Chapter 27
Rafe
My father's voice droned on about quarterly projections and client satisfaction metrics, but my mind had drifted a thousand miles from the sleek mahogany boardroom table.
Two weeks since the last threatening note had appeared at our door.
Two weeks of newly-installed motion sensors, security upgrades, and Mac's investigation turning up nothing.
Two weeks of cataloguing the subtle ways fear had crept into our lives like an unwelcome shadow.
"—the Goldmans are threatening to pull their business," my father continued, his voice slicing through my wandering thoughts. "Are you even listening, Rafael?"
Straightening in my chair, I forced my focus back to the conference room where Vittorio de Luca sat at the opposite end of the table, immaculate in his custom Armani and radiating that particular blend of disappointment and disdain I'd grown up with.
"The Goldmans aren't going anywhere," I said, plucking a random detail from earlier in the conversation. "They've been threatening to leave for the past three years over every perceived slight. It's posturing."
My father's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps if you devoted more attention to our clients' concerns and less to whatever domestic drama you've entangled yourself in, you'd understand the gravity of the situation."
I bit back the retort that sprang to my lips. The domestic drama was a stalker who had escalated from cryptic notes to explicit threats, who knew details of our private life that no one should have access to. But explaining that to my father would be pointless.
Instead, I let my mind drift to Mac’s last visit two night ago.
"The motion sensors are picking up any movement?" he’d asked as he’d paced perimeter of our living room.
"Every slight shift," I'd confirmed. "Separate alerts for each room, direct to my phone. The cameras record continuously. I've upgraded the locks, added a security detail downstairs, and installed glass-break sensors on all windows."
"Good.” Mac had nodded. “He'll have to be fucking determined to get past all that." He hadn't said what we were both thinking—that someone who had been stalking Cecelia this long, with this level of obsession, might indeed be that determined.
So far, the investigation had yielded frustratingly little.
The notes were typed on expensive but common paper, available in any high-end stationery store.
The roses came from a wholesaler that supplied half the florists in Manhattan.
The blood-red paint was a standard acrylic, sold in art supply stores throughout the city.
No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses who remembered seeing anyone suspicious.
A professional ghost, or just someone very, very careful.
"Rafael."
My father's sharp tone yanked me back to the present. "When do you plan to annul this foolish marriage of yours?" he asked. "The Hastings family called again yesterday. They're eager to begin planning an engagement party."
My jaw tightened. "There won't be an engagement party."
"Don't be ridiculous," my father scoffed. "We had an understanding. This business with the Vegas wedding was your childish rebellion, fine. I've given you time to get it out of your system. But the Hastings merger—"
"It's not a merger," I interrupted. "I'm not a subsidiary you can offload to the highest bidder."
His nostrils flared, the only visible sign that I'd struck a nerve. "The alliance between our families would secure Orologio's position for generations. The Hastings connections alone—"
"Are not worth my future," I finished for him.
Liam's warning echoed in my mind. He was right. I'd known it then, I knew it even more certainly now as I watched my father try to carve up the pieces of my life to fit his grand design.
I could walk away. That realization hit me with sudden clarity as I sat across from the man who had shaped and haunted my entire existence.
I had investments, savings, connections of my own.
I could quit Orologio tomorrow and still live comfortably for the rest of my life.
Hell, I could start my own firm if I wanted, poach half our clients within a year.
But walking away from the only career I'd ever known, from the company that bore my family name, felt impossible.
Not because I couldn't survive without it, but because it would mean admitting that my father had won, that he'd successfully forced me to choose between my professional identity and my personal happiness.
"You're being selfish," he said matter-of-factly. "Thinking only of yourself instead of what's best for this family, for this company. Your mother is beside herself with disappointment."
I nearly laughed at that. My mother hadn't given a genuine damn about anything I did since the day I was born. Her disappointment was as constant and unchanging as the tides.
"The Hastings are growing impatient, Rafael. I've managed to smooth things over for now, but they expect a commitment soon. I've already had our lawyers draw up the annulment papers. Sign them, end this charade, and we can all move forward as planned."
My patience, already stretched thin by weeks of worry and sleepless nights, snapped completely. I stood abruptly, the motion sending my chair rolling backward.
"My marriage to Cecelia is not up for discussion," I ground out. "Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. There will be no annulment, no Hastings engagement, no arranged marriage. I married Cecelia, and I intend to stay married to her."
My father's face flushed with anger. "You cannot be serious. This infatuation—"
"This isn't an infatuation," I said, surprised by how calm my voice sounded despite the rage pulsing through my veins. "This is my life. My choice. My wife."
