Chapter 9
Rafe
Slamming my office door, I made a beeline for the liquor cabinet.
My hands shook with a toxic cocktail of rage and guilt causing the Macallan bottle to clink against the crystal tumbler as I poured a generous three fingers, then knocked it back in one burning swallow that did absolutely nothing to quiet the echo of Cecelia's words.
Fuck. When had I become this person—this demanding, controlling bastard who threw accusations before asking questions? I poured another drink and sank into my leather chair, the weight of my failures pressing down on me like a physical thing.
The second glass disappeared as quickly as the first, heat spreading through my chest while my mind replayed our confrontation in high definition.
Her flushed cheeks. The hurt in her eyes when I'd waved that note in her face.
The way she'd looked in that dance studio—so fucking beautiful it had stolen the breath from my lungs—before I'd ruined it with my accusations.
And the flower. The damn flower that I still didn't have an explanation for.
I set the empty glass down with a loud thunk. The alcohol wasn't helping. Nothing would help except fixing this mess I'd created. I stood, my legs steadier than they had any right to be after two rapid-fire glasses of scotch.
“Stupido,” I muttered to myself. “Always fucking things up.”
I hesitated at my office door, hand on the knob, trying to figure out what the hell I'd say to her. Sorry for accusing you of cheating on our sham marriage after I blackmailed you into it? Yeah, that would go over well.
The walk to our bedroom felt longer than it should have, each step bringing me closer to a conversation I wasn't prepared for.
When I reached the door, I expected resistance—she'd locked me out the previous night, after all—but the knob turned easily in my hand.
That surprised me enough that I pushed the door open without knocking.
The bedroom was empty, the bed still made from Edward's morning attentions. But light spilled from the bathroom doorway, which stood slightly ajar. Steam curled through the gap, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and something else I couldn’t quite put a finger on.
I knew I should announce my presence. Call her name.
Close the door and try again later. But my feet carried me forward without conscious thought, drawn to that sliver of light like a moth to flame.
As I approached, the sound of water lapping against porcelain reached my ears, followed by a sigh, barely audible but unmistakably feminine.
I froze, my pulse quickening as possibilities raced through my mind. Then I heard it again. A sigh that edged into a breathy and uninhibited moan.
I shouldn't look. I knew I shouldn't. But I was already moving, angling myself to see through that treacherous gap in the door.
The mirror reflected her perfectly—Cecelia sprawled in my oversized tub, surrounded by bubbles that did little to conceal her body.
Her head was tilted back against the rim, exposing the elegant column of her throat.
Her eyes were closed, lips parted in a perfect 'o' of pleasure.
One arm disappeared beneath the water, its motion creating gentle ripples that lapped against the sides of the tub.
She was touching herself.
My wife—my blackmailed, reluctant, furious wife—was pleasuring herself in my bathtub.
Blood rushed south so fast I felt lightheaded as my cock hardened painfully against the confines of my slacks. I should have left. Should have backed away, given her privacy, pretended I'd never seen this.
Instead, I stood transfixed, watching as her free hand rose to her breast and her fingers pinched and rolled her nipple until it peaked visibly above the waterline. A soft curse escaped her lips, and her movements beneath the water grew more deliberate.
“Fuck,” I whispered, the word barely audible even to my own ears. The pressure inside my pants was unbearable, and the need to touch overwhelming.
Before I could stop myself, I undid my belt and lowered my zipper with painstaking slowness to avoid making noise. My cock sprang free, already fully hard and leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around it, giving myself one slow stroke as I watched her through the gap.
Her breathing had quickened, her chest rising and falling more rapidly. My hand moved faster, matching her rhythm stroke for stroke as I imagined what I'd do if I pushed that door open right now.
I'd haul her from that tub, press her against the counter, and fuck her from behind while she watched in that same mirror that was giving me this view. I'd make her say my name, make her admit how badly she wanted me.
Or I'd set her on the counter, spread those long legs wide, and bury my face between them until she came screaming on my tongue. I'd taste her, devour her, make her forget anyone else who'd ever touched her.
The fantasy was so vivid I had to bite my lip to keep from groaning out loud. My hand moved faster, twisting slightly at the head of my cock. I pressed the sensitive tip against my stomach to create more friction as my hips made small, involuntary thrusts into my fist.
A soft moan from the bathroom dragged me back to reality.
Cecelia's movements had grown more frantic, her hips rising slightly from the water to meet her hand.
Her other arm braced against the side of the tub for leverage while her back arched in a perfect curve that showcased the pale globes of her breasts, and the taut peaks of her nipples.
“Oh,” she breathed, so quiet I almost missed it.
