Chapter 10
Cece
Iwoke with a gasp, my body still humming with the ghost of pleasure that had followed me from dreams into consciousness.
The sheets were twisted around my legs, damp with sweat despite the perfect temperature Rafe maintained in his pristine penthouse.
My hand drifted unconsciously between my thighs, pressing against the lingering ache there—an echo of what I'd done to myself in the bath hours earlier.
Fucking hell. Even after our fight, after his accusations, my body still betrayed me with this relentless want.
The pillow wall I'd constructed remained intact, a pathetic fortress that had done nothing to protect me from my own treacherous desires. I ran my fingers over Rafe's side of the bed. Still cold, the sheets still untouched. He hadn't come to bed at all?
“Serves you right, asshole,” I muttered into the darkness, but the words lacked conviction.
Flopping onto my back, I stared at the ceiling and willed my body to calm down, to forget the fantasy that had driven me over the edge in that oversized bathtub. A fantasy that had featured hands too large to be anyone's but his, lips too full, eyes too dark.
It was just proximity and stress, I told myself. Nothing more than biology. I'd been wound tight since this whole arrangement began, and my body was confusing anger with desire. That's all this was.
I'd almost convinced myself when I heard a single piano note drifting through the silence of the penthouse. Then another. Then several in succession, forming the beginning of something haunting and beautiful.
I sat up and strained to listen. I'd assumed Rafe was sleeping in the guest room again, avoiding me after our confrontation in the kitchen. But someone was playing the piano, and unless Edward or Lucia had developed a sudden passion for nocturnal concertos, it had to be him.
The melody pulled at something deep inside me. Without conscious thought, I slipped from beneath the covers and moved silently, guided only by the music that grew stronger with each step.
It led me to the music room. I paused in the doorway, half-hidden by shadows.
Rafe sat at the grand piano, his back to me, shoulders hunched in a way I'd never seen before.
Gone was the perfect posture, the controlled power he always exuded.
This Rafe was raw and exposed. His body curved over the keys as if protecting something precious and wounded.
He wore only pajama pants, his back bare in the moonlight, the tattoos I'd glimpsed earlier now fully visible—intricate designs flowing across his left shoulder and arm, each one stark against his skin.
His fingers moved across the keys with practiced precision, coaxing out a melody so full of longing it made my chest ache.
I recognized the piece vaguely—something classical, something that spoke of loss and memory and things that couldn't be recovered.
The notes seemed to pour directly from him, each one drenched in an emotion I hadn't believed him capable of feeling.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. This wasn't the arrogant, controlling man who'd blackmailed me into marriage. This wasn't the cold businessman who ran his life with ruthless efficiency. This was someone else entirely, someone broken and beautiful and utterly exposed.
The music built, growing more complex, more desperate.
His body swayed slightly with each phrase, muscles shifting beneath tattooed skin.
One hand reached up briefly to rake through his hair, leaving it disheveled in a way I'd never seen before.
When he returned both hands to the keys, the tempo increased, notes cascading faster and wilder, until they crested in a crescendo that tore through the room like a physical force.
I pressed my hand to my mouth and became aware of the wetness on my cheeks. I was crying. Standing in a doorway in the middle of the night, crying over a man I was supposed to hate, a man whose music had somehow reached inside me and touched something I'd been desperately trying to protect.
The piece shifted, moving into something slower, more deliberate. Each note hung in the air like a confession, a truth too painful to speak out loud. Rafe's head bowed lower, his shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths that seemed to punctuate the phrases.
For a heartbeat, I considered stepping into the room. Considered placing my hand on his shoulder and offering whatever comfort I could to someone who was clearly carrying a weight I couldn't understand. The urge was so strong it frightened me.
I retreated instead.
This wasn't for me to witness. This private pain, this vulnerability—he hadn't offered it to me. I'd stumbled upon it, an intruder in a moment that belonged only to him.
As I made my way back to our bedroom, each step was weighted with questions I hadn't thought to ask before.