Saying it out loud felt like breaking through a wall I'd been throwing myself against for years. The truth of it resonated in my chest, settling into place like the final piece of a puzzle I hadn't realized I was solving.
"You're making a grave mistake," my father said, his voice dangerously quiet. "One that will have consequences for your future at this company."
I met his stare head-on. "Then so be it."
"Your brother would never have been this foolish," he said, reaching for his most reliable weapon. "Gabriel understood his responsibilities to this family."
In the past, that comparison would have cut deep. Today, it barely grazed the surface. "Gabriel's dead," I said flatly. "And I'm done living for his ghost."
My father recoiled as if I'd slapped him.
"I'll handle the Goldman situation," I added, gathering my papers and tucking them into my leather portfolio. "Have Eleanor send me their latest complaints, and I'll schedule a meeting for next week. But my personal life is not negotiable."
I didn't wait for his response, didn't look back to see the fury that would contort his features. I simply strode out, leaving the heavy door to swing shut behind me with a satisfying thud.
The walk to my private office gave me time to process what had just happened.
For the first time in my adult life, I'd stood up to my father about something that truly mattered.
Not a minor business disagreement, not a temporary point of contention, but a fundamental choice about the direction of my life.
I'd chosen Cecelia. Chosen us.
Once I reached my office, I dropped into my chair and loosened my tie, finally feeling like I could breathe properly.
Until my phone pinged with an alert from the security system.
My heart immediately jumped into my throat.
Snatching up the device, I opened the security app and was greeted by the sight of Cecelia lounging on our living room couch, wearing nothing but one of my oversized t-shirts.
Her dark hair was piled messily on top of her head with a few stray strands falling around her face.
She looked directly at the camera and waved her phone, pointing at the screen with a playful smirk.
I checked my messages and found one from her.
Cecelia: Since you like to watch, I've got a show for you. Don't worry, I sent Edward and Lucia home for the day.
Heat crawled up my neck as I quickly typed back.
Me: What are you doing?
On screen, I watched Cecelia pick up her phone, read my message, then toss it aside.
She looked directly into the camera again as her lips curved into a smile that was pure sin.
Slowly, deliberately, she reached down and grabbed the hem of the t-shirt and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion.
"Fuck," I breathed, blood rushing south so fast it made me dizzy.
She was completely naked beneath, all soft curves and smooth skin. She reclined against the arm of the couch and positioned herself perfectly in the camera's view before her hands began a slow exploration of her own body.
Starting at her neck, she trailed her fingers down over her collarbone to cup her breasts.
She took her time, teasing herself as much as me.
Fingers circling her nipples until they hardened to tight peaks before she pinched them lightly.
One hand slid lower, tracing patterns across her stomach before dipping between her thighs.
My breathing grew shallow as I watched her part her legs wider, giving me a perfect view of her fingers as they slid through her pussy.
Her head fell back, lips parting on a silent moan as she began to touch herself in earnest. The angle of the camera caught everything—the flush spreading across her chest, the way her toes curled when she hit a particularly sensitive spot, the shine of wetness on her fingers as they moved in rhythmic circles.
My cock strained painfully against my suit pants, demanding attention I refused to give it.
No matter how desperately I wanted release, I wouldn't take care of myself in my office like some desperate teenager.
Not when I had every intention of going home to bury myself inside the woman currently putting on this exquisite show.
On screen, Cecelia's movements became more frantic, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she pushed herself closer to the edge.
I leaned toward the phone, utterly captivated by her pleasure, by the vulnerability and power she displayed simultaneously.
She was giving herself over to this completely, knowing I was watching.
When she came, her whole body tensed before her back arched off the couch. For a moment, she was perfectly still, suspended in that exquisite space between tension and release. Then she collapsed back against the cushions, her chest heaving with rapid breaths.
I thought the show was over, but Cecelia had one more surprise in store. Maintaining unwavering eye contact with the camera, she slowly brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean.
The sight nearly broke me.
“Fuck,” I swore again as my cock throbbed insistently. I could end this torture now, free myself from these restricting pants, and find relief with the memory of her performance fresh in my mind.
But no. That wasn't what I wanted.
I wanted her. Under me, over me, around me. I wanted to taste the lingering traces of her pleasure, wanted to feel her body yield to mine, to watch her face as she came apart again—this time with my cock buried deep inside her.
I stood, adjusting myself as best I could, and reached for my jacket. The Goldman account could wait. My father's threats could wait. Everything could fucking wait.
I was going home to fuck my wife.