Page 49 of Unholy Union
For our engagement dinner, Sabrina had been the perfect angel her father described her to be, appearing docile and agreeable in every way.
It wasn’t until we were alone on the terrace that she revealed she was a kitten with claws.
I’ve seen hostages look more defiant than she does tonight, which means she has something up her sleeve.
Her gaze remains on the tinted window, watching the strip of tall buildings pass by, hands neatly folded in her lap.
My staff has styled her impeccably, emphasizing how polished and preened the wife of a man like me needs to be. The gold Tom Ford evening dress they’ve slipped her into is tasteful and complements her olive complexion. The way the fabric drapes her body is vaguely reminiscent of Roman times.
Her hair’s been straightened into sleek, dark sheets that fall about her shoulders.
As far as I’ve heard, she didn’t protest when they styled her; she simply let them do as they were told.
It’s possible she’s finally realized her role in this marriage… or it’s very possible this is another fake out and she’s acting again.
I clear my throat and decide to test the waters. Just how far can I push before I get under her skin and make the mask drop?
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” I say matter-of-factly. “You’ve cleaned up well tonight, principessa. I wasn’t sure you’d manage after your recent tantrums. But look at you—housebroken already.”
The car has slowed for a red light, the evening traffic crawling at a snail’s pace. Sabrina finally tears her gaze away from the window, hazel eyes flicking from the glass over to me. They’re missing their usual bright spark, like a flame that’s been snuffed out.
My chest twinges in response, as a second goes by where we peer at each other in charged silence, and then things are set into motion again.
The light turns green and the town car rolls forward. She returns her gaze to the window, watching more of the sleek skyscrapers and commercial towers pass us by.
The silence rings through the rear cabin of the town car, backed only by the indistinct sounds of gravel and pedestrians on the streets outside.
She didn’t even bother with a reply.
Not a fake, flippant retort. Not a fiery flash of her temper. Not a single word.
I rack my brain for how Sabrina’s been acting the past few days, but truthfully, I haven’t been around enough to know. I spend as little time as possible around the girl.
For more reasons than I can’t stand her.
The Valente residence has never been the kind of home where you want to spend much time.
Cassian’s known to party in Manhattan for nights at a time and our sister Celeste chose to study abroad just to get away. Our own mother frequently jets off on spa retreats so she doesn’t have to be stuck under the same roof as the rest of the family.
As loyal as we are to each other, we’re a miserable, toxic bunch, and always have been.
Papà knows no other way to rule a family. He’s run our household the way he’s run his organization and businesses—with a cold, domineering, unforgiving hand that expects devotion, loyalty, and obedience in return.
He doesn’t love us in the way a traditional husband and father does and has never pretended to.
But sitting in the back of the town car with a sullen Sabrina only reminds me how he’s interfered inourmarriage. He’s done more than setting it up in the first place, which was frustratingenough, though I acquiesced because it was what was being asked of me.
Now he’s started meddling in how I handlemywife.
We wouldn’t be going out to this event tonight if it weren’t for him interfering in our affairs. Sabrina made a mistake doing what she did at Nocturna and getting photographed by the paparazzi, but as her husband, it’s my job to handle the situation—not my father’s.
Over the past couple days, he’s made more than a few comments hinting at the fact he believes she needs to be reined in. For all the bragging Rinaldo Corsini did about his daughter, she’s nothing but a disrespectful little brat.
And he seems to think I can’t manage her on my own.
We pull up outside the Glasshouse on 12thAvenue, one of many town cars arriving to the upscale event.
The Bellarose Foundation Gala is an annual charity event that’s a chance for politicians, philanthropists, celebrities, CEOs and entrepreneurs, and anybody else with a big enough bank account to show off how much they care about poor orphaned children.
