A Forced Marriage (Destined Vows #4)

Chapter 1

Rafe

Facing my father always felt like walking to the gallows, but today, I had the distinct feeling he was tightening the noose himself.

The leather of my Italian shoes squeaked against the marble floors of Orologio Media as my stomach twisted into the familiar knot it always did before these meetings.

“He's expecting you,” my father’s secretary said without even looking up.

“Isn't he always?” I muttered and straightened my tie before pushing open the heavy door.

Vittorio de Luca sat behind his imposing desk like a monarch on his throne. Silver hair perfectly combed, not a wrinkle in his custom Armani suit, dark eyes calculating and cold as they tracked my entrance.

“Rafael.” My full name, never Rafe. A reminder that I was his creation, his legacy, not my own person.

“Father.” I kept my voice neutral, taking the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation. Small rebellions were the only ones I could usually afford.

He adjusted his platinum cufflinks, a tell that warned me something was coming that I wouldn't like. “You're aware we've been in negotiations with the Hastings account.”

“Yes. Though I've advised against it multiple times.”

“Your advice has been noted and dismissed.” He folded his hands on the polished surface of his desk. “Brandon Hastings brings considerable influence and connections that outweigh his... personal complications.”

I bit back a laugh. “Personal complications? The man's been accused of sexual harassment by three former employees and has cocaine residue on his nose in half the photos the tabloids run.”

“Allegations without charges,” my father replied dismissively. “And recreational habits that can be managed with the right guidance.”

The way he said it made my skin crawl. This was the Vittorio de Luca method: reduce morality to metrics, humanity to assets and liabilities. I'd spent my entire life watching him operate this way, and still, it caught me in the ribs sometimes.

“I've made a decision that will secure the Hastings account while solving another matter that has become... tiresome.” He leaned back slightly, studying me with the detached interest of a scientist observing a specimen.

“You're thirty-nine, Rafael. Your reputation as a bachelor is becoming problematic for the company image.”

My blood went cold. I knew exactly where this was headed. “Don't.”

“His daughter, Samantha, is twenty-six. Attractive and educated at Vassar.” He continued as if I hadn't spoken, sliding a folder across the desk. “The marriage would create a personal connection that would bind the Hastings family to Orologio Media beyond mere business arrangements.”

I stared at the folder but didn't touch it. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Watch your language,” he said, more annoyed at the profanity than my rejection.

“This isn't a negotiation. The arrangement benefits everyone involved. The Hastings get the connection to our family name and reputation, we secure their business, and you finally start acting like the heir to this company instead of—” he waved his hand dismissively “—whatever this perpetual adolescence is.”

My jaw clenched so tight I could feel a headache building at my temples. “I'm not marrying a stranger to secure your client list.”

“She's hardly a stranger. You've met at several functions.”

“Right. I remember the charity gala last month where she was so high she fell into the chocolate fountain, and that time she tried to proposition my driver in the coat check room at the New Year's party?” I leaned forward. “The answer is no.”

My father's expression didn't change, but his fingers tapped once against the desk—another tell.

He was about to escalate. “You seem to be under the impression that you have options here, Rafael. Let me be clear: you will marry Samantha Hastings by the end of the year, or your position at this company, your trust fund, and your standing in this family will be reconsidered.”

I'd heard variations before but never delivered with such cold finality. Before I could respond, the door opened behind me, and the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 and barely contained malice filled the air.

“Am I interrupting?” My mother's voice was honey over ice—sweet on the surface, frozen beneath.

“Not at all, Gia,” my father replied, his tone softening just slightly. “I was just explaining Rafael's engagement to Samantha Hastings.”

I turned to face her, searching for any hint of maternal protection. There was none. Gia de Luca glided into the room like a ghost, her raven hair—the same as mine—streaked with silver and pulled into an immaculate chignon. Her eyes, also like mine, revealed nothing as they swept over me.

“Wonderful news,” she said, not to me but to my father.

