Chapter 25
Rafe
My muscles protested as I pushed through the revolving door of my building. My body ached, yes, but my mind felt clearer than it had in weeks, maybe even years. The talk with Liam had scrubbed away the panic that had driven me from bed and left behind something steadier, something more certain.
I wanted Cecelia. Not just for now, not just for the terms of our arrangement, but for good. Forever. The word no longer sent terror pulsing through my veins. Instead, it felt like the only thing that made sense.
The building's lobby gleamed with its usual polished perfection, but I paid it little attention as I nodded to the security guard and made my way to the private elevator.
I must have looked like hell—sweat-stained t-shirt clinging to my chest, hair disheveled from running my hands through it repeatedly, and a day's worth of stubble darkening my jaw.
Not exactly the polished image of Rafael de Luca that the world expected.
But fuck it. I was tired of masks, tired of pretending to be something I wasn't.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse gave me a much-needed moment to mentally rehearse what I'd say to Cecelia.
How exactly does one transition from blackmail marriage to I think I'm falling for you?
Not exactly a Hallmark moment. But after last night, I knew something had shifted between us.
I'd seen it in her eyes, felt it in the way she'd held me.
Maybe, just maybe, she was feeling this too.
When the elevator doors slid open and I strode toward the penthouse, the thought of seeing her put way too big smile on my face. That smile died on my lips when I spotted Edward standing in the foyer, his usually impassive face tight with tension.
"Sir," he said. "There's been another... delivery."
That's when I noticed he was holding a long-stemmed rose, its petals blackened and dead, and coated in a thick red substance. And with it, a plain white envelope.
"Another?" I repeated, my muscles tensing for a completely different reason now. "What do you mean, another?"
Edward's posture stiffened further. "This is the third such delivery for Mrs. de Luca."
Ice slid down my spine. "And you didn't tell me because...?"
"Mrs. de Luca instructed me not to," he said, and at least had the decency to look uncomfortable about it. "She didn't want to worry you."
Fucking hell. Of course she wouldn't tell me. As if the thought of someone sending my wife dead flowers wasn't exactly the kind of thing I should be worried about.
Snatching the envelope from his hand, I tore it open with fingers that weren't quite steady. Inside was a sheet of expensive stationery, the kind you'd buy at one of those pretentious paper stores. The message was typed in a plain font, but there was nothing plain about the words.
Little dancer, little whore,
Spreading your legs on a club room floor.
I saw you enter, watched you go,
With that wannabe playboy putting on a show.
Did you think I wouldn't know?
Did you think I wouldn't see?
You belong to me, not him…
A lesson you'll learn painfully.
The paper crumpled in my fist as rage and fear twisted inside me, a toxic combination that made my vision blur at the edges. Someone had seen us. Someone had watched us go into the club. And that same someone was now threatening Cecelia.
"Where is she?" My voice came out in a low growl.
Edward took a small step back. "She left about an hour ago for her dance class. On Monday mornings she teaches—"
I was already moving before he finished, stalking back toward the elevator with my phone in hand, pulling up the address of Elevate Dance Studio.
I knew the name because Cecelia had mentioned it, but I'd never actually been there.
Now that ignorance felt like a failure on my part, a gap in the protection I should have been providing.
"Sir," Edward called after me.
Ignoring him, I stepped back into the elevator.
The doors closed on Edward's concerned face, and I leaned back against the wall, trying to quiet the roaring in my ears.
The fear that had seized me was unlike anything I'd felt before.
Cold and sharp and all-consuming, it clawed at my insides until I could barely breathe.
Who the fuck was doing this? The note mentioned the club, which meant whoever it was had been following us. Tracking our movements. Watching Cecelia. How long had they been following her? Days? Weeks? The thought made me want to put my fist through the elevator wall.
Could it be Santiago? No, we'd settled his debts. Besides, I'd had him investigated after paying off Cecelia's loan—the man was sleazy but not deranged. One of my business rivals, then? Someone who knew about our arrangement and wanted leverage? Or maybe some obsessed lover from Cecelia's past?
The elevator reached the lobby, and I burst out with such force that a woman waiting to enter actually jumped backward. Mumbling an apology, I kept my focus on the security desk where two uniformed guards monitored the building's entrance.
"De Luca, penthouse," I said curtly, though they clearly recognized me. "I need to see all security footage from this morning. Everyone who entered the building."
The younger guard looked uncertain, but the older one—Marco, I remembered suddenly—responded to the urgency in my voice without hesitation. He turned to his computer and began typing.
"What time frame, Mr. de Luca?" he asked, fingers navigating through the security system.
