Page 60 of Sinful Bride

I drain the rest of my whiskey and set the glass on a passing waiter's tray. My jaw aches from clenching it, and my shoulders are tight with tension. I want to leave, get out of this place and away from these people who look at me like I'm something they scraped off their shoes.

But I can't, because leaving would prove them right. It would show them that I don't belong, that I can't handle their world.

So I stay, and I smile, pretending that their words don't cut as deep as they do.

"Mr. Murphy." A woman approaches—Benedicta Marchetti, Antonio's wife. She's elegant and cold, with that kind of beauty that mostly comes from a lot of expensive procedures. "I wanted to introduce you to some of our guests." She leads me to a group of older men, all of them looking at me with varying degrees of skepticism. I shake hands and make small talk. I answer questions about my background and my plans for the organization. Every word feels like a test I'm failing. One of them—a man named Salvatore something—asks about my time with the motorcycle club. The way he says motorcycle club makes it sound like a disease.

"It taught me a lot about loyalty and leadership," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"I'm sure." Salvatore's smile is patronizing. "Though I imagine the mafia is quite different from... that."

That. Like my past is something shameful. Something to be dismissed.

I'm about to respond when I feel a hand on my arm. "Excuse me, gentlemen." Elena's voice is smooth and gracious. "I need to steal my husband for a moment."

She doesn't wait for their response. She just guides me away with a hand on my elbow, her touch firm enough to be insistent but subtle enough that no one watching would think anything of it.

"You looked like you were about to punch someone," she murmurs as we move through the crowd.

"I was considering it."

"Don't." She steers me toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. "Salvatore is an ass, but he's also influential. Punching him would only make things worse."

I glance down at her. She's not looking at me, her attention focused on navigating us through the crowd. But there's something different about her. "How did you know⁠—"

"I've been watching you." She stops near a column, turning to face me. "You've been tense since we arrived. And every conversation you've had has made it worse."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." Her dark eyes meet mine. They’re almost gentle for once. "But you're doing better than you think."

Before I can respond, another couple approaches. Elena shifts seamlessly into hostess mode, introducing me with warmth and grace. She steers the conversation away from my background and toward neutral topics—the charity, the venue, mutual acquaintances. When the man makes a subtle dig about my lack of family connections, Elena smoothly redirects.

"Declan's building something new," she says, her voice carrying just enough authority to shut down further questions. "Which is exactly what this city needs. Fresh perspective combined with respect for tradition."

The couple nods and moves on. Elena's hand is still on my arm. "You didn't have to do that," I say quietly.

"Do what?"

"Defend me."

She looks up at me. Her face gives nothing away. "You're my husband. Of course I did."

Before I can process that, we're swept up in another conversation. And then another. Elena stays close the entire time, her presence a buffer between me and the worst of the scrutiny. She introduces me to people I should know, and redirects conversations when they veer into dangerous territory. She makes subtle comments that position me as legitimate, as worthy, like I belong.

She's helping me, and I don't know what to do with that.

After about an hour of this, I need air. I need to get away from the crowd and the judgment, and the constant feeling that I'm one wrong word away from proving everyone right about me. "I'm going to step outside for a minute," I tell Elena.

She nods. "I'll be here."

I make my way through the ballroom and out onto the terrace. It's cooler out here in the night air. The terrace overlooks the estate's gardens, and I lean against the railing and close my eyes, trying to breathe through the tension coiled in my chest. I hear the door open behind me, then footsteps on stone.

"You okay?" Elena's voice is quiet.

I open my eyes but don't turn around. "I'm fine."

"You keep saying that." She moves to stand beside me, her arms crossed over her chest against the cold. "But you're not."