Chapter 14
Cece
Frozen in the hallway, my heartbeat thudded like a violent drum against my ribs as I stared at Rafe's closed office door.
The slam still echoed in my ears, a physical representation of the walls he'd just thrown up between us.
Gabriel. Whoever he was, he'd carved a wound in Rafe so deep that even the mention of his name had turned the almost-warm man from dinner into this cold, shuttered stranger.
Slowly inching closer, I pressed my palm against the cool wood of the door, feeling torn between walking away and pushing forward.
Walking away would be easier. Let him sit alone with his demons, his secrets. It wasn't my job to fix whatever was broken inside Rafael de Luca. I wasn't even his real wife, just a convenient solution to his parents' schemes.
And yet…
I couldn't shake the memory of his face when his parents had mentioned Gabriel, the way something in his eyes had shattered before hardening into pure ice.
“Screw it,” I muttered, squaring my shoulders and wrapping my fingers around the doorknob. Pushing the door open without knocking, I stepped inside.
Rafe sat behind his massive desk, another tumbler of amber liquid clutched in one hand. He didn't look up when I entered, his gaze fixed on some point on the wall that only he could see. He looked like a statue again—beautiful and cold and utterly unreachable.
“Rafe,” I said softly, stopping a few feet from his desk. “Please talk to me.”
He didn't react, didn't even blink.
I took another step closer, close enough now that I could see the slight tremor in his hand, contradicting the perfect stillness of his posture. “I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to right now. But I can see you're hurting.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment that I existed in his space.
“Sometimes it helps to just unload on someone who's willing to listen,” I continued, my voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “And I am willing to listen, Rafe. Even after everything... I'd listen.”
The silence stretched between us, growing heavier with each passing second. I waited, counting my heartbeats while watching for any sign that he'd heard me.
Ten beats.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Finally, I stepped back, a knot forming in my throat. “Okay. I get it. You don't want to talk.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “But if you change your mind...”
I let the sentence dangle and turned to leave.
I was halfway to the door when I heard the soft clink of glass against wood as he set down his tumbler.
I looked back over my shoulder and his eyes met mine for the first time since I'd entered, but they were empty—polished obsidian reflecting absolutely nothing.
“Leave it alone, Cecelia.” His voice was so low I almost didn't hear it. “Please.”
The please caught me off guard. I'd never heard him use that word with such raw vulnerability before. It made my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.
“I...” I started, then stopped. I didn't know how to navigate this moment, this strange intimacy that wasn't intimate at all. I didn't know how to reach across the chasm he'd placed between us.
So, I nodded once and left.
In the hallway again, I leaned against the wall and exhaled a shaky breath. My fingers trembled as I pulled my phone from the small clutch I'd carried to dinner and scrolled through my contacts until I found the one person who wouldn't ask too many questions.
Izzy answered on the second ring. “This better be good. I'm in the middle of an epic Bridgerton rewatch.”
“Want to go dancing tonight?” My voice cracked slightly, betraying more than I wanted to.
There was a long stretch of silence before Izzy spoke. “Are you okay?”
“I will be after several tequila shots and some loud music.”
“Say no more. Mirage? One hour?”
Relief washed through me, so intense I nearly slid down the wall. “Yes. Thank you.”
“That's what friends are for. Showing up with tequila when life gives us limes… or is it lemons.” She hesitated. “Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?”
“Not over the phone. Maybe later.”
“Roger that. See you in an hour. Wear something slutty.”
I managed a laugh, though it felt rusty in my throat. “Will do.”
I returned to our bedroom, but it felt emptier than it had this morning, colder somehow.
Shedding the black dress, I carefully draped it over a chair before heading to the walk-in closet.
I rifled through the options, searching for something that would make me feel powerful and desirable.
Something that would make me forget the emptiness in Rafe's eyes.
I finally settled on a cropped wrap top with long sleeves that tied at the waist, leaving a strip of midriff exposed and paired it with a flowy skirt that had a slit high enough to be interesting but not so high it would get me kicked out of the club.