Who was she thinking about? The faceless sender of those flowers? Someone from her past? The thought should have angered me, but in that moment, it only made me harder, and so much more desperate.
My strokes grew rougher, more urgent, as I watched her chase her pleasure. Her leg trembled where it hung over the edge of the tub. Her lips parted wider, and her breathing grew ragged.
She was close. So was I. The pressure built at the base of my spine, my balls drawing up tight as I fought to hold back just a little longer, to time my release with hers.
Then her body suddenly went rigid and a strangled sound escaped her—not quite a cry, more like a gasp cut short by her own restraint.
The sight of her coming undid me completely.
I pressed my forehead against the doorframe, my hand working furiously as heat surged through me.
My release hit with unexpected force, spurting over my fingers and onto my shirt in hot, thick pulses.
For several heartbeats, I stood there, my mind blissfully, terrifyingly blank. Then reality crashed back in like a bucket of ice water.
I'd just jerked off watching my unwilling wife touch herself, without her knowledge or consent. I was no better than the voyeurs at Santiago's club.
Shame washed over me, quickly followed by panic as I heard water sloshing—she was getting out of the tub. I tucked myself back into my pants with clumsy movements and retreated to the walk-in closet. I slipped inside just as the bathroom door swung fully open.
“Could've sworn I closed that,” Cecelia's voice drifted through the bedroom. “Fucking drafty penthouse.”
Pressed against the wall of designer suits, I was painfully aware of the mess on my shirt and the lingering scent of sex that clung to me. If she came in here now, there'd be no explaining this away.
But her footsteps moved toward the bed instead. I heard the rustle of sheets and the creak of the mattress as she settled. Only then did I allow myself to exhale. Sliding down the wall until I sat on the floor of my own closet, I hid like a teenager caught with porn.
I waited until her breathing evened out before I finally dared to emerge. She was curled on her side of the bed, her back to the middle, phone clutched in her hand.
She didn't look up as I grabbed clean clothes and retreated to the bathroom, where I quickly scrubbed away the evidence of what I'd done but not the memory of it. That, I suspected, would be seared into my brain for a very long time.
When I returned to the bedroom, Cecelia appeared to be asleep, though I doubted she actually was.
The pillow wall had been rebuilt, a fortress down the center of our king-sized bed.
The sight of it—this physical manifestation of the divide between us—sent a pang through my chest that had everything to do with the mess I'd made of this whole situation.
Should I say something? Try to talk about what had happened in the kitchen?
No. She'd been clear about needing space, and after what I'd just done... Shit, I owed her that much at least.
Backing away from the bed, I was careful not to make noise as I exited the room and pulled the door shut behind me. My footsteps were silent as I moved through the penthouse, drawn toward the one place I always ended up when I couldn't sleep, couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
The music room.
The piano sat in the corner, its sleek black surface gleaming under the city lights that filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
In the dim glow, I could almost see ghosts—my younger self seated at the bench, fingers flying over the keys while my father's voice cut through the music like a knife.
“This is what you waste your time on? This... frivolity?”
I'd been sixteen, already fighting against the future they'd planned for me since birth. The disgust on my father's face when I'd told him I wanted to be a pianist instead of joining Orologio had been seared into my memory.
“You are a de Luca,” he'd said, as if that explained everything. As if being born with that name meant surrendering any dreams that didn't align with the family legacy.
Gabriel had been different. My brother, five years older and already the golden child, had defended me. “Let him play, Father. He's gifted.”
Gabriel, who'd never had to fight for approval, who'd worn the de Luca name like a crown instead of a collar. Gabriel, who'd encouraged me to pursue my passion even as he dutifully followed the path laid out for him.
Gabriel, who'd died in a car crash that should have been mine.
My chest tightened at the memory, my throat constricting with an emotion too raw to name even after all these years. I moved to the piano bench and sat. My fingers hovered over the keys without touching them, afraid of what might escape if I allowed myself to play.
Music had always been my refuge, my confession booth. But after Gabriel's death, it became something else—a reminder of what I'd lost, of what I owed. I'd packed away my dreams along with his belongings and buried my passion as deeply as we'd buried him.
This room, with its perfect acoustics and empty space, was both sanctuary and prison. A place where I could remember who I'd been before grief and guilt had reshaped me, but also a reminder of the price I'd paid for surviving when he hadn't.
And now Cecelia had claimed it too, had danced across these floors like she belonged here, like she understood what this space meant. Had she felt it? The ghosts that lingered here, the dreams that had died?
My finger lowered to a single key—E flat, Gabriel's favorite note. I pressed it gently and the sound vibrated through the empty room, clear and perfect and heartbreaking.