Page 70 of Unholy Union
Any time the topic comes up, it’s like we both morph into the worst version of ourselves. At one point, Sabrina gripped her steak knife, hand shaking, pure fury on her face.
I wasn’t the least bit concerned. If my wife wanted to kill me again, she was welcome to go ahead and make another attempt. I’d be more than happy to teach her another lesson.
While I’d never let other people hurt Sabrina, she’s mine to do what I wish with.
But I push these thoughts aside as I decide to go in a different direction for once. For no other reason than to spend an evening with her and get to know the woman I’m married to.
Papà thinks it’s irrelevant, but I think he’s wrong. If Sabrina really is an enemy, then it’s to my advantage I understand her. That I know her inside and out—and possibly gain her trust.
I approach her side of the bed and slip the paperback out of her hands. “Look, I’ve already made the plans and bought the tickets. How about a truce? No family talk or anything hot button. Just for tonight.”
She eyes me warily, like I’m some creep in a white van offering her candy. “Where are we going?”
“I told you—dinner and a show. Get dressed.”
“You mean I even get to decide what I wear?” she asks, tone dripping sarcasm.
It’s deserved, considering my staff have usually laid out her outfits for any events we’ve attended.
I cock a brow at her, a hint of a grin forming. “Yes, principessa. Aren’t you a lucky woman?”
She shakes her head as if she’s not sure whether to laugh or roll her eyes, but shedoesslide out of bed and pad over to the closet doors.
I stand back and wait patiently, counting the moment as a victory.
…so, there’s hope yet.
Half an hour later, we’re on our way to Kaori, an upscale Japanese restaurant that’s on Columbus Avenue, a couple blocks short of where we’ll be seeing a show after dinner.
I hold the door open for Sabrina as we walk in. She got ready surprisingly quick considering the state she was in when I showed up to the house.
Then again, Sabrina’s the kind of woman that could wear a fucking garbage bag and still look phenomenal.
As my gaze sweeps over her head to toe, it occurs to me that I prefer what she picks out for herself compared to the more polished and traditional styling I’ve been having my staff put her in.
Tonight, she’s slipped on a breezy dress that has thin straps and a bustier top with some kind of bright abstract print that reminds me of spilled paint.
The colors are red, orange, even some fucking magenta thrown in, yet she pulls it off effortlessly.
It matches her personality and complements her naturally sun-kissed skin tone.
She’s paired the dress with sandaled heels and let her long curls hang loose down her back. Something else, I realize, I’ve been instructing the staff to not allow when styling her.
I’ve been telling them to flatten it pin-straight.
But as I watch the dark, voluminous curls sway, it occurs to me it’s what she prefers.
“Is that how you like wearing it?” I ask as the host shows us to our table. “Your hair.”
She glances sideways at me, then the corner of her mouth quirks. “I prefer my hair how it grows out of my head.”
So yes.
I’m still processing this answer as we take our seats and are given our menus.
Though I’ve never had Japanese before, Kaori is known for its high quality fish and fine-dining atmosphere. Both reasons why I’ve chosen it.
And because, apparently, sushi happens to be Sabrina’s favorite food (another thing I learned when I peeked at her Instagram).
