Chapter 6
Rafe
Her sobs pierced through the heavy wood of the bedroom door, each one a dagger straight to my chest. I pressed my palm against the cool surface, close enough to hear her crying but worlds away from knowing how to fix it.
The urge to knock, to apologize, to mend what I'd broken clawed at me, but my knuckles wouldn't make contact.
What the hell could I even say? "Sorry I dragged you out of dinner after announcing our Vegas wedding to everyone you care about"?
Yeah, that would fix everything.
"Cecelia," I whispered, my lips nearly touching the door. She wouldn't hear me, and maybe that was the point. I could pretend I'd tried while still being the coward who didn't face her fury head-on.
Another sob reached my ears, this one weaker, as if she was running out of energy to hate me.
My fingers curled against the wood, nails digging into the expensive finish.
I'd done this. I'd taken a woman drowning in debt and thrown her into another kind of prison altogether.
And for what? To spite my father? To avoid marrying Samantha Hastings?
No. It wasn't just that. The truth pressed against my ribs like a blade—I'd wanted Cecelia.
Had wanted her since the first time I'd seen her, laughing with her sister at one of Liam's functions.
She'd been forbidden fruit then, too young, too connected to people I cared about.
Now she was my wife, and still completely out of reach.
"Stupido," I muttered to myself, dropping my forehead against the door. My knuckles rose, hovered, ready to knock…
But I didn't. Instead, I backed away, watching the thin line of light beneath the door that separated us. I'd give her space. Time. We'd talk in the morning when emotions weren't so raw.
The guest bedroom felt sterile and unwelcoming as I pushed the door open. I'd never slept here before, never brought anyone to this penthouse who wasn't staff. Yet here I was, exiled from my own bed because I'd bullied a woman into marrying me and then humiliated her in front of everyone she loved.
With a sigh, I loosened my tie and threw it on the chair by the window, followed by my jacket and shirt. The room was too hot, too small, too empty. Stripping down to my boxers, I crawled onto the unfamiliar mattress and stared at shadows on the ceiling.
Sleep didn't come. How could it? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Cecelia's face when I'd announced our marriage to the table.
The shock. The betrayal. The absolute hatred that had flashed across her features before she'd schooled them into that mask of indifference.
I'd wanted to make a clean break of it—rip the Band-Aid off in one go—but I'd only succeeded in breaking her trust entirely.
And then there was Everlee's face. The perfect mirror of her sister's horror, but tinged with something worse…concern. Where Cecelia had looked furious, Everlee had looked scared.
Liam had been furious too, his blue eyes chips of ice as they'd bored into mine across the table. I'd seen that look before, directed at others who'd crossed him, but never at me. Not until tonight.
Rolling onto my stomach, I buried my face in the pillow that smelled of nothing and no one. The mattress was too firm, the sheets too cold. Three doors away, Cecelia was sleeping in my bed. My wife was in my bed, and I was here, alone with the consequences of my actions.
Hours ticked by, marked only by the soft glow of my watch when I checked the time. Three a.m. Four. Five. Giving up on sleep, I got up and pulled on yesterday's clothes with a grimace. Nothing like wearing the same suit to really drive home what a fucking mess your life has become.
I paused at Cecelia's door—our door—on my way out. No sound came from inside now. She was either asleep or ignoring me entirely. Both were preferable to the sobs that had haunted the early hours of the night.
"I'll be back later," I said to the wood, knowing she couldn't hear me. "We'll talk then."
Another empty promise to add to the list. Fantastic.
Outside, New York was already buzzing with morning traffic and early commuters. I drove to the office on autopilot, grateful I kept spare clothes and toiletries there for the increasingly common nights I worked until dawn. At least I could look put together, even if my life was imploding.
In my private bathroom, I stripped out of yesterday's clothes and assessed the damage. I looked like hell, which seemed appropriate given where my actions had landed me.
I splashed cold water on my face, then showered quickly before changing into the fresh suit I kept hanging in my office closet.
