Chapter 4
Rafe
Cecelia's eyes widened, those green irises darkening as they always did when she was about to explode. I leaned back in my chair and braced for the storm I'd just unleashed.
This was the thing about Cecelia Sutton—she burned hot and bright, her anger a living thing that filled whatever space she occupied. And right now, that space was my dining room.
“Like hell I will,” she spat, backing away from me as if I'd suggested we bathe in blood instead of share a mattress. “I agreed to marry you, not sleep with you.”
I took a slow sip of my wine, letting the vintage roll across my tongue while she gathered steam. “I never said anything about sleeping with you, Cecelia. I said you'd sleep in my bed.”
“Same difference,” she snapped, already pacing. She moved with that fluid grace that came from years of dance training—her anger somehow making her movements more precise, more deliberate. “I'm not sharing a bed with you. End of discussion.”
I set my glass down. “Not end of discussion. You're in my home now, about to become my wife. There are expectations.”
“Expectations?” She whirled toward me. “I didn't realize being your blackmail bride came with a sexual services clause.”
Despite the accusation, I had to suppress a smile. Even furious and backed into a corner, she never cowered. It was what had first caught my attention about her—that unflinching fire that burned regardless of the circumstances.
“Again, I never mentioned sex.” I traced the rim of my glass with one finger. “Though if you're offering—”
“I am not,” she cut me off, each word crisp and final. “I'm not offering anything beyond what we agreed to. A paper marriage. A business arrangement. Nothing more.”
I nodded, watching as she resumed pacing.
The dining room's recessed lighting cast shifting shadows across her face, highlighting the stubborn set of her jaw, the delicate arch of her neck, the way her chest rose and fell with each indignant breath.
Her sweater had slipped off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin I hadn't allowed myself to look at too closely before.
“This is insane,” she continued, gesturing wildly. “You can't just... just... upend my entire life and then expect me to hop into bed with you. I don't even know you, not really.”
“You know me,” I countered. “You've known me for what, two years now?”
“I know the version of you that shows up dinners and functions. The charming, perfect Rafael de Luca who brings expensive wine and makes my sister laugh.” She stopped pacing to glare at me. “I don't know the man who carries women out of clubs over his shoulder or blackmails them into marriage.”
That stung more than it should have. “If you're done with the character assassination, we should discuss sleeping arrangements.”
“There's nothing to discuss. I'll take a guest room.”
“No, you won't.” I kept my voice level.
“Yes, I will.” Her chin jutted up defiantly. “Or I'll sleep on the couch. Or the floor. Or I'll walk out that door right now and take my chances with Santiago.”
At the mention of his name, something dark and possessive unfurled in my chest. “You're not going anywhere near Santiago. Not now, not ever.”
“Then give me a different room.”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I said so.”
Her laugh was sharp. “That's your reason? Because the great Rafael de Luca has spoken? Do you even hear yourself?” She raked a hand through her hair, disheveling the dark waves. “You sound like a dictator.”
I'd had enough. The wine glass hit the table with a decisive clink as I pushed my chair back and rose to my full height. Cecelia's eyes widened slightly, her steps faltering as I crossed toward her with deliberate strides.
“You want a reason?” I asked, my voice dropping lower. “Fine. Here's your reason.”
She backed up instinctively, but I kept advancing until her ass hit the edge of the dining table.
Planting my hands on either side of her, I caged her in without touching her.
This close, I could see the faint spray of freckles across her nose, smell the lingering scent of her perfume—something with vanilla and jasmine that made my head swim.
“The marriage has to look real to everyone, Cecelia. Even the staff.” My voice came out rough. “Edward, Lucia, they see everything. If we're sleeping in separate rooms from day one, they'll know it's a sham.”
Her breath hitched, a small sound that sent heat straight through me.
This close, I could see every detail of her face—the sweep of her lashes, the slight parting of her lips, the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat.
My body reacted instantly, blood rushing south with enough force to make me lightheaded.
“I—” She swallowed, clearly trying to hold onto her anger despite our proximity. “I don't care what they think.”
“You should.” I leaned closer, not touching her but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. “Because if they suspect, others will too. And if others suspect, word might reach my father. Or your sister.”
Something flashed in her eyes at the mention of Evie—defiance giving way to reluctant consideration.
“We don't actually have to do anything,” I continued, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the way my heart hammered against my ribs. “But we have to share a room. Share a bed. Keep up appearances.”
She glared at me, but I could see the calculation behind her eyes as she weighed her limited options. Finally, her shoulders dropped slightly, and she gave a curt nod.
“Fine,” she said, the word clipped. “But if you touch me—”
“I won't.” The lie tasted bitter, because in that moment, with her trapped between my arms, her lips inches from mine, touching her was all I could think about.
As if reading my thoughts, she ducked under my arm and put distance between us. “I need a shower.”
“Of course.” I straightened. “I'll show you to the bedroom.”
As I led her down the hallway, I was acutely aware of her presence behind me—the faint scent of her perfume, the soft sound of her breathing, the palpable tension radiating from her.
When we reached the master suite, I pushed the door open and gestured for her to enter.
Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the space.
