Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
RAFFAEL
She’s stalling.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Hours have dragged with no word from Isla. No statement. No hint as to when she’ll fix the mess she created.
I’ve given her time. Space. But I’m running out of patience. And I know my brothers will be, too.
On cue, my cell buzzes on the bedcovers beside me. Eliseo’s name lights up the screen.
I sigh and toss back the scotch that’s grown warm in my palmed glass, then answer the call. “Yeah?”
“It’s been hours,” he bites out. “What the fuck is going on?”
I drag a hand down my face, cursing Isla and everything she represents. “You’ll hear from me when there’s an update. Until then, learn some fucking patience.”
Yes, I hear it. Pot. Kettle. Whatever.
At least I’m managing the fuse while Eli is itching to light the dynamite.
“Rumors are spreading,” he warns. “Investors are rattled. Every minute she delays adds more weight to the damage.”
“Not as much as if this goes public. Spare a thought, just one, for what will happen if someone latches onto