ELENA
"I need to tell you something," Dom said.
I looked up from the counter. He was standing in the kitchen doorway in the clothes he had been wearing all day — good clothes, but the tie was gone and the collar was open and he had the look he got at the end of long days when the professional surface had worn slightly thin.
It was nine in the evening on a Thursday. Six months and eleven days since a fake bride got on a plane and I had put on a dress and walked down an aisle I had not planned to walk down.
"Sit down," I said.
"I'd rather stand."
Something in his voice made me put down what I was holding.
I looked at him properly.
His hands were at his sides. His face was the serious face — not the board-meeting serious, not the problem-solving serious. The other serious. The one I h
