6. Elena #2
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.
"I need to take this," he says quietly, leaning close so only I can hear. His breath is warm against my ear, and I hate that I notice. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
"What's wrong?"
"Business." His voice is clipped, but I can hear the anger underneath. His Irish accent thickens, and I’m reminded of who it is that I married. "Nothing for you to worry about."
He stands, excusing himself with a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes. I watch him leave the ballroom, his phone already pressed to his ear, his shoulders tense. And I'm left alone at the head table, surrounded by hundreds of guests but feeling more isolated than I've ever felt in my life.
The relief is immediate and shameful. With Declan gone, I can breathe a little easier and stop being so acutely aware of his presence beside me, of the heat of his body, of the way he smells. Something about the scent of his skin, mingled with his smoky cologne, makes my head spin.
And when he speaks, that Irish burr bleeding into his words… my heart beats a little faster than it should. A feeling I refuse to acknowledge or look at too closely.
Strangely, there's disappointment too. A strange, unwelcome disappointment that he left. That whatever business pulled him away was more important than staying here with me.
You're being ridiculous, I tell myself. You don't want him here. You don't want any of this.
But the disappointment doesn't fade.
I make small talk with the guests at my table and accept more congratulations. The minutes stretch into an hour, and Declan still hasn't returned.
Finally, my father comes over. "Where is your husband?"
The word husband sounds wrong in his mouth. Foreign. "He had business to attend to," I say smoothly. "He'll be back soon."
My father's expression darkens. "On his wedding day?"
"Apparently it was urgent."
He mutters something in Italian that I don't quite catch, but the tone is clear enough. Disapproval. Disappointment. It seems Declan has already failed some unspoken test.
I should feel vindicated, satisfied that my father is seeing exactly what I saw—that Declan Murphy doesn't understand our world or know how to navigate it properly.
But I just feel exhausted, more than anything else.
—
It's nearly midnight when Declan finally returns.
I'm in the bridal suite—a lavish room at the Drake with a four-poster bed and huge windows overlooking the city.
A cousin came up and helped me out of my wedding dress so that I could change into something else.
Something I chose specifically for tonight.
Even in this, a thing I didn’t choose and don’t want, I can’t help but strive for perfection.
I chose a white silk nightgown that ends at mid-thigh, edged in lace, with a dip at the neckline that shows off my small breasts.
It clings to my skin, showing the peaks of my nipples, accentuating everything that could possibly make a man’s mouth water on his wedding night while still looking delicate and virginal.
Just like me.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed when the door opens. Declan steps inside, and my breath catches despite my best efforts to remain composed.
He looks furious.
His tie is loosened, his jacket gone. There's a tension in his shoulders still, a tightness around his mouth that speaks of barely controlled anger. His green eyes are dark and stormy, fixed on me in a way that makes my skin prickle.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, his voice rough. "Had to deal with some idiots who thought my wedding day was a good time to test my authority."
"Is everything handled?"
"For now." He closes the door behind him, and the soft click of the lock feels impossibly loud in the quiet room. "They won't try that shit again."
I nod and fold my hands in my lap, trying to look calm even though my heart is racing.
This is it. The moment I've been dreading all day. All week. My entire life, if I’m being honest.
My wedding night.
Declan crosses to the minibar and pours himself a whiskey, drinks it in one swallow, and pours another.
"You want one?" he asks without looking at me.
"No. Thank you." I adjust myself primly on the edge of the bed. “Champagne is hard enough for me.” My cheeks go pink as I realize the insinuation that could be attached to what I just said, but Declan doesn’t seem to. He’s distracted, which is insulting.
I don’t want this, and apparently neither does he, but the least he could do is be present for it.
It’s not as if it’s worse for him than it is for me.
He gets to fuck me… I have to be fucked. And by a man I would never have chosen.
Is it so bad, though? Look at him…
I shove that thought away forcefully.
He nods and drinks the second glass more slowly, his back to me and his shoulders still rigid with tension.
I watch him and try to prepare myself. Try to remember everything I've been taught about duty and obligation and what's expected of a wife. I try to steel myself for what's about to happen.
It won't be that bad, I tell myself. It'll be quick. Mechanical. Just something to get through. He won’t feel the need to draw it out; he’ll enjoy himself and be done.
Just close your eyes and think about something else.
Declan sets down his glass and turns to face me. His eyes rake over me—the white nightgown, my hair loose around my shoulders, the way I'm sitting so carefully on the edge of the bed. "You look like you're waiting for an execution," he says flatly.
Heat rises in my cheeks. "I'm just—I'm ready. To fulfill my duties as your wife."
The words sound stiff and formal. Exactly what they are—a performance.