Page 90 of Sinful Bride

"But once it's done, once he's gone, you'll have options." He picks up his scotch again, taking a slow sip. "Not the illusion of choice you've had your entire life."

"I don't—" My voice breaks. "I can't⁠—"

"You can. You're a Capetti, Elena. You're stronger than you think. Stronger than your mother was, God rest her soul. And this is what our family needs from you.

"I'll find you a proper husband afterward," he says, his voice taking on a warmer tone. "Someone suitable. A widower, perhaps—a man of standing who's already proven himself capable of managing a family. Someone like Antonio Russo. You remember him? His wife died two years ago and left him with three children who need a mother. He's wealthy and respected. He'd be grateful for a wife who could manage his household and raise his children. You'd have security, status, and far less pressure than you have now."

The image forms in my mind despite myself. A ready-made family. Children who need care but aren't mine to birth. A husband who'd be grateful rather than demanding.

"Or perhaps someone like Marco Vitale," my father continues, warming to his subject. "He's older, yes, but distinguished. His first wife gave him sons, so there'd be no pressure for you to produce heirs. He needs someone elegant to host his gatherings, someone who understands our world. You'd have your own household to run, your own staff. Respect without the... complications of a younger husband's expectations."

He pauses, watching my face, reading me the way he's always been able to. "Or," he says, and his voice drops lower, "there's another option. One I think might appeal to you more."

My heart is pounding. "What option?"

"You don't have to marry again at all."

I feel myself physically flinch. My heart is pounding, and I stare at him.

"If you do this, if you complete your duty to this family, then perhaps you can choose." He sets his glass down and takes my hand, his grip warm and firm... paternal. "You can marry again if you want. Find a man who suits you, someone you actually care for. Or..." He squeezes my hand gently. "You can live your own life, Elena. Truly your own."

"I don't understand."

"You'd have your own home. Your own money, a generous allowance, enough to live comfortably anywhere you choose. You could travel to Paris, Rome, wherever you've always wanted to go. You could pursue your interests without anyone questioning you. Read, study, do whatever brings you joy." His voice is soft now, persuasive. "You could be free of the obligations that come with being a wife. Free of the expectations. Free of the fear."

"You'd never have to worry about pregnancy," he continues, gentler than I’ve ever heard him. This is a trap, a manipulation. I know it is… but it’s a good one. An apple that I’ve desperately craved to take a bite of my entire life. "Never have to face what your mother faced. You could live your life on your own terms, Elena. Make your own choices. Be your own person, not someone's daughter or someone's wife."

The temptation is overwhelming. Real, genuine freedom. The thing I've wanted my entire life, the thing I've never even let myself fully imagine because it seemed so impossible. No more arranged marriages. No more duty. No more being a pawn in someone else's game.

No more fear of dying the way my mother did.

"You'd still be family, of course," my father says. "Still welcome here and protected. But you'd be free, Elena. You could wake up every morning and decide what you want to do with your day. Go where you want. See who you want. Live how you want."

He releases my hand and leans back in his chair, giving me space. "I know it's a lot to ask," he says quietly. "I know it seems impossible. But think about what you'd gain. Think about the life you could have. No more pretending. No more performing. No more being what everyone else needs you to be."

My hands are shaking. I press them together, trying to still them, but I can't. The room feels like it's spinning.

"All you have to do," my father says, his voice gentle and reasonable, "is remove a threat to our family. A man who doesn't belong in our world. A man who's destabilizing everything we've built. A man who, if we're honest, you never wanted to marry in the first place."

I can't breathe. I can’t think straight.

"You're a Capetti, Elena." He picks up his scotch again, taking another sip. "And this is what our family needs from you. What you need for yourself."

He stands and pulls out a drawer in his desk. Then he lays two things in front of me.

One is a small pearl-handled gun. A derringer, so tiny it could fit in a purse. The other is a vial of powder that I don’t need to ask what it’s for.

“You have options. Whichever works best for the right moment, and whichever you’re more comfortable with. But you need to get it done. The poison would be best, I think. He won't taste it, no matter what you put it in, and it will act quickly.”

I sit there for a long moment staring at the gun and the poison. Then, quickly, I put both into my clutch. Refusing outright is not an option. I need time to think.

"Remember who you are," my father says quietly. "Remember where your loyalty lies. Remember what you could have if you're brave enough to take it."

I nod wordlessly, standing, clutching my bag in my hand. I pull the door open and step into the hallway, closing it behind me with a soft click that echoes in the silence. I lean against the wall, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. My mind is racing, trying to process what just happened. What my father just asked me to do.

Kill Declan. The thought is absurd. Impossible. I can't—I wouldn't⁠—

But my father's words echo in my head. You'll be free. I've never been free. Not once in my entire life. Every decision has been made for me, every path chosen by someone else. My education, my social circle, my marriage, all of it dictated by duty and family obligation.