The routine was familiar, calming. Button by button, I reassembled the facade of Rafael de Luca, PR genius and heir to the Orologio legacy.
By the time I knotted my tie, I almost looked like myself again.
Almost.
I was busy with my cufflinks when my office door burst open without so much as a knock. Richard’s panicked "Sir, they insisted—" was cut off as Liam stalked in with Tristan half a step behind him.
"Fucking hell," I muttered. "Ever heard of knocking?"
"Fuck you," Liam replied, his British accent clipping the words into weapons. "What the hell have you done, Rafe?"
Tristan closed the door behind them and leaned against it with a casual grace that belied the tension in his shoulders. "I tried to convince him to wait until you'd at least had coffee, but..." He gestured to Liam with a shrug. "He's been practicing that speech since you left dinner last night."
"I don't need a speech," Liam snapped, moving to stand directly in front of my desk. "I need an explanation. Now."
I finished with my cufflinks, buying myself precious seconds to think. "I got married. I believe that was clear from my announcement."
"To Cece." Liam's voice was dangerously low. "My wife's sister."
"Technically, your sister-in-law," Tristan corrected, earning him a glare that could have melted steel.
"Not helpful, Tristan," I said, running a hand through my still-damp hair. "Look, Liam—"
"Everlee didn't sleep," he cut me off, his face a mask of barely controlled rage. "She spent the entire night trying to reach her sister. The sister who, until yesterday, had never mentioned anything about dating you, let alone wanting to marry you."
Guilt sliced through me like a serrated blade. I hadn't considered how our impulsive announcement would affect Evie. Hadn't thought about anything beyond getting Cecelia out of there before she contradicted the story I was spinning.
"Cecelia was... emotional last night," I said carefully. "She needed space."
"Emotional?" Liam's laugh was sharp. "She looked like she wanted to murder you on the spot. That's the face of a woman who's been railroaded, not a blushing bride."
"He's not wrong," Tristan chimed in, examining his nails with exaggerated casualness. "I've seen hostages look happier."
"For fuck's sake," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Would you two sit down? You're giving me a headache."
"Good," Liam growled, but he dropped into one of the chairs opposite my desk. Tristan followed suit, crossing one leg over the other as he settled in.
Suddenly bone-weary, I sank into my own chair. "It's complicated."
"Uncomplicate it," Liam demanded.
Raking a hand over my face, I felt the weight of too many secrets and not enough sleep pressing down on me. They were my closest friends. If I couldn't trust them, who could I trust?
"My father is trying to force me into an arranged marriage," I finally blurted out. "With Samantha Hastings."
Tristan's eyebrows shot up. "The cocaine heiress? Shit, Rafe. She's practically a child."
"Yes," I agreed. "And she's definitely... problematic. My father doesn’t care, though. The Hastings account is more important than any moral objections I might have."
Liam's expression had shifted from fury to something more calculating. "And Cece? How does she fit into this?"
I chose my words carefully, skirting the truth without quite lying. "She needed help with something. I needed a wife. It was... mutually beneficial."
"Mutually beneficial," Liam repeated, skepticism dripping from every syllable. "That's why she looked like she wanted to disembowel you?"
"She was nervous," I said, the lie coming easily. Too easily. "We hadn't planned to announce it that way."
"You hadn't planned?" Tristan laughed, leaning forward in his chair. "You practically shouted it from the rooftops before dragging her out like you were afraid she'd change her mind."
He wasn't wrong, and the knowledge burned. I had been afraid—afraid she'd crack under the pressure, tell them the truth about Santiago and the debt and how I'd leveraged it all to get what I wanted.
"It wasn't my finest moment," I admitted. "But what's done is done. We're married."
"And what happens when Everlee asks her sister about this arrangement?" Liam's asked, eyes narrowed.
"Cecelia doesn't want Everlee to know the details," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "She's... protective of her pride. She doesn't want anyone to know she needed help."
"You expect me to lie to my wife?" Liam’s tone quiet but deadly.
