Chapter 16
Cece
Pain split my skull open the moment I tried to open my eyes.
I slammed them shut again, but it was too late, the damage was done.
My brain throbbed against my skull, each pulse sending waves of nausea through my body.
My mouth felt like I'd licked the floor of the subway—parched, disgusting, and coated in something I didn't want to identify.
When I dared to move my hand, it brushed against soft cotton that definitely wasn't the dress I'd worn out.
Shit. What the hell happened last night?
I forced my eyes open again, squinting against the offensive brightness filling the room.
The bedroom. Rafe's bedroom. Our bedroom.
I was in bed, but something felt different.
The pillow wall—my nightly fortress of solitude—was missing.
And I was wearing... I lifted the sheet and looked down. Rafe's shirt.
"What the actual fuck," I croaked, my voice a gravelly mess that hurt my own ears.
Fragments of memories floated through the fog in my brain—tequila shots with Izzy, dancing until sweat plastered my hair to my neck, some guy's cologne that was too strong, Rafe appearing out of nowhere like some avenging angel.
After that, things got hazy. Had Rafe brought me home?
Had I said something stupid? Done something stupid?
A sudden flash of memory hit me—me, saying something about Rafe's hands, his mouth, how I thought about him when I...
"Oh no." I groaned and pulled the sheet over my head. I'd confessed to fantasizing about him. To his face. While drunk off my ass. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
I tried to sit up, but the room spun too much, so I just collapsed back against the pillow. I needed to get my bearings, needed to piece together what happened after the club. I remembered Rafe carrying me—literally carrying me in his arms like some damsel in distress.
And I remembered...
"Aw, shit," I whispered as another memory surfaced. "I threw up." The bathroom. Rafe holding my hair back. Rafe wiping my face with a cool cloth. Rafe helping me out of my clothes.
My face burned with the kind of mortification that made me want to fake my own death and flee to another country. Dignified, sophisticated Cece had turned into a vomiting, babbling mess in front of the one man I'd been trying to impress for longer than I cared to admit.
And of course, in the middle of my little meltdown, the bedroom door opened.
I froze, contemplating whether I could believably pretend to be asleep.
But it was too late. Rafe stepped into the room carrying a tray, his eyes immediately finding mine.
He looked unfairly good for this early in the morning—dark hair slightly damp from a shower, jaw freshly shaved, wearing a faded black t-shirt that hugged his chest in a way that would have been distracting if I weren't busy dying of embarrassment.
"You're awake," he said, his voice softer than usual. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I was hit by a truck, then backed over, then hit again." I struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain through my skull. "What time is it?"
"Almost noon." He approached the bed, setting the tray on the nightstand. "I brought my hangover cure. Guaranteed to at least downgrade you from near-death to merely wishing you were dead."
I eyed the tray suspiciously. It held a glass of something murky and green, a plate of dry toast, a small bowl of what looked like sliced fruit, and a cup of coffee. The green concoction made my stomach roll preemptively.
"What's in that?" I asked, pointing at the glass.
"You don't want to know." A hint of a smile played at his lips. "But it works."
I looked away from him, focusing on the toast instead. Safer territory. Less likely to remind me of how I'd told him, in explicit detail, what I thought about his hands.
"About last night," I began, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "I'm sorry I put you through that. I shouldn't have gotten so drunk. And I definitely shouldn't have..."
"Shouldn't have what?" he prompted when I trailed off.
I cleared my throat, still not meeting his eyes. "Said all that... stuff. About you. About thinking about you when I..." I couldn't even finish the sentence.
As Rafe sat on the edge of the bed, the dipped under his weight. I expected smugness, maybe even mockery, but his face held something serious and intent.
"I'm the one who should apologize." The words came out in a rush, like he'd been holding them back. "For shutting down when you were trying to help."
The unexpected apology left me momentarily speechless. In all our time together, Rafe had never once apologized to me. Not for blackmailing me into marriage. Not for announcing our wedding without warning. Not for any of it.
"Oh." Was all I could manage.
"You were right to ask about Gabriel," he continued. "And I was wrong to shut you out like that."
I still couldn't look at him directly, so I focused on his hands—those big, elegant hands I'd apparently confessed to fantasizing about. He was holding the glass of green sludge out to me.
"Drink this first," he said. "It'll help with the headache."
I took the glass, our fingers brushing briefly, and the contact sent an unwelcome jolt through my system. "What's in it?" I asked again.
"Spinach, kale, ginger, a raw egg, and a few other things you're better off not knowing." He nodded at the glass. "Drink."
I sniffed it cautiously and immediately regretted it. The smell was somewhere between lawn clippings and swamp water. "You're trying to poison me, aren't you? This is your way of getting out of our arrangement."
That earned me a genuine laugh, a rare enough sound that my eyes darted to his face automatically. The dimples that cut into his cheeks when he laughed made my stomach flutter.
"If I wanted to kill you, I'd choose something more dignified than death by smoothie," he said. "Trust me, it tastes worse than it smells, but it works."
"That's not reassuring." But I lifted the glass to my lips anyway. The first sip was as vile as promised—bitter, slimy, with a kick of ginger that felt like a slap to the taste buds. I nearly gagged. "Ugh, that's disgusting."
"All of it," he insisted. "Like medicine."
I grimaced but obeyed, chugging the awful concoction as quickly as I could manage. When I finished, I handed him the empty glass and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, fighting the urge to retch. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic." He set the glass on the tray, then picked up the plate of toast and fruit. "Now eat something solid. It'll help settle your stomach."
When I made no move to take the plate, he placed the tray firmly in my lap. "Eat," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I picked up a piece of toast and took a small bite, mostly to stop him from staring at me with that intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness. The dry bread scraped my throat going down, but my stomach didn't immediately revolt, which I counted as a win.