“The Hastings girl comes from good stock, despite her... youthful indiscretions.” She settled into the chair beside me, her posture perfect, as if she'd been born with a steel rod in place of a spine.

“I've already spoken with their family about venue options.”

The betrayal shouldn't have stung—I'd long ago stopped expecting warmth or support from my mother—but the revelation that they'd planned this ambush together twisted the knife.

“You've been busy,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

Her smile was thin and didn't reach her eyes. “One of us should be. Your brother would have understood the importance of family alliances.”

There it was. Gabriel. Dead twenty-two years, and still the golden standard against which I was measured and found wanting. I felt the familiar punch of grief and guilt, followed immediately by rage at her wielding his memory like a weapon.

“Gabe would have told you both to go to hell,” I said quietly.

My mother's face hardened into marble. “You don't get to speak for him.”

“And you don't get to puppet his corpse to manipulate me.” I stood up, no longer caring about the consequences. “I'm not marrying Samantha Hastings. I'm not a pawn in your corporate chess game.”

My father rose as well, his height—which I'd inherited—allowing him to look me in the eye. “Sit down, Rafael. We're not finished.”

“Yes, we are.”

“If you walk out that door, you're making a choice with permanent consequences,” he warned, voice dropping dangerously low. “The Hastings deal is just the beginning. Either you start taking your responsibilities seriously, or I'll find someone who will.”

I paused with my hand on the doorknob, my mother's cold stare burning into my back. “Find someone else, then. I'm done being your puppet.”

“You ungrateful—” my mother began, but I was already moving.

Slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass, I stalked down the hallway. My assistant appeared at my elbow barely a minute later. “The car is ready, Mr. de Luca.”

Of course it was. Richard knew how these meetings with my father went. Not trusting my voice, I nodded my thanks as we stepped into the elevator.

“Would you like me to clear your afternoon?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. I need...” I shook my head. “I just need some air. Some space.”

“Very well, sir.” He said, handing me my keys when we reached the garage level. “See you tomorrow.”

Just needing to put distance between myself and Orologio Media, I drove without direction at first. My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket—likely my father's people, already initiating whatever punishment he'd deemed appropriate for my defiance.

Ignoring it, I pushed the car faster through the city until I found myself in familiar part of town.

My subconscious having steered me toward the one place where I could find a moment's peace in observation.

Vice and Virtue looked unassuming from the outside—a converted warehouse with discreet signage and a single doorman who nodded in recognition as I approached. “Mr. de Luca. Good to see you again.”

The club was Santiago Alvarez's masterpiece—a playground for the wealthy where privacy was guaranteed and judgment suspended.

Not the seedy strip club many assumed from the outside, but an exclusive venue where fantasies could be indulged in under careful supervision.

For me, it had always been about watching—finding solace in being the observer rather than the observed.

The main room was bathed in low, red-tinted light, with private booths surrounding a central stage. I made my way to my usual spot—far enough from the stage to remain in the shadows, yet close enough to see everything.

A server materialized at my side almost immediately.

“The usual, Mr. de Luca?”

“Double it,” I replied, loosening my tie and undoing the top button of my shirt.

The bourbon arrived promptly, and I let the first sip burn down my throat, welcoming the heat that spread through my chest. On stage, a woman in an elaborate costume of feathers and crystals was finishing her routine to an appreciative applause.

Settling deeper into the booth, I let the music and the shadows envelop me.

This was my ritual, my confession booth. Here I could simply exist without expectations, without the weight of the de Luca legacy crushing me.

“Gentlemen,” the announcer's voice broke through my thoughts. “Please welcome to the stage for the first time... Jade.”

My attention drifted toward the stage out of habit more than interest, expecting another beautiful stranger to provide momentary distraction. The lights dimmed further as a single spotlight illuminated the center of the stage and a new figure emerged from behind the curtain.

The moment I laid eyes on her; the bourbon froze halfway to my lips.

No. Fucking. Way.

Even beneath the stage makeup and the dim lighting, I'd recognize her anywhere.

Cecelia Sutton. Not Jade. Cecelia.

