Page 96 of Sinful Bride

But he's already gone. The door slams behind him, and I hear the lock click into place.

I'm alone. I stand there, my wrist throbbing where he grabbed me, my hip aching from where I hit the vanity.

I almost killed him. I stood over him with a loaded gun and almost pulled the trigger.

The realization hits me, and my knees buckle. I sink to the floor, my back against the vanity, my hands shaking so badly I have to press them against my thighs to make them stop.

What was I thinking? What the hell was I thinking?

I see his face again, the moment his eyes opened and he saw me. The shock and hurt and betrayal. And underneath it all, I saw a horrible grief, like I'd broken something in him that can't be fixed.

My throat tightens. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I don't let them fall. I don't deserve to cry. I don't deserve to feel sorry for myself. I made my choice. I picked up that gun, and I pointed it at his head.

And now I have to live with that.

He locked me in. The irony isn't lost on me. I've spent my entire life locked in by my family, by duty, by expectations I never chose. And now I'm locked in by the man I was supposed to kill.

I need to fix this. I need to make him understand. I need to explain what my father said, why I almost did it, and that now that I’ve had a second to think, I regret it more than anything.

But the door is locked. And even if it wasn't, I don't think he'd listen.

—

Morning comes eventually. I hear movement in the penthouse and the sound of the coffee maker. Normal morning sounds that feel surreal given what happened last night. I wait until I hear him in the kitchen, then I go to the door and try the handle. It’s still locked.

"Declan? Declan, please. I need to talk to you."

Nothing. No response. Just the sound of a cabinet closing. "Please." I press my palm against the door. "Just let me explain. Let me⁠—"

I hear the front door open and close. The penthouse falls silent again. I sink down against the door, my forehead pressed to the wood, and finally let myself cry.

He comes back hours later. I hear the front door open, followed by the sound of him moving through the penthouse. I'm at the door immediately, my hand on the handle. "Declan, please. Just listen to me for five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

Silence. "I know you're angry. I know you have every right to be. But please⁠—"

"We have an event tonight." His voice is right on the other side of the door, and I jump back, startled. I didn’t hear him getting so close. "The Castellano charity gala. We're expected to attend."

"I don't care about the gala. I care about⁠—"

"Be ready by seven." His footsteps retreat. "Wear something appropriate."

"Declan—"

But he's already gone again.

I stand there, my hand still on the door handle, and feel something crack inside my chest. He's not going to listen or give me a chance to explain. He's made up his mind about what happened, about what I am, and nothing I say will change it.

But maybe the gala will help. Maybe being in public, being forced to interact, will give me an opening. A chance to reach him. I have to try. I have to make him understand.

The lock clicks open at six thirty. I’m dressed in a pale blue gown with a slit up one side and a low back, my hair pulled back and my makeup done softly. I look composed, but inside I feel like I'm falling apart.

Declan is in the living room when I emerge. He's wearing a tuxedo, his hair styled and his face carefully blank. He looks at me for exactly one second, then looks away. "The car is waiting."

"Declan—"

"Don't." He moves toward the door. "Just don't."

I follow him in silence. What else can I do?