"So," I said after a moment, needing to fill the silence with something other than the sound of my chewing. "You were going to tell me about Gabriel?"
Rafe's jaw tightened and a muscle visibly jumped beneath his skin. For a moment, I thought he'd retreat again, shut down like he had the night before. But then he exhaled slowly as his shoulders dropped a fraction.
"Gabriel was my brother," he finally said. "My older brother by five years."
"Was?" I asked softly, though I already suspected the answer.
"He died when I was seventeen." His fingers curled into a loose fist, then relaxed, a gesture he repeated several times as he spoke. "Car accident. He was rushing to pick me up from a party I wasn't supposed to be at. A party my parents had expressly forbidden me from attending."
I set down the toast, my appetite forgotten as understanding began to dawn. "Oh, Rafe..."
He continued as if I hadn't spoken, his voice taking on a detached quality that somehow hurt worse than if he'd shown emotion.
"Gabriel was the golden child. Smart, handsome, charismatic, obedient.
Everything my parents wanted in a son and heir.
" His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "I was the spare.
The disappointment. The problem child who wanted to play piano instead of following in the family business. "
I wanted to reach for him but held back, afraid he'd stop talking if I interrupted. So I picked up a piece of fruit and ate it slowly, giving him space to continue.
"After he died, everything changed." Rafe's gaze fixed on some point beyond me.
"My parents... they changed. My mother especially.
It was as if what little warmth she'd had died with Gabriel.
And suddenly, I wasn't just the spare anymore.
I was all they had left. But I wasn't him. I could never be him."
"So they tried to mold you into him," I guessed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Rafe nodded. "They pushed me into his path.
Made me attend his university, take his classes, join his organizations.
Kept his room exactly as it was the day he died.
And constantly, constantly reminded me of how I fell short.
" His fingers curled again, this time staying clenched.
"Every decision I made was compared to what Gabriel would have done.
Every achievement measured against his."
A piece clicked into place—why the mere mention of Gabriel's name from his parents had sent him into such a dark place. "That's why your mother's words hit so hard. About how Gabriel would have married Samantha Hasting."
"Gabriel would have done his duty," Rafe confirmed, his voice tight. "He would have married whoever they wanted, produced the right heirs, upheld the family name. He was better at all of it than I could ever be."
"Or maybe he just didn't know how to say no to them," I countered gently. "Maybe he was just as trapped as you are."
Rafe's eyes snapped to mine, surprise flickering across his features. "I never thought of it that way."
I took another bite of toast, chewing slowly as I gathered my thoughts. "Why do you still do it? Put up with their treatment, I mean. You're successful in your own right. You don't need their approval anymore."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Maybe some part of me still wants it. Their approval." He shook his head. "How fucked up is that?"
I didn't laugh with him. Instead, I set the tray aside and reached for his hand, covering his fist with my palm.
"It's not fucked up," I said quietly. "It's human. We all want validation from the people who are supposed to love us unconditionally. Even when they've proven they don't know how."
His eyes met mine, something vulnerable and raw in their depths. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
I shrugged, trying for casual despite the way my heart hammered against my ribs. "I spent my whole life being compared to Everlee. The smart one, the responsible one, the one with a real future. I was just... the pretty one. The one who'd never amount to anything serious."
Understanding dawned in his expression. "That's why you reacted so strongly to my mother's comment about you being just a pretty face."
Heat crept up my neck. "Yeah, well, I've heard that particular tune before." I tried to pull my hand away, but Rafe turned his palm up, capturing my fingers in his.
"You're more than that," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "So much more."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. His thumb traced small circles on the inside of my wrist, and the sensation sent shivers up my arm. Our eyes locked, and something shifted in the air between us—the kind of charge that builds before a storm breaks.
"Rafe," I whispered, not sure what I was asking for.
His gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes. "You should get some rest. How's the headache?"
I blinked, thrown by the change in subject. "Better, actually." And it was true; the pounding had subsided to a dull throb, and my nausea had all but disappeared. "Your witch's brew actually worked."
"Told you." A hint of smugness crept into his voice as he released my hand and stood. The loss of contact left me feeling strangely bereft.
Without thinking, I reached out and caught his wrist before he could move away. "Thank you," I said. "For taking care of me last night. For bringing me home. For... for telling me about Gabriel."
The muscle in his jaw jumped again, but his eyes softened. "You don't have to thank me."
"I know." I let my hand slide from his wrist to his hand, our fingers tangling briefly before I let go. "But I want to."
He nodded once, his expression unreadable. "Get some rest. The worst of the hangover should pass soon."
As he turned to go, I called out to him. "Rafe?"
Pausing, he looked back at me.
"I think Gabriel would be proud of the man you've become. Even if your parents aren't."
His breath caught audibly and his eyes widened a fraction before he controlled his expression. For a moment, I thought I'd gone too far, overstepped some invisible boundary. But then his shoulders relaxed, and he gave me a small, genuine smile that transformed his face completely.
"Get some sleep, Cecelia."
After he left, I sank back against the pillows, my fingers idly tracing the spot on my wrist where he'd touched me. The hangover cure was working its magic—my headache was fading, my thoughts clearing. But something else had shifted, something that had nothing to do with tequila or green smoothies.
For the first time since our arrangement began, I felt like I'd seen the real Rafael de Luca. Not the controlled businessman, not the arrogant blackmailer, but the man beneath all that armor—wounded, complex, and unexpectedly vulnerable.
And that was far more dangerous than any attraction I felt toward his body.
Lifting his shirt to my nose, I inhaled deeply and surrounded myself with his scent—expensive cologne, clean laundry, and something uniquely him.
I closed my eyes and allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if this were real.
If he were really my husband, and I were really his wife, and the barriers between us were gone.
The thought terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.