The crimson fabric caught the light as I moved, making it look like liquid fire against my skin.
I added gold bangles, stacking them on my wrists until they clinked softly with every movement.
In the bathroom, I reapplied my makeup, adding more intensity to my eyes, and a deeper color to my lips.
I wasn't just getting ready to go out, I was armoring myself, creating a version of Cece who didn't care that her fake husband couldn't even look at her.
A version who didn't feel the sting of rejection from a man she wasn't supposed to want anyway.
I left my hair in waves past my shoulders and after I spritzed perfume onto my skin, I stepped back to assess the final result.
The woman in the mirror looked confident, sexy, and untouchable.
Nothing like the confused, hurt woman who'd stood inside Rafe's office, pleading for him to talk to her.
This was a woman who didn't need Rafael de Luca's approval or attention.
This was a woman who could walk into a club and have any man she wanted.
If only I felt as strong as I looked.
Before I left, I returned to Rafe's office. I wasn't sure why. To say goodbye? To give him one more chance? To make him see what he was missing? Whatever the reason, I stood in the doorway again, one hand holding on to the frame.
He hadn't moved much, still sitting behind the desk, still staring at nothing. The level in his glass was only slightly lower, suggesting he was nursing it rather than downing in it.
“I'm going out,” I announced, my voice firmer now, with none of the pleading softness from earlier.
His eyes flicked up, taking in my outfit with a slow, deliberate assessment that made heat rise to my cheeks despite my anger. His gaze lingered first on the high slit of my skirt, then the bare strip of skin at my waist before settling on the deep crimson of my lips.
“Where to?” he asked, his voice flat but not quite as empty as before.
I lifted my chin, defiance straightening my spine. “Out.”
Something flickered in his eyes—annoyance? Concern? It disappeared too quickly for me to identify. “With whom?”
“Does it matter?” I countered.
His jaw tightened, the muscle there visibly jumping. “Yes.”
“Izzy,” I relented, unsure why I was even answering.
He nodded once, his eyes dropping back to his glass. “I’ll call you a car.”
After telling him I could call my own damn car, I turned on my heel and left.
***
The bass hit me like a physical force the moment I stepped into Mirage, sound vibrating up through the floor and into my bones. Colored lights flashed across the crowded dance floor, illuminating bodies moving in sync with the relentless rhythm.
I spotted Izzy near the bar, her tall figure easy to pick out even in the crowd. She wore a silver top that caught the light with every movement and black leather pants that looked painted on. Her dark hair was pulled up in a messy bun, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
She spotted me at the same moment and raised a hand in greeting before pushing through the crowd to reach me.
“Damn, girl,” she said, drawing me into a tight hug.
When she pulled back, she searched my face with the kind of scrutiny that came from true friendship.
“What's up? And don't say nothing because I can see it all over your face.”
I shook my head. “I don't want to talk about it. I just want to dance. And drink. A lot.”
Izzy studied me for another moment before nodding. “Alright. Drinks first, then dancing, then maybe talking if you're drunk enough to spill.”
She led me to the bar, somehow finding space in the crush of bodies. Two shots of tequila materialized in front of us, along with lime wedges and salt. We clinked the small glasses together, licked the salt from the backs of our hands, threw back the liquor, and finally bit into the limes.
The alcohol burned down my throat, bringing with it a welcome heat that spread through my chest. I ordered a second round immediately, earning an approving nod from Izzy.
“That kind of night, huh?”
“You have no idea.” I threw back the second shot with less ceremony, already feeling the first one softening the edges of my anger, of my hurt.
Izzy matched me, then grabbed my hand. “Come on. Let's dance this shit out of your system.”
We pushed our way onto the dance floor just as the DJ transitioned into a new song, something with a heavy beat and lyrics about bodies and desire and forgetting. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me, through me, let it pull my body into motion.