"I expect you to respect Cecelia's wishes," I countered. "This isn't about you or Evie. It's about giving Cecelia the dignity of her choice."
Even as I said it, I knew how hollow the words were. What choice had I really given her?
"Her choice," Liam scoffed. "Was it really her choice, Rafe? Or did you back her into a corner somehow?"
The accusation hit too close to the truth. I fought to keep my expression neutral, but something must have shown in my eyes because Liam's face hardened.
"You bastard," he said softly. "What did you do?"
"It's not like that," I started, but before I could finish, my office door swung open again.
I looked up. My father stood in the doorway, impeccable as always in his tailored suit, and his silver hair combed back from his face. His dark eyes swept the room with cold precision before landing on me.
"Liam. Tristan." He nodded to my friends, his tone clipped and professional. "If you'll excuse us, I need to speak with my son. Privately."
In an instant, the tension in the room grew thick enough to choke on. Liam and Tristan exchanged a glance before turning to me. I gave them a subtle nod.
"We were just leaving," Tristan said smoothly, rising from his chair. "Rafe, we'll continue this... discussion... later."
"Absolutely," I replied, my eyes fixed on my father's face. "Liam, tell Everlee I'll have Cecelia call her soon."
Liam's jaw clenched, but he nodded once before following Tristan to the door. As they passed my father, he stepped aside to let them through.
"Rafael." The door clicked shut and my father moved further into the room. "Care to explain this?"
He tossed a newspaper onto my desk, the glossy pages sliding across the polished surface until they stopped directly in front of me. The headline jumped out immediately:
MEDIA HEIR RAFAEL DE LUCA WEDS IN SECRET VEGAS CEREMONY.
Beneath it, a photo of Cecelia and me leaving the Vegas chapel. Her face was turned away from the camera, but mine was clearly visible, smiling down at her with a possessiveness that looked surprisingly genuine.
A dark satisfaction curled in my gut. The story had broken exactly as I'd planned when I'd called in that favor to the reporter who owed me.
“Hmm,” I murmured, as if seeing it for the first time. “They got my good side at least.”
My father's face darkened. "This ends now. Whatever game you're playing stops immediately. You will annul this... farce... and you will marry Samantha Hastings as planned."
"I already told you I wouldn't marry her." I met his gaze. "That hasn't changed."
"And I told you the consequences of defying me." He placed both hands on my desk, leaning forward until our faces were inches apart. "You think this little stunt changes anything? The Hastings deal is too important."
"The deal can proceed without the marriage," I replied evenly. "Unless Brandon's interest was less in our company's services and more in selling his daughter to the highest bidder."
My father's nostrils flared. "You insolent little—" He cut himself off with a deep drag of air and straightened. “You think this changes anything? You think I won't cut you off? Remove you from your position? Strip away every privilege you've enjoyed your entire ungrateful life?”
“I think you'll do exactly what you always do,” I replied, rising to my full height, matching him inch for inch. “Calculate the cost versus the benefit. And right now, disowning me publicly would cost Orologio more in bad press than you're willing to pay.”
His eyes narrowed. “You leaked the story.”
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Of course I did. Did you really think I wouldn't use every tool at my disposal? You taught me well, after all.”
For a moment, I thought he might strike me. His hand twitched at his side, and something dark and violent flashed in his eyes. But Vittorio de Luca prided himself on his control above all else.
"You'll regret this," he said, turning toward the door. "When she bleeds you dry and leaves you with nothing, remember this moment."
The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of my office. I sank back into my chair, adrenaline draining from my body, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My gaze fell on the newspaper, on the image of Cecelia and me captured in that moment of false intimacy.
Regret. My father had no idea how familiar I was with that particular emotion. I'd been collecting regrets since the day my brother died, adding to the tally with each passing year. What was one more?
I traced Cecelia's blurred figure in the photo with my fingertip, wondering if she was still locked in our bedroom, still hating me with every fiber of her being. Wondering if this latest regret would be the one that finally broke me.