12. Elena
ELENA
Ilock the bedroom door behind me and lean against it, my entire body shaking.
The wood is cool against my back through the thin fabric of my blouse. My hands are trembling so badly I have to press them flat against the door to steady them, and my breath comes in short, sharp gasps that I can't seem to control. The room spins slightly, and I close my eyes.
But closing my eyes only makes it worse, because then all I can see is the men sitting in that office, their faces carefully neutral, their eyes looking anywhere but at me. All I can feel is the humiliation burning through me like acid, eating away at whatever dignity I had left.
They knew. They all knew what I was doing under that desk.
My stomach lurches. I press one hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick.
The other hand stays braced against the door, holding me upright when my legs feel like they might give out.
I can still taste him, still feel the soreness in my jaw, the ache in my throat from trying not to gag, the feeling of his hand in my hair.
And underneath all of that, the humiliation and the fury and the shame, there's something else I don't want to acknowledge that makes me feel even more disgusted with myself than the act itself did.
I was aroused. The entire time, even as I knelt there with his men ten feet away and struggled to figure out what to do with my mouth and my hands, even as tears pricked at my eyes from the humiliation of it all…
I was wet. My body responded to the degradation, and it made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I push away from the door. There's a dull ache between my thighs, and every step reminds me of it. Every movement sends a sharp twinge through my body that makes me grit my teeth from the spanking last night. I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the dresser and stop.
My face is flushed. My lips are swollen and red. My hair is slightly mussed where his hand tangled in it. I look like I've been thoroughly used. Like I've been marked… claimed.
Like I belong to him.
The thought makes a furious heat rise in my chest. I grab the nearest thing, a decorative vase on the dresser, and hurl it at the mirror. It shatters with a satisfying crash, glass exploding across the surface and spiderwebbing out. My reflection fractures into a thousand pieces.
Better.
I sink down onto the edge of the bed. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving me hollow and exhausted.
I want to cry or scream, do something to release this pressure building inside me.
But I don't. I just sit there, staring at the broken mirror, and try to figure out how I'm supposed to survive this.
—
There's a knock on the door around seven. "Elena." Declan's voice is quiet and careful. "Dinner's ready."
I don't answer.
"Elena, please. We need to talk."
"Go away."
He pauses. "You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Elena—"
"I said go away." My voice is flat. I don't have the energy for anything else.
There’s another pause, longer this time. I can hear him breathing on the other side of the door. I can picture him standing there, trying to figure out what to say.
Finally, he speaks again. “All right. I’ll have someone bring you up a plate in case you change your mind."
His footsteps retreat down the hallway. I listen until I can't hear them anymore, then let out a breath. I hear someone leave a plate outside a little while later, but I don’t go to get it. I just stay where I am, curled up on the bed, and wait for the day to end.
—
The next morning, I force myself to get up. I can't hide in here forever. As much as I want to, I know that's not an option. This is my life now. This penthouse, this marriage, and this man who humiliated me in front of his men and then couldn’t even apologize to me, even through a closed door.
I’m going to have to figure out how to function in this house, alongside him, because I don’t have any other choice.
I shower first, standing under water hot enough to turn my skin pink, scrubbing at myself like I can wash away what happened. Like I can erase the memory of his taste, his touch, his voice telling me to get under the desk.
It doesn't work.
I dress carefully in a black silk shift dress and pin my hair up in a ballerina bun, then do my makeup lightly. I look fine. Perfectly fine. No one would know that yesterday I was on my knees under my husband's desk while his men pretended not to notice.
The thought makes my stomach turn again. I grip the edge of the sink and breathe through it until the nausea passes. Then I test the door, find that it’s unlocked now, and head downstairs.
The penthouse is quiet. Morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making everything look clean and bright and normal, like yesterday never happened. Like this is just another day in a perfectly ordinary marriage.
I find the kitchen empty. There's coffee already made, and the breakfast table is set for one. My place. Not his. And on the table, next to the empty plate, are two things that make me stop in my tracks. A black credit card, and a small cream-colored card with elegant script.
I pick up the second card with trembling fingers. Sanctuary Day Spa. 10:00 AM appointment. Full-day package.
What the fuck?
"I wasn't sure if you'd come down."
I spin around. Declan is standing in the doorway, dressed in dark jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes, and his hair is slightly disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it.
He looks like he didn't sleep any better than I did.
"What is this?" I hold up the spa card, my voice sharp and accusatory.
"An apology." He moves into the kitchen slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. "I thought you might want—"
"You thought you could buy me off with a spa day?" The fury rises hot and fast, burning away the numbness I've been wrapped in since yesterday. "You think a fucking massage is going to make up for what you did?"
"No." His voice is quiet. "I don't think that. But I wanted to do something. To show you that I—"
"That you what?" I throw the card down on the table. "That you're sorry? That you regret humiliating me in front of your men? That you feel bad about using me like a—like a—"
I can't finish the sentence.
Declan's jaw tightens. "Elena—"
"You're a violent man." I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together. Trying to maintain the cold, aloof mask I've perfected over years of navigating my father's world. "I don’t know what I expected, really. That you'd be gentle with me? That you'd treat me with respect?"
"Yes." His voice is tight. "You should expect that."
I laugh harshly. "Really? Because yesterday suggested otherwise."
"Yesterday I was an asshole." He takes a step closer, and I instinctively take a step back. He stops immediately, his hands coming up in a gesture of surrender. "Yesterday I let my anger and my frustration get the better of me, and I took it out on you in a way that was completely unacceptable."
I stare at him, my lips thinning as I press them together.
"I'm a violent man," he continues, his voice rough. "You're right about that. I've done terrible things to people who crossed me or threatened what's mine. I've hurt people. Killed people. I’m sure that kind of behavior is nothing new to you, in the mafia world."
He pauses, and something shifts in his expression that looks almost like shame.
"But I've never been that way with a woman.
Never. I've never punished or humiliated anyone like I did to you yesterday.
I've never used someone's body to assert my dominance or prove a point.
" His eyes meet mine. "What I did to you was wrong. And I'm ashamed of it."
The kitchen goes very quiet. I can hear my own heartbeat and the distant sound of traffic from the street below. That was an apology. A real apology. Not an excuse, or a justification, or a dismissal. Just an acknowledgment that he was wrong, and he's sorry.
No one has ever apologized to me for anything.
Not my father, when he arranged my marriage without asking what I wanted.
Not Alessio, when he told me to stop being selfish and do my duty.
Not any of the men in my family who've made decisions about my life without consulting me, who've treated me like a chess piece to be moved around the board according to their strategy.
No one has ever looked me in the eye and said, "I was wrong. I'm sorry."
Until now.
"The spa appointment is just a gesture," Declan says quietly.
"I know it doesn't fix anything. But I wanted you to have a day to yourself to relax and get away from me and this place and everything that happened.
" He gestures to the credit card. "And that's yours.
No limits. Buy whatever you want. Do whatever you want.
It's not a bribe or a payment. It's just… it's yours."
I don't know what to say. My entire life, I've been taught that men like him—men in this world—don't apologize or admit weakness.
But here he is, doing exactly that.
"I don't expect you to forgive me," he adds. "I don't even expect you to accept the apology. But I needed you to know that I know what I did was wrong. And it won't happen again."
He turns to leave, and I find my voice.
"Why?"
He stops and looks back at me. "Why what?"
"Why are you apologizing? You got what you wanted. You reasserted your dominance. You showed your men that you're in control. Why do you care if I'm upset about it?"
Something flickers across his face. I don’t know him well enough yet to read it. "Because you're my wife," he says simply. "And I don't want you to be afraid of me."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
—