Page 33 of Sinful Bride

That joy crashes straight into the ground.

Past tense? Want-ed?

Shit.

Time to reroute. Things are tense, things are raw, but like hell am I letting her go.

Like hell am I letting her give up on me. Give up on us.

I reach for her and, to my relief, she doesn’t shy back. When I pull her close and cup her face in my hand, she doesn’t dismiss me or try to pull away. Progress.

“You have me. I’m right here.”

Daphne tries to not look frustrated. “I mean?—”

“I know what you mean. Where did you think I’d gone?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Hey. Look at me.” I tip her face up so she has to look me in the eyes. “I promised I’d take care of you. That I’d be here beside you for everything. That includes making sure you’re in a position of respect and independence in your professional life, when and if I can do something about it. In this case, I could do something, so I did.”

Disbelief wars with the sadness. Even more, it battles the hope I see flickering in the depths of her eyes.

“You deserve better, Daphne. So much better than anyone has ever given you. Let me do that for you. I want to give you better.” I see something flicker in her gaze. I’m going to stamp out those thoughts right away. “No, this is not because you just gave birth. I planned to buy the gallery months ago.”

Her gaze snaps to mine with new focus. “What? Why?”

I tuck her in closer to me. “Because, aside from being egotistical, misogynistic assholes, they’re fucking terrible at what they try to do.”

Daphne’s giggle bubbles up. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“With pleasure.” I start counting off my fingers one by one. “They don’t know the first thing about what ‘avant garde’ actually means. They haven’t featured an actual, respected artist in years. They are so blinded by greed that they can’t identify their primary colors. Quite frankly, getting rid of them and making you the new owner of the gallery is doing the art world a favor.”

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Damn. That’s harsh.”

“No, it’s the truth.” I bury my nose in her hair to breathe her in for a moment. As much as I’m determined to give her peace, to be her anchor in the storm, she does the same for me. She’s usually unaware of it. “Listen: do whatever you want with the gallery. Run it, sell it, feed it to wolves—I don’t fucking care. As long as it makes you happy.”

Daphne sighs. In a subconscious show of trust, she leans into me. I rub her back and drink in the moment of finally seeing some of her walls start to crumble.

Or maybe just crack a little. Either way—progress.

“I really love working there.” She groans it into my chest. “I just hate handouts. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, I just…”

“You’re not used to receiving gifts without strings attached.”

“Exactly.” She sniffles. “How fucked up is that?”

“Massively.” When she looks up at me, I shrug. “The Hamishes are fucked-up people. They raised you how they raised you—and yet here you are. With a big decision to make.” I hold the folder up for both of us to look at. “You can sell this and rake in your own profit, invest elsewhere, whatever you want. Or…”

“Or…?”

“Or you can take everyone’s opinion on how you should live your life and shove it up their asses. Win to spite them. Make them grovel at your feet by doing what you do.”

“Is that what you do?”

“More or less. Just with a lot more blood involved.” I hand her the folder. “Either way, it will be the life you chose. Even I can’t pick for you.”

Daphne accepts the folder and stares at it for a long, silent moment. She still seems uncertain of herself, but the tears have dried and she manages to give me the tiniest of smiles.

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