She moved with the fluid grace I'd always admired from a distance, her body swaying to the sultry beat that filled the club. But she didn't belong here—not under these hungry gazes, not on this stage, not in this world.

I moved before I'd made a conscious decision to do so, abandoning my drink and cutting through the crowd that had gathered. Rational thought had evacuated, replaced by a primal need to remove her from anyone's eyes but mine.

The security guard at the edge of the stage started to step in my path, but something in my expression made him hesitate just long enough for me to vault onto the platform.

Cecelia's eyes widened in shock as she recognized me and her carefully choreographed routine faltered. “Rafe? What the—”

I didn't give her time to finish. In one fluid motion, I swept her up and over my shoulder, ignoring her squeal of surprise and the murmur that rippled through the crowd.

“Put me down,” she hissed, fists pounding against my back. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Leaving,” I answered, already striding toward the exit with her squirming form secured against me.

The weight of her was nothing compared to the heat of rage coursing through me—not at her, but at whatever circumstances had brought her here, at every person who'd been watching her, at myself for not somehow preventing this.

“Rafe, I swear—”

“Not now, Cecelia.”

We'd almost reached the door when a figure stepped into our path. Santiago Alvarez, co-owner of Vice and Virtue, regarded me with a mixture of amusement and irritation.

“De Luca,” he said coolly, “I believe you're leaving with my employee.”

“Get out of my way, Santiago.”

He didn't budge. “The lady owes me money. She agreed to dance to work off her debt.”

Fight clearly draining out of her at Santiago's words, Cecelia went very still on my shoulder. The implications hit me like a bucket of ice water. What kind of trouble was she in that she'd borrowed that kind of money? And what exactly had she agreed to work off?

“Please put me down,” she begged quietly.

I ignored her. “How much to clear the debt completely?”

Santiago's eyebrows rose slightly as he named a figure that would make most men blanch. But I wasn't most men.

Without setting Cecelia down, I shifted her weight and reached for my checkbook. “I’ll double it for the inconvenience and your discretion.”

“Rafe, no.” Cecelia squirmed on my shoulder. “You can't—”

“Quiet,” My tone left no room for argument as I scribbled out a check for double the amount he’d mentioned and handed it to Santiago. “We're done here.”

After examining the piece of paper, he tucked it into his jacket pocket with a slight nod. “Your girl is free to go.” His eyes flicked to Cecelia, still draped over my shoulder. “No hard feelings. You'd have been wasted as just a dancer anyway.”

The implication in his tone made me want to put my fist through his face, but I had more pressing concerns.

With a curt nod to Santiago, I carried Cecelia through the door and into the cool night air, only setting her down when we reached my car.

Shrugging out of my jacket, I wrapped it around her shoulders in one smooth motion.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I demanded without thinking.

She jutted her defiantly, but I could see the vulnerability she was trying to mask. “I was thinking I needed to pay off a debt, and this was the fastest way to do it.”

“By selling yourself?”

“I was dancing, Rafe, not turning tricks,” she shot back, pulling my jacket tighter around herself. “Not that it's any of your business.”

“It became my business when I walked in and saw you on that stage.” Running a hand through my hair, I tried to calm the storm raging inside me. “Fucking hell, Cecelia. You could have asked for help.”

“From whom? You?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Why would I do that?”

Because I'd do anything for you. The thought came unbidden, dangerous in its intensity, and I shoved it aside. “Because now you owe me,” I said instead, watching her expression shift from defiance to wariness.

“What does that mean?”

I opened the passenger door of my car. “It means get in. We have things to discuss.”

She hesitated, glancing back at the club, then at me. For a moment, I thought she might bolt, but then her shoulders slumped.

“Fine,” she said, sliding into the seat. “But this better be good.”

Closing the door, I walked around to the driver's side.

My mind raced. I'd left my father's office determined to thwart his marriage plans.

Now, as I slid behind the wheel beside this woman I'd been trying not to want for longer than I cared to admit, a solution formed that would either save us both or destroy us completely.

Either way, there was no going back now.