Declan
Ithought last night might change things.
The thought hits me as I stand in the shower the next morning, water scalding hot against my skin, trying to wash away the memory of Elena's hand on my cock.
The way she looked at me in that diner, like maybe she was starting to see me as something other than the upstart who doesn't belong in her world.
But then she stopped and pulled away. She refused to give me what we both wanted. And I'm back to square one, feeling like I'm failing at everything I touch.
The water beats down on my shoulders, and I brace my hands against the tile. Steam fills the bathroom until I can barely see. My cock is half-hard again just thinking about her and how close we came. She wanted me, but not enough to surrender.
I turn off the water and step out, grabbing a towel. Maybe I should have chosen violence. When Enzo Capetti made his offer—marriage or war—maybe I should have taken the war. I know how to fight. That's what I did with the club. That's what I'm good at.
But this, dealing with a world where no one says what they mean and what everyone thinks about you is more important than what you’re actually good at? I'm fucking terrible at it. And my marriage is proof.
When I head downstairs, Elena is already in the dining room.
She's wearing a cream-colored, fitted dress, her hair pulled back and her makeup perfect. She looks untouchable and elegant, back to being the perfect ice queen. Everything I'm not. I’m rough, passionate, violent, quick to heat up. We couldn’t be more different.
"Good morning," she says without looking up from her coffee.
"Morning." I pour myself a cup, black, and sit across from her.
The silence stretches between us. "I have some business to handle today," I say finally. "I'll be out most of the afternoon."
"Of course." She takes a delicate sip of her coffee. "I have some things to take care of as well."
We're being so fucking polite, like strangers. Like we didn't almost fuck in the back of a car last night.
I want to ask her why she stopped, what she's afraid of, what it would take for her to trust me.
But the words stick in my throat. Because maybe she's right not to trust me.
Maybe I'm exactly what she thinks I am—a man who doesn't belong in her world, who's going to fail at leading this organization, and who's going to drag her down with me when I fall.
I finish my coffee and stand. "I'll see you tonight."
She nods, and I leave before I can say something I'll regret.
—
I head over to Lachlan’s house, needing to talk face-to-face with my best friend. When I pull up, I can see him through the front window, sitting on the couch with a book. He looks peaceful and content. Like a man who made the right choice when he walked away from all of this.
He opens the door when I knock. "Declan. Come in."
The house smells like coffee and like someone baked cinnamon rolls for breakfast. There's a woman's jacket hanging by the door, and a pair of shoes kicked off near the stairs. It looks like a normal, domestic life is lived here, much warmer than anything in my coldly luxurious penthouse.
"Adriana's working on some things in her office," Lachlan says, leading me to the kitchen. "But she made cinnamon scones this morning. You want one?"
"Sure."
He pours us both coffee and sets a plate of scones on the table.
They're still warm, and they taste like home, like something my mom might have made on a Saturday morning. It makes my chest ache. I think about the diner last night, and I wish I could go back to that life. I wish Elena could be a part of it with me, but I can’t imagine her ever being happy like that.
"So," Lachlan says, sitting across from me. "You look like shit."
I almost laugh. "Thanks."
"What's going on?"
I take a drink of coffee, buying time. Lachlan has always been able to read me too well. He knows when I'm struggling even when I'm trying to hide it.
"I don't know if I can do this," I say finally.
"Do what?"
"Any of it." I set my cup down harder than I mean to. "Lead the organization. Navigate this world. Make my marriage work. I feel like I'm failing at everything."
Lachlan leans back in his chair, studying me. "Okay—” He gives me a look, clearly encouraging me to spill it all out.
I tell him about the galas and the families who look at me like I'm a joke, about Elena and the way she makes me feel like I'm never going to be good enough.
I tell him about last night at the diner, the dancing, the way she looked at me like maybe things were changing.
And then the car ride home, and how she stopped just before we crossed a line we can't uncross.
"She won't let me in.” I shake my head. "Won't trust me. And I don't know how to make her."
"You can't make her," Lachlan says quietly. "That's not how trust works."
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
He takes a drink of his coffee. "You're trying to force her into your world, Declan. But she's not from your world. She's from theirs. And that world has rules and expectations that you don't understand yet."
