Chapter 3
Cece
For one, two breaths, Rafe stood perfectly still, like a predator who couldn't believe its prey had actually walked into the trap. Then his lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and I immediately knew I'd made a terrible mistake.
“Pack your things,” he said all businesslike. “We're leaving. Now.”
“Wh-what,” I stammered. “Now? As in right now?”
“Yes, now.” He glanced around my apartment with thinly veiled disdain. “Only essentials. The rest can be dealt with later.”
“You can't be serious.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I just agreed to your insane proposal thirty seconds ago, and you already expect me to—”
“I don't trust you not to run,” he interrupted. “So yes, you're coming with me. Tonight.”
Something inside me snapped. The fear, the humiliation, and the trapped feeling of the past few hours crystallized into white-hot rage.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I stepped toward him, hands balling into fists at my sides. “You barge into my life, drag me out of a club like some kind of neanderthal, blackmail me into agreeing to marry you, and now you're what… kidnapping me?”
Rafe didn't flinch. If anything, my outburst seemed to amuse him. “It's not kidnapping when you agreed to it, Cecelia.”
“I agreed to a marriage arrangement, not to be hauled out of my apartment in the middle of the night.” My voice rose with each word. “You don't get to dictate my every move just because you wrote a check.”
“Actually, that's exactly what I get to do.” He took a step closer, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “The moment you said yes, you became my responsibility. And I take my responsibilities very seriously.”
I jabbed a finger into his chest, ignoring how solid it felt beneath my touch. “I am not your responsibility. I'm not a child or a pet or a… a possession for you to claim.”
“Aren't you?” He caught my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “You sold yourself to Santiago. I just bought the contract.”
Fury bubbling through my veins, I yanked my arm free.
“I didn't sell myself to anyone. I made a business arrangement to clear a debt.
Which, by the way, is exactly what you're proposing we do with this sham of a marriage.” Refusing to be the first to look away, I forced myself to hold his gaze.
“If I'm just a transaction to you, then fine.
But don't pretend this is about my welfare.”
“You have no idea what this is about.” His voice dropped dangerously low. “You think Santiago would have stopped at dancing? Men like him see women like you as commodities, Cecelia. Assets to be leveraged. How long before dancing wasn't enough to cover the interest on your debt?”
The truth in his words made my stomach turn, but I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. “I would have figured something out.”
“Like you figured out everything else?” He gestured around my apartment, at the stack of bills, the rejection letters. “How's that working out for you?”
“Fuck you.” The words came out as a whisper instead of the shout I'd intended.
“Not part of our arrangement.” His smile was cold. “Yet.”
I slapped him before I realized what I was doing.
The crack of my palm against his cheek echoed in the small apartment. For one terrifying second, I thought he might retaliate. Instead, he moved with startling speed, backing me against the wall while one hand pressed flat against the peeling paint beside my head.
“Don't,” he warned, face inches from mine, “do that again.”
I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the expensive cologne that clung to his skin. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was certain he could hear it.
“Get away from me.” The words came out breathless rather than commanding.
“Pack your things,” he said, his voice dropping to a low timbre that made my skin prickle. “Before I do it for you.”
Neither one of us willing to back down, we just stared at each other. I was acutely aware of every point where our bodies almost touched—his chest nearly brushing mine with each breath, his lips close enough that I could feel his words more than hear them.
“You're a bastard,” I said.
“And you're stalling.” He finally stepped back, creating space between us I desperately needed. “Ten minutes, Cecelia. Then we leave, with or without your things.”
I wanted to argue more, to throw his offer back in his face and tell him to get out of my apartment and my life. But the reality of my situation crashed down on me like a wave. I had no money. No prospects. And now, a debt to a man who wouldn't hesitate to collect in ways I didn't want to imagine.
With a sound of frustration that was half-sob, half-growl, I pushed past him and yanked my suitcase from my closet.
“Happy now?” I snapped, unzipping it forcefully.
Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, Rafe watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes. “Ecstatic.”
I grabbed clothes at random—leggings, sweaters, underwear—and shoved them into the suitcase. Dance gear followed: leg warmers, leotards, my favorite worn pointe shoes even though they were nearly dead. Each item I packed felt like another piece of my independence being stripped away.
