Chapter 3 #2
“Perfect. Let her know we'll need an extra place set.”
“Very good, sir.” Edward disappeared down a hallway with my suitcase, leaving me alone with Rafe in the entryway.
For the first time, I took in my surroundings and my breath caught.
The penthouse was staggering—all clean lines and minimalist luxury, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan's glittering skyline.
The living room alone was bigger than my entire apartment, furnished with sleek, undoubtedly custom pieces that probably cost more than I'd make in a decade.
Original artwork hung on the walls, subtle lighting highlighting each piece.
“This is...” I trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.
“Home,” Rafe supplied, watching my reaction with something like amusement. “For both of us now.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how out of place I was in my leggings and oversized sweater. “This isn't real, you know. Playing house in your fancy penthouse doesn't make this a real engagement.”
“It's real enough for the purposes we discussed.” He moved toward an archway that presumably led to the dining area. “Hungry?”
Before I could answer, a small, round woman with silver-streaked dark hair appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on an apron. Her eyes widened at the sight of me.
“Mr. Rafe. You bring a guest?” Her Italian accent was thick and her surprise evident. “I not know you bring a guest.”
“Sorry for the short notice, Lucia.” Rafe's voice softened slightly when addressing her. “This is Cecelia. My fiancée.”
Lucia's mouth fell open as her gaze darted between us. “Fiancée? When this happen?”
“Very recently,” he replied smoothly. “Can you set another place?”
“Of course, of course.” Lucia's face broke into a warm smile as she approached me and took my hands in hers. “Welcome, bella. I bring extra plate right away.”
Before I could respond, she was rushing back to what I assumed was the kitchen, muttering in rapid Italian.
“You have a personal chef,” I said flatly.
“Lucia's been with me for years,” Rafe replied, placing his hand on my lower back again to guide me toward the dining room. “She worries I don't eat enough.”
The dining room was as impressive as the rest of the penthouse—a long glass table surrounded by sleek chairs, more floor-to-ceiling windows, and a view that probably sold the place all on its own.
One place setting had been arranged at one end of the table, complete with more forks and knives than seemed necessary for any meal.
I stood awkwardly beside one of the chairs, unsure of the protocol. Did people like Rafe wait to be seated in their own homes? Did they have specific chairs they always sat in?
“Sit,” Rafe said, pulling out a chair for me.
I sank into it, hyperaware of how close he stood behind me as he pushed it in. His hands lingered on the back for a moment before he moved to take his seat at the head of the table.
Lucia bustled in with another place setting, arranging it with practiced efficiency while chattering in a mix of English and Italian. I caught words like “surprise” and “beautiful” and felt my cheeks heat.
“First course is almost ready,” she announced before disappearing again.
I fidgeted with my napkin, feeling like an impostor in a play where everyone knew the script except me. “I'm not dressed for a formal dinner.”
“You're fine,” Rafe said, watching me with those penetrating eyes. “Relax, Cecelia.”
“Easy for you to say.” I took a sip of water, wishing it were something stronger. “This is all perfectly normal for you.”
“None of this is normal.” His voice was quieter now. “Even for me.”
I couldn’t ask what he meant because Lucia returned carrying two plates. She set one before each of us with a flourish. “Scallops with truffle risotto, Mr. Rafe's favorite starter.”
The dish looked and smelled incredible—perfectly seared scallops nestled atop creamy risotto, garnished with fresh herbs. Under different circumstances, I might have been excited to taste it. Now, it just made my stomach clench with anxiety.
“Thank you, Lucia,” Rafe said, his tone genuinely warm. “It looks wonderful as always.”
She beamed at him before turning to me. “You eat, bella. Too skinny.”
After she left, I stared at my plate, trying to remember which fork to use.
“Smallest fork first,” Rafe said without looking up from his food. “Work your way outward with each course.”
With a flush to my cheeks, I picked up the correct fork and took a small bite. The flavors exploded on my tongue—rich, buttery, and so freaking perfect—but I could barely appreciate them through the knot of tension inside my chest.
We ate in silence for a few minutes before Rafe spoke again. “We'll fly to Vegas tomorrow to get married.”
I choked on my water, coughing violently as it went down the wrong pipe. Rafe continued eating as if he'd merely commented on the weather.
“Vegas?” I finally managed when I could speak. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.” He cut a scallop with surgical precision. “Did you think I'd wait?”
“I thought we might, I don't know, discuss it?” I set my fork down with a loud clank. “Like rational adults?”
“We already discussed it. You agreed to marry me. Vegas is the most efficient way to make it legal quickly.” He took a sip of wine. “The sooner we're legally bound, the better.”
“For you, maybe.” Appetite gone, I pushed my plate away. “What about my life? My job? I can't just disappear to Vegas without notice.”
“Your job was dancing for Santiago,” Rafe said coolly. “That's no longer a concern.”
“I teach dance classes three times a week,” I snapped. “To actual children who expect me to show up.”
That seemed to give him pause. “Call the studio and tell them you need a substitute for the next week.”
“Just like that, huh?” I let out a humorless laugh. “You really think you can rearrange my entire existence on a whim?”
“Yes.” The simplicity of his answer was infuriating. “That's the arrangement, Cecelia. My resources in exchange for your compliance.”
“Compliance,” I repeated, the word tasted bitter on my tongue. “You make me sound like a trained dog.”
“That's not how I see you.” Something flickered in his eyes, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. “But I need you to understand that this isn't a democracy. I make the decisions.”
“And what about what I want?”
“What you wanted was to avoid dancing for Santiago and to keep your sister from finding out about your financial troubles.” He leaned forward slightly. “I'm giving you both.”
Before I could formulate a response, Lucia returned to clear our plates and serve the main course—some kind of roasted meat with vegetables arranged like artwork on the plate. I barely registered what it was, my mind still reeled from Rafe's casual announcement about Vegas.
The rest of the meal passed in tense silence, broken only by Lucia's brief appearances and Rafe's occasional comments about the food. I pushed mine around more than ate it, my appetite destroyed by the weight of what I'd agreed to.
When we finally finished, Lucia insisted on wrapping a plate for me to have later, patting my hand and telling me in her musical accent that I needed to eat more. I thanked her automatically, the social niceties ingrained despite my inner turmoil.
After she left, I stood awkwardly. The events of the day all caught up at once, leaving me swaying slightly on my feet.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” I asked hesitantly.
Rafe's lips curved into that predatory smile I was coming to dread as he stepped closer. “Where do you think you're supposed to sleep?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “The guest room?”
“Wrong.” His grin widened. “You’ll sleep in my bed.”