"Start at six," I said, leaning over the desk to see the monitors. "I want to see everyone, especially anyone carrying packages or flowers."
Marco nodded and pulled up multiple camera angles on the split screen. I watched intently as he cycled through the morning's footage, my jaw clenching tighter with each passing minute. Delivery people, residents, cleaning staff—they all blurred together.
"There," I said suddenly, pointing at a figure entering just after nine. "Stop there."
The screen froze on a slender man in a dark hoodie, his face carefully angled away from the cameras. He carried a small package wrapped in brown paper. Something about his deliberate movements, the way he seemed to know exactly where the cameras were, sent warning bells clanging in my head.
"Do you have a better angle on his face?" I asked.
Marco shook his head.
Annoyed, I watched as the desk attendant on screen nodded and made a call, presumably to Edward upstairs. The hooded figure left the package and turned to leave. His movements were unhurried and confident. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and wasn't worried about being caught.
"I want all footage from the past week," I said, my voice tight. "Every entrance, exit, the parking garage, everything."
Marco was already reaching for the phone. "I'll call the security director right away, sir."
"And I want someone watching the lobby at all times," I continued.
"No deliveries unless they're from a verified source.
No visitors without advance approval." I pulled out my wallet and slapped my business card on the counter.
"Any suspicious activity, anything at all, you call me directly. Not the penthouse. Me."
"Yes, sir," Marco said.
I was halfway to the door when the security director emerged from a back room.
I spent five more precious minutes barking instructions about increased patrols, additional cameras, and background checks on all building staff.
By the time I finally broke free and got to my car, my hands were shaking with barely contained fury and fear.
As I sped to the studio, my mind raced through scenarios, each one more horrific than the last. What if the stalker wasn't content with notes and dead flowers? What if he decided to escalate? The thought of Cecelia hurt, or worse, made my stomach heave violently.
By the time I reached the studio, I'd nearly ground my molars to dust. Throwing the car in park, I vaulted onto the sidewalk and scanned the area for anyone suspicious before approaching the studio's entrance.
Elevate Dance Studio occupied the ground floor of a renovated industrial building, its large windows giving a clear view of the activity inside. Parents lined the hallway leading to the main studio, most of them glancing up as I burst through the door.
Ignoring their curious glances, I kept my attention fixed on the scene beyond the windows.
Cecelia moved among a group of tiny girls in pink leotards and tutus.
With the brightest smile, she knelt beside a little blonde girl and gently adjusted her arms into proper position.
The child beamed up at her with undisguised adoration, then attempted the move again with comical seriousness.
Something caught in my throat as I watched.
This was a side of Cecelia I'd never seen before—patient, nurturing, and completely in her element.
The children responded to her with such trust, such excitement.
She clapped her hands and they all formed a circle, each tiny dancer holding the hands of those beside them.
Cecelia counted off, and they began a simple routine that involved a lot of hopping and giggles when someone inevitably went the wrong direction.
Despite the urgency that had driven me here, I found myself frozen in place, unable to look away from this picture.
The fear and rage that had propelled me across the city momentarily receded, replaced by a different feeling altogether—a bone-deep certainty that what I felt for this woman was real and permanent and transformative.
I could see her with our children someday. The thought appeared fully formed in my mind, accompanied by a vision so clear it stole my breath. Cecelia, kneeling just like that, adjusting the posture of a little dark-haired girl with her mother's green eyes and her father's stubborn chin.
The forever feeling that had terrified me just hours ago now wrapped around my heart like a promise.
Whatever threat was looming, whatever danger this stalker posed, I would eliminate it.
Not just because Cecelia was mine on paper, but because she was essential to the future I suddenly couldn't imagine living without.
The sound of a bell chimed from inside the studio, signaling the end of class.
Parents surged forward, gathering their tutued offspring with indulgent smiles.
I remained where I was, watching as Cecelia hugged each child goodbye, offering enthusiastic high-fives and the occasional sticker for a job well done.
Then her gaze lifted and found mine through the glass.
Her face lit up with a smile so bright it physically hurt to see it.
But as she took in my expression—which must have betrayed some of the turmoil raging inside me—that smile faltered.
She quickly finished her goodbyes to the last few students, then made her way to the door separating the studio from the hallway.
"Rafe?" she said as she approached, concern etched across her features. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"
I reached for her hand, needing the contact, needing to reassure myself that she was safe and whole. My fingers closed around hers with more force than I'd intended, and her eyes widened slightly.
"We need to talk," I said, my voice low and deadly serious. "Now."