Who was Rafael de Luca, really? What ghosts haunted him enough to drive him to that piano in the darkest hours of the night?
What secrets lay beneath the perfect, controlled exterior he showed the world?
And why did I suddenly care?
I slipped back into bed, wrapping myself in sheets that still smelled faintly of his cologne. The pillow wall seemed ridiculous now, a childish gesture against a man who carried oceans of grief inside him. But I left it intact, a boundary I wasn't ready to cross.
Sleep came eventually, chased by dreams of music and tattooed skin and hands that created beauty from pain.
When I woke again, sunlight streamed through the windows. The space beside me remained empty, the sheets undisturbed. I blinked at the clock on the nightstand. I’d slept later than I had in a really long time.
Stretching, memories filtered back slowly—the fight with Rafe, my bath afterward, the piano music in the middle of the night. Had that last part been real, or just an elaborate dream constructed by my guilt-ridden subconscious?
I needed a shower and coffee before I could face whatever new tension awaited me this morning.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of Rafe's ridiculously soft towels. I'd forgotten to bring clothes into the bathroom with me but considering the time, I knew it was probably just me and the staff there. And none of them would come into the bedroom without knocking.
I was wrong, of course.
I’d made it halfway across the room when the door suddenly opened.
Rafe stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, his eyes widening slightly as they took in my nearly-naked state.
His gaze tracked a droplet of water as it slid from my collarbone down toward the edge of the towel, and something hot and dangerous flickered in his expression before he snapped his eyes back to my face.
He looked exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but he'd armored himself in another perfect suit, his hair once again styled immaculately. If I hadn't seen him hunched over that piano hours earlier, I might have believed the facade.
“I thought you might have left for work,” I said, my voice a whole lot steadier than I felt.
“I was waiting for you to join me for breakfast. Lucia made something special.”
I clutched the towel tighter, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I felt under his scrutiny. “You should have woken me then.”
“I thought you needed the rest.” He shifted his weight, eyes never leaving my face. “I'll wait for you in the dining room.”
The door closed behind him before I could respond. I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, then quickly moved to dress—jeans and a soft sweater, something comfortable but not too casual. My hair would have to air dry; I didn't have the patience for a blow dryer this morning.
Bracing myself for another awkward, tense meal, I made my way to the dining room. The scent of coffee and freshly baked pastries greeted me before I even entered, and my stomach growled in anticipatory response.
Rafe sat at the head of the table, a tablet propped against a silver coffee pot, his attention seemingly absorbed in whatever he was reading. He looked up as I entered and set the device aside.
“Morning.” He gestured to the chair beside him. Not across the table as I'd expected, but adjacent, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in those dark eyes.
I sat cautiously, eyeing him with the wariness of someone who'd been bitten before. “Morning.”
Edward appeared with coffee, pouring me a cup with that same efficient grace that seemed to be standard for everyone in Rafe's orbit. The rich aroma wrapped around me like a promise, and I inhaled deeply before taking the first sip.
“Thank you, Edward,” I said, offering him a small smile.
He nodded. “Lucia will bring breakfast momentarily, Mrs. de Luca.”
When he'd gone, silence settled between us like a third presence at the table. I took another sip of coffee, trying to figure out how to navigate this strange morning-after to a night where nothing and everything had happened.
“I was wrong,” Rafe said suddenly.
The words were so unexpected that I nearly choked on my coffee. Setting the cup down carefully, I stared at my husband. “Sorry?”
“About the flower… the note,” he continued, meeting my gaze directly. “About how I handled it. About... many, many things.”
I blinked rapidly, searching his face for signs of insincerity or manipulation. Finding none, I managed, “Who are you and what have you done with Rafael de Luca?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I'm trying to apologize, Cecelia.”
“I know. That's what's scaring me.” I wrapped my hands around the warm coffee cup in a poor attempt to anchor myself. “What's gotten into you?”
His expression grew more serious. “We're going to be spending a significant time together. I thought perhaps we could try to make it less... combative.”