.

I catch her watching me sometimes when she thinks I'm not looking. Her eyes follow me across a room, and there's something in her expression that’s hungry and desperate and confused. Like she doesn't understand what she's feeling, and doesn't want to feel it.

Like she's as lost as I am.

But then she'll say something cutting, designed to remind me I'm not good enough. And the moment is gone.

"Your men left muddy footprints in the foyer," she says one morning, not looking up from her tablet. "Giuseppe had to clean it three times."

"They were working," I say, pouring coffee. "In the rain."

"They could take their shoes off outside the door. Like civilized people."

The word civilized lands like a slap. It’s a reminder that she thinks I'm not. That my men aren't, and we're all just brutes playing at being something we're not.

I leave without responding and giving her the satisfaction of seeing how much it bothers me. Another day, I'm in my office reviewing shipment manifests when she appears in the doorway.

"You’ve been drinking the Macallan again.”

I glance at the glass on my desk. "So?"

"It's a twenty-five-year-old single malt. It's meant to be savored for special occasions. Not gulped on a weekday evening like cheap bourbon."

"I'll drink it however I want."

"Of course you will." She turns to leave, then pauses. "That's the difference between having money and having class. One can be bought. The other can't."

She's gone before I can tell her that I don't give a fuck about her definition of class. I'd rather be honest and rough than fake and polished. Her world of rules and traditions and expectations is suffocating.

But I don't say any of that. I just sit there with my expensive whiskey and my wounded pride, with the growing certainty that I'm losing this battle.

By Sunday, I'm ready to lose my mind. I've been putting off my traditional Sunday night dinner with my men since the wedding and trying to give Elena time to adjust. I’ve been trying to be considerate of her feelings.

But I'm done trying.

This is my house, and this has been my tradition for years. I'm not giving it up any longer because my wife might be uncomfortable.

I tell her about it that morning over breakfast. "I'm having the men over for dinner tonight," I say, not asking.

She looks up from her coffee. "All of them?"

"The core group. Eight, maybe ten."

"I see." She sets her cup down carefully. "And you're telling me this now? The day of? How considerate. I'll inform Giuseppe. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to prepare a meal for ten people with six hours' notice."

“He doesn’t need to. I’ll put something in the slow cooker, and make some easy sides. It’s supposed to be a homemade, Sunday night dinner. Not some fancy chef shit.”

Her jaw tightens. "Will you be expecting me to attend?"

"You're my wife. Yes."

I see her lips thin, but she just gives me a prim nod. "Then I'll be there."

She leaves, and I'm left with the uneasy feeling that I just made a mistake. Deep down, I know I’m continuing to poke at her on purpose—insulting her chef, issuing demands. But it doesn’t seem to matter what I do, so for tonight at least, when it comes to how I want my night to go, I’m going to do what I want.

This is important. My men need to see that I'm still the same person I was before the marriage. That I haven't changed, and I'm still their boss, their leader… their friend.