"I'm trying to understand—"
"Are you?" He raises an eyebrow. "Or are you trying to prove that you don't need to understand? That you can do things your way and everyone else will just have to accept it?"
Fuck. I glare at him. He’s not wrong, but I don’t want to hear it.
"She's scared," Lachlan continues. "Can you blame her? She was handed over to a man she barely knows, forced into a marriage she didn't choose. And you're asking her to surrender to you. To beg for you. That's a lot of power to give someone when you don't know if they'll use it against you."
"What am I supposed to do?" I ask again.
"Show her you're trying." Lachlan sighs. "Not just in your world, but in hers. Take her somewhere she'd appreciate. Do something that's outside your comfort zone. Let her see that you're willing to meet her halfway."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Then figure it out." He smiles slightly. "You're smart, Declan. I’ve seen you restore a motorcycle from parts without a manual when we were kids. You took over an organization that’s trying to eat you alive, and it hasn’t taken out more than chunks yet.
You can figure out how to take your wife on a proper date. "
The thought makes my stomach turn. But Lachlan's right. I've been asking Elena to come to me, to accept me as I am. Maybe it's time I go to her.
"Okay," I say. "I'll try."
"Good." Lachlan stands and refills our coffee. "Now tell me about the organization. How are the men handling the transition?"
We talk for another hour or so, and by the time I leave, I have a plan. I'm going to take Elena somewhere she'd appreciate. Somewhere elegant and refined, and completely outside my comfort zone.
I'm going to show her I'm trying.
—
I spend the afternoon making arrangements. I get reservations at Alinea, which would normally be impossible on such short notice, but I can pull strings now, and I do. Suddenly, when I say the right things, there’s a table available. Money and power open doors, even for an upstart like me.
Then I get tickets to the opera. They're performing La Traviata tonight. I have no idea what that is, but the woman on the phone assures me it's one of the most romantic operas in the repertoire.
Romantic is what I'm going for, so I go with that. And then I spend a couple of hours at the tailor, getting a perfectly fitted charcoal-grey suit that’s apparently the latest fashion, and costs an eye-watering amount. I couldn’t spend this much on my normal wardrobe if I tried.
I look like one of them. Like I belong in Elena's world. It makes me feel like I’m wearing a costume, but I imagine what it must have felt like walking into that diner for me. I can do this.
By the time I get home, it's late afternoon. Elena is in the living room, reading. She looks up when I enter, her expression unreadable. "I made reservations for dinner tonight," I say as I put down my keys. "At Alinea. And then we're going to the opera."
Her eyebrows rise slightly. "The opera?"
"La Traviata." I have no idea if I'm pronouncing it right. "I thought... you might enjoy it."
For a long moment, she just looks at me. Then surprise fills her expression as she realizes this isn’t some kind of asshole joke on my part. "That sounds lovely," she says quietly. "Thank you."
"We need to leave in an hour."
She nods and stands, smoothing her dress. "I'll get ready."
I head to my room and put on the new suit, and adjust the tie three times before I get it right. I look at myself in the mirror and try to see what Elena sees.
I see a man who doesn't belong. Show her you're trying, Lachlan said, though. So that's what I'm going to do.
—
The restaurant is everything I expected and worse.
Alinea is minimalist and modern, and the tables are spaced far apart, giving each party privacy. The other diners are dressed impeccably and expensively, and everyone looks comfortable here, at ease. I feel like I'm about to be thrown out.
The host greets us with a smile. "Mr. Murphy, Mrs. Murphy. Welcome. Right this way."
He leads us to a table near the back. Elena walks gracefully just ahead of me as I rest my hand on her bare back, just above the low-cut back of her rose-colored gown.
I’ve realized she favors this style—cut higher on the neckline and low in the back.
It feels like an oddly intimate thing to know about a woman I still haven’t slept with.
She looks perfect here, like she belongs effortlessly.
I pull out her chair, still feeling awkward.
She sits, and I take the seat across from her.
The host I made the reservation with said something about “chef’s choice,” and I realize that there aren’t going to be menus available.
Elena looks perfectly at ease with that.
"Have you been here before?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.