I’d wanted to ask what she thought of the king-sized bed dominating the room, of the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Manhattan at night, and the sleek furniture but I bit my tongue instead.
Edward had set her luggage neatly beside the dresser and seeing her suitcase in my bedroom—in my space—sent an unexpected jolt through me. This was really happening. She was really here.
“The bathroom's through there,” I said, nodding toward a door on the far wall. “You'll find everything you need… towels, toiletries.”
Cecelia nodded stiffly, moving toward her suitcase to extract what she wanted. I watched as she pulled out a small bag and what looked like sleep clothes.
“I'll just...” She gestured vaguely toward the bathroom.
“Go ahead.” I stepped aside to let her pass.
Our fingers brushed accidentally as she moved past me, and the brief contact sent an electric current up my arm.
Her sharp intake of breath told me she'd felt it too, but she quickened her pace, disappearing into the bathroom without another word.
The door closed behind her, and I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
What the fuck was I doing?
Moving to my walk-in closet, I stripped off my suit with mechanical precision.
The events of the day crashed over me in waves.
Each decision had seemed logical in the moment, necessary even.
But now, with her in my bathroom and the reality of what I'd set in motion settling around me, doubt crept in.
I changed into pajama pants and a t-shirt, my mind racing with thoughts of her.
Cecelia had always been off-limits—my best friend's sister-in-law, thirteen years my junior, a complication I couldn't afford.
I'd kept my distance as much as possible, limited our interactions to gatherings where others could serve as buffers.
But I'd noticed her. Fuck, had I noticed her.
The sound of the shower running filtered through the door, and my imagination immediately conjured images of water cascading over her body. I swore under my breath. Moving to the bed, I sat on the edge and rubbed my hands over my face as if I could physically wipe the thoughts away.
“Stupido.”
Yeah, I was as stupid as stupid could be.
When I looked up, I noticed the bathroom door wasn't fully closed. A sliver of space, barely an inch wide, allowed steam to escape in wispy tendrils. Through that gap, I could see a fragment of the shower—fogged glass that obscured details but still showed the outline of a body moving behind it.
In all the craziness it’d slipped my mind to inform Cecelia that the lock didn’t work properly. It’d never bothered me because I didn’t bring women here. I had another place across town for that.
It bothered me now.
She was behind that door. Naked and wet.
I should look away. I knew I should. But my feet were moving before my brain could override the impulse, carrying me toward that treacherous gap in the door.
I stopped just short of it, warring with myself.
This wasn't right. This was an invasion of her privacy, a breach of the tenuous trust we were building.
But my body betrayed me, my head tilting just enough to peer through the gap.
Cecelia stood with her back to me as she reached for a towel.
Water streamed down the curve of her spine, following the dip of her waist before coursing over the rounded fullness of her ass.
Her wet hair clung to her shoulders, black as ink against her pale skin.
As she turned slightly to wrap the towel around herself, I caught a glimpse of the side of her full and perfect breast.
My hand moved to the front of my pajama pants before I could stop it, adjusting the hardness that had sprung to life instantly. A jolt of self-disgust hit me as I realized what I was doing—standing in my own bedroom, spying on a woman who was only here because I'd manipulated her into it.
I stepped back from the door, a silent curse escaping my lips as I quickly moved to the bed. This wasn't me. Or at least, it wasn't who I wanted to be with her. I threw myself onto the mattress and flung an arm over my eyes as I tried to beat back the desire that throbbed with each heartbeat.
I'd just managed to get myself under some semblance of control when the bathroom door opened fully.
I lifted my arm to see Cecelia emerge wearing only shorts and a faded t-shirt.
Her damp hair left wet patches on the fabric, causing it to cling to her body in ways that threatened my precarious newly found self-control.
She approached the bed cautiously, eyeing me as if I might pounce at any moment. Without a word, she began gathering pillows and stacked them in the center of the mattress.
“What are you doing?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbows.
“Building a pillow wall,” she replied matter-of-factly as she continued her construction. “I don't want you touching me or accidentally rolling to my side.”
I watched her stack the pillows, creating a barrier between what would be her side of the bed and mine. The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent years building my own walls to keep her at a safe distance, and now here she was, physically manifesting that separation.
“Seems excessive,” I commented, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
“Seems necessary,” she countered, finally meeting my gaze. The defiance there was familiar, comforting even. This was the Cecelia I knew—stubborn, uncompromising, refusing to back down even when cornered.
Once her barricade was complete, she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin before she reached for her lamp and plunged her side into darkness. I did the same, leaving only the ambient light from the windows illuminating the ceiling above us.
“Good night, wife,” I said into the darkness. The word feeling strange and right on my tongue all at once.
“I'm not your wife.”
I couldn't help but smile. “But after tomorrow you will be.”
The silence that followed was heavy with implication.
I stared at the ceiling, listening to her breathing on the other side of the barrier, wondering if she was as aware of me as I was of her.
Sleep seemed impossible with her so close yet deliberately out of reach, but I closed my eyes anyway, trying to ignore the scent of her on my pillows and the knowledge that by this time tomorrow, Cecelia Sutton would legally be mine.