“Don't forget your toothbrush,” Rafe said, checking his watch. “Seven minutes.”
“I know how to pack,” I snarled, grabbing my toiletry bag from the bathroom. “I've been taking care of myself for a long time.”
“Clearly.” The word dripped with sarcasm.
I paused with a framed photo of Everlee and me in my hands. It was from when we were kids, both of us laughing at something out of frame. Carefully wrapping it in a sweater I placed it too in the suitcase.
“Six minutes,” Rafe called.
“Would you stop that?” I yanked open drawers and grabbed essentials. “This isn't a bomb defusal. It's my life you're dismantling.”
He didn't respond, just kept watching with that infuriatingly calm expression.
I moved to my desk, gathering my dance journal, headphones, chargers. The withered rose still sat on my windowsill, a dark reminder of things I didn't want to think about. I left it there. Let it rot.
When I finally zipped the overstuffed suitcase closed, Rafe glanced at his watch again. “Nine minutes and thirty seconds. Not bad.”
“I want it on record that I'm doing this under protest,” I said, dragging the suitcase off the bed.
Rafe moved forward, taking it from my hands before I could object. “Duly noted.”
Grabbing my purse and keys, I hesitated at the door. This apartment, as small and shabby as it was, had been my sanctuary, the first place that was truly mine. Leaving it felt like surrendering a piece of myself.
“I need to call my landlord,” I said, hating how uncertain my voice sounded. “I can't just disappear.”
“I'll have someone handle it,” Rafe replied, already moving toward the stairs. “Coming?”
I took one last look at my apartment, committed it to memory then switched off the light and followed him down.
Outside, Rafe's Aston Martin gleamed under the streetlights, obscenely expensive and out of place in my neighborhood. He stowed my suitcase in the trunk with an awkward efficiency that suggested he wasn't used to carrying his own luggage, then opened the passenger door for me.
“Your chariot,” he said with a hint of mockery in his voice.
I slid into the seat without acknowledging his gesture, staring straight ahead as he closed the door and moved around to the driver's side. As we pulled away from the curb, I refused to look back at my building. Refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing my resolve weaken.
“I hope you realize how insane this is,” I said as we merged into late-night traffic. “Normal people don't get engaged and move in together in the span of an hour.”
“We're not normal people.” His profile was sharp against the passing streetlights. “And this isn't a normal engagement.”
“No kidding.” I turned to stare out the window, watching the city blur past as we headed uptown. “Where exactly are we going?”
“My place.”
“Which is where, exactly?”
“Upper East Side.” He navigated through traffic with confident precision. “You'll see.”
The rest of the drive passed in strained silence.
I watched as the neighborhoods changed, buildings growing taller and more polished, doormen appearing outside gleaming entrances.
When Rafe finally pulled into a private garage beneath one of the most imposing buildings I'd ever seen, my stomach clenched with anxiety.
“Home sweet home,” he said, killing the engine.
The elevator ride to the penthouse felt endless. Rafe stood beside me, my suitcase at his feet, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. I kept my eyes fixed on the climbing numbers, each one bringing me closer to a reality I couldn't quite comprehend.
When the doors finally opened, they revealed a short hallway ending in a single door. Rafe stepped out first, pulling my suitcase behind him. Before he could reach for his keys, the door swung open to reveal an older man in an impeccably tailored suit.
“Good evening, Mr. de Luca,” he said, his British accent crisp and proper. His eyes flicked briefly to me before returning to Rafe. “I wasn't expecting you to have company this evening.”
“Change of plans, Edward.” Rafe's hand found the small of my back, guiding me forward with gentle pressure. “This is Cecelia. My fiancée.”
I almost stumbled at the casual way he dropped the word. Edward's eyebrows rose slightly before his professional demeanor reasserted itself.
“Indeed, sir. Very good.” He stepped aside, allowing us to enter. “Welcome, Miss...”
“Sutton,” Rafe supplied before I could speak. “Cecelia Sutton.”
Edward inclined his head. “Welcome, Miss Sutton.”
“Cecelia will be staying with us from now on,” Rafe continued, his hand still resting possessively on my lower back. The touch sent a traitorous warmth through me despite my anger. “Has Lucia left for the evening?”
“Chef Lucia is still here, sir. She was just finishing preparations for your late supper.”