This was what I'd been missing—the freedom of movement, of expression through my body. Not the choreographed precision of ballet or the calculated seduction of the club where Rafe had found me, but something raw and primal and honest. I raised my arms above my head and swayed my hips with the beat.
Time blurred, measured only in songs and the occasional break for more drinks.
Izzy stayed close, her presence a comforting constant as men approached and were summarily dismissed with a look or a turned shoulder.
I wasn't here for them. I was here for me, for the release that came with surrendering to the rhythm, for the way the alcohol and the music combined to make me forget—if only temporarily—the emptiness in Rafe's eyes, and the coldness in his voice.
Hours later, sweat-slicked and breathless, I broke away from the dance floor.
My throat was parched, my body overheated from exertion and alcohol and the press of bodies around me.
I signaled to Izzy that I was heading to the bar, receiving a thumbs-up in return as she continued dancing with a tall brunette who'd joined our circle.
The crush at the bar had thinned somewhat as the night wore on, making it easier to find a space to lean against the polished wood. I ordered water and another shot, needing both hydration and the continued numbness that tequila provided.
As I waited, I felt someone slide up beside me. His cologne hit me first—too strong, too manufactured, the kind of scent that tried too hard to be masculine. I didn't turn to look at him, keeping eyes fixed on the bartender preparing my drinks.
“Haven't seen you here before,” he said, his a practiced purr that probably worked on drunk girls more often than not. “I'd remember someone who moves like you do.”
I accepted my drinks from the bartender, taking a long sip of water before acknowledging my unwanted companion.
He was tall, conventionally handsome in a way that probably photographed well on dating apps—styled brown hair, square jaw, eyes that were either blue or green.
His smile was too white, too perfect, the kind that never quite reached the eyes.
My initial reaction was disinterest bordering on annoyance. I wasn't here to be hit on by cologne-soaked strangers with recycled pickup lines. I was here to forget, to lose myself in music and movement and the temporary oblivion of alcohol.
But then Rafe's face flashed in my mind—the coldness in his eyes when he'd shut me out, the way he'd dismissed me as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience. The way he'd looked right through me when I'd tried to reach him.
Something shifted inside me, a petty, wounded part that wanted to prove I didn't need Rafe's attention. That there were other men who found me desirable, who wouldn't shut down and shut me out.
I turned toward the stranger, allowing a small smile to play on my lips as I downed my shot. “Maybe I'm new. Or maybe you haven't been looking in the right places.”
Clearly encouraged by my response, his smile widened. “Must be the second one. I'd definitely be looking if I knew you were around.” He took a step closer, his arm brushing mine. “I'm—”
“I don't care,” I cut him off. His eyebrows rose in surprise, and I softened my tone. “I mean, names aren't really necessary, are they?”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by a gleam of interest. “No, I suppose they're not.” His hand came to rest on the small of my back, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of my top. “Would you like to dance?”
I didn't pull away from his touch, even as my skin crawled slightly with the wrongness of it. These weren't the hands I wanted on me—they were too soft, too eager, lacking the controlled strength I'd felt in Rafe's grip.
But Rafe didn't want me. He'd made that abundantly clear. And maybe this man—this stranger whose name I didn't want to know—was exactly what I needed tonight. Something simple, straightforward. Something to make me forget the man who'd married me but wouldn't even look at me.
“Sure,” I said, setting my empty glass on the bar. “Let's dance.”
As he guided me back toward the dance floor, I wondered if this was what freedom felt like—the ability to walk away, to choose someone else, to be wanted without complication or history.
Or if it was just another kind of cage, one built from spite and wounded pride rather than blackmail and secrets.
Either way, as the stranger pulled me closer on the dance floor, I decided to find out.
Maybe I couldn't fix whatever was broken in Rafe.
Maybe I couldn't bridge the chasm he'd placed between us.
But I could have this. This moment, this night, this temporary escape from the beautiful prison of his penthouse and the cold emptiness of his eyes.