Chapter 8
Rafe
Ithrew open the door to my penthouse, exhaustion weighing on me like a concrete suit.
Fourteen hours of damage control—smoothing ruffled feathers with clients who'd expected invitations to my wedding, fielding calls from media vultures hungry for details, and dodging my mother's increasingly venomous voicemails.
My shoulders ached from the tension I'd been carrying all day.
All I wanted was a glass of Bourbon, a hot shower, and the sight of my new wife—preferably in that order.
The thought stopped me cold. When the hell had seeing Cecelia become something I looked forward to?
Edward appeared in the foyer, his posture as impeccable as always, but something was off. A tightness around his eyes, a slight hesitation before he spoke.
“Good evening, Mr. de Luca.” His voice carried its usual formal cadence but lacked its customary warmth.
“Edward.” I handed him my coat, studying his face. I'd never seen him uncomfortable in his own skin. Until now. “What happened?”
His gaze flicked away from mine—another red flag. Edward never averted his eyes, not even when I'd stumbled in at dawn reeking of whiskey and bad decisions.
“Nothing of concern, sir.” He adjusted his tie. “Mrs. de Luca received a delivery today. I placed it in the entryway as per usual.”
“A delivery?” I followed his gaze to the entry table. Nothing sat there now. “What kind of delivery?”
Edward's shoulders stiffened further. “A rose, sir. In a vase. With a note.”
A , heavy, cold weight dropped into my stomach. “From whom?”
“The card was unsigned.” His discomfort was palpable now. “The concierge said it was left at the front desk. I apologize for accepting it without confirmation of the sender. It won't happen again.”
“Where is it now?”
Edward cleared his throat. “Mrs. de Luca... disposed of it, sir. Shortly after it arrived.”
Something dark and possessive unfurled in my chest. “Disposed of it how?”
“I believe she put the flower in the garbage disposal and the vase in the recycling.” His gaze shifted to the kitchen. “And the note in the trash.”
The note. I needed to see it.
“Where is my wife now?” The word still felt strange on my tongue.
“In the music room, sir.”
Fatigue forgotten, I nodded sharply and headed for the kitchen. I crossed to the trash bin and dug through coffee grounds and fruit peels, past eggshells and a folded paper napkin, until my fingers closed around a crumpled ball of cardstock.
Straightening, I smoothed the note against the counter. My jaw clenching as I read the flowing script.
I miss seeing you. You were the highlight of my day.
No signature. No clue to the sender's identity beyond the intimate tone that suggested a history, a connection. Someone who'd seen her often enough to miss her.
The blood in my veins turned to ice, then fire. Who the fuck was sending my wife flowers? Who had the audacity to tell her she was missed? And more importantly, why hadn't she told me about it?
“Edward,” I called. He appeared in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. “How long was my wife in the building before this arrived?”
“The delivery came about an hour before Mrs. de Luca returned home.” He hesitated. “Sir, if I may—”
“You may not.” Cutting him off, I shoved the note into my pocket.
Edward's lips pressed into a thin line as I stalked past him.
The hallway seemed endless, my pulse pounding in my ears as I approached the closed door of the music room.
I hadn't been in there for weeks—not since the anniversary of Gabriel's death, when I'd played for hours until my fingers ached and the grief had temporarily subsided.
The room was my sanctuary, the one place in the penthouse that was truly mine. The thought of Cecelia in there, receiving flowers from another man while living under my roof, burned like acid.
I wrenched the door open, prepared to unleash the storm brewing inside me… and froze.
Cecelia moved across the bare hardwood like water given form, her body twisting and flowing to music I couldn't hear.
Her back arched in a graceful curve, arms extended, head thrown back to expose the vulnerable line of her throat.
She wore only dance tights and a loose crop top.
The fabric clung to her sweat-dampened skin as she executed a perfect pirouette.
The anger drained from me for a moment, replaced by something dangerously close to awe.
She danced as if the music flowing through her earbuds had possessed her completely.
Her hair was loose, dark strands clinging to her neck and face. A sheen of sweat made her skin glow in the fading afternoon light. Her bare feet barely seemed to touch the floor as she leapt, suspended in air for a heartbeat before landing with impossible softness.
I couldn't look away. Couldn't move. Couldn't fucking breathe.
She spun again, faster this time, building momentum—then stumbled slightly as she caught sight of me in the doorway. Her body jerked to a halt, one hand flying to her ear to yank out an earbud as her chest heaved with exertion.
Our eyes locked. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was her ragged breathing and the faint tinny music spilling from the dangling earbud.
In that suspended moment, I almost forgot why I'd come. Almost let myself be distracted by the flush on her cheeks, the wild tangle of her hair, the way her crop top exposed a strip of toned stomach.
Then the note in my pocket seemed to burn against my thigh, and reality crashed back in.
“Our marriage needs to look real to everyone,” I said, my voice tight as I stepped into the room. “That means telling your boyfriend to back off.”
Confusion flickered across her face. “What are you talking about?”
I pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and held it up. “I'm talking about this. And the rose that came with it.”
The color drained from her face and her eyes widened as they fixed on the paper in my hand. “You went through the trash?”
“Don't change the subject.” I advanced toward her, watching as she took a step back. “Who is sending you flowers, Cecelia? Who misses seeing you so damn much?”
“It's not—” She shook her head, running a hand through her damp hair. “It's not what you think.”
“Then explain it to me.” Another step closer. “Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my wife is receiving love notes in my house after merely a day of marriage.”
She attempted to push past me. “I don't have to explain anything to you.”
I caught her wrist, my fingers circling the slick skin before she could escape. Her pulse raced beneath my touch, hummingbird-fast and frantic. Heat radiated from her body, and this close, I could smell her—perfume and something uniquely Cecelia that made my head swim.
“You're not running away this time,” I warned, tightening my grip slightly. “We're going to talk about this like adults.”
Her jaw clenched, lips parting as though she wanted to snap something back.
Fucking hell, she was always fighting. Her scent wrapped around me, something warm and maddening, something I wanted to bury myself in.
I wasn’t supposed to want her, wasn’t supposed to burn for the way her body fit against mine, but I did. Fuck, I did.
My gaze dipped, only barely, but it was a mistake. A split second of weakness.
I stared at her lips. So soft, so full, so damn tempting.
She sucked in a sharp breath, and the sound shattered whatever fragile control I had left. I yanked her that last inch forward, and her body collided with mine, heat against heat, fury against something much, much worse.
Her breath ghosted over my lips, her lashes fluttered. At her sides, her fingers twitched as if she wanted to push me away but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“Always running, Cecelia,” I murmured, watching the way her throat worked, the way her eyes flickered with a storm I wanted to get lost in.
“Fuck you.” A breathless whisper.
Unable to help myself I shifted, pressing just enough to make sure she knew I wasn’t unaffected either. “That what you want?”
Her breath stuttered. So did mine.
For one devastating moment, she didn’t move.
Then, with a sharp, broken exhale, she ripped herself away, severing whatever had just happened.
Fury radiated off her in waves as she marched towards the kitchen. I followed, my blood boiling with a volatile mix of anger and desire.
In the kitchen, Edward and Lucia stood by the counter, their conversation dying abruptly as we entered. Edward's gaze flickered between us.
“Mr. Rafe,” Lucia began, her motherly face creased with concern. “I was just preparing dinner. A nice risotto with—”
“Out.” I cut her off with a sharp gesture toward the door. “Both of you.”
Edward straightened, his professional mask slipping for a moment to reveal disapproval. “Sir, perhaps—”
“Now,” I said, my tone leaving no room for argument.
Lucia crossed herself before scurrying from the room, but Edward lingered, his gaze moving to Cecelia. “Mrs. de Luca, will you be requiring anything before I leave?”
The question—directed at her instead of me—was a small act of rebellion that didn't go unnoticed.
“I'm fine, Edward. Thank you.” Cecelia's voice was steadier than I expected.
She waited until they'd disappeared down the hallway before spinning to face me, eyes blazing.
“What, you don't want them to hear how you're accusing your wife of cheating? Afraid they might realize what a fucking hypocrite you are?”
My jaw worked as I ground my molars.
“I'm not accusing you of anything,” I grit out. “I'm asking for an explanation.”
“No, you're not.” She yanked open the refrigerator door and grabbed a water bottle. “You're making assumptions and throwing around accusations.”
I watched as she unscrewed the cap with jerky movements, her hands still trembling slightly from exertion or anger or both. She took a long drink and a droplet of water escaped to trail down her chin.
I stalked toward her, closing the distance until we were inches apart. “Never put my staff in an uncomfortable position like that again.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Edward and Lucia have been with me for years. They deserve better than to be caught in the crossfire of our arguments.” Leaning closer, I kept my voice low. “I expect you to treat them with respect.”
Something flashed in her eyes—hurt, maybe, before it hardened into fresh anger. She screwed the cap back onto the water bottle with deliberate slowness.
“Respect,” she repeated, the word dripping with sarcasm. Then she hurled the bottle directly at my chest.
I caught it instinctively, years of boxing with Liam making the movement automatic despite my exhaustion.
Before I could open my mouth, Cecelia stormed toward the doorway with the same fluid grace she'd displayed while dancing. She stopped at the threshold, one hand on the frame, and looked back over her shoulder.
“You care so much about me treating your people with respect,” she said, her voice suddenly quiet. “But why won't you do the same for me?”
I opened my mouth but before a single word could escape, she was gone. Standing alone in the kitchen with the water bottle still clutched in my hand, my anger drained away like air from a punctured balloon, leaving me hollow and cold as her words sank in.
You care so much about me treating your people with respect. But why won't you do the same for me?
I hadn't respected her. Not when I'd blackmailed her into marriage. Not when I'd announced our union without warning. Not when I'd accused her of betrayal without giving her a chance to explain.
Suddenly feeling every hour of the day's exhaustion, I set the water bottle on the counter and ran a hand over my face.
“Fuck,” I muttered to the empty kitchen.
She was right. And I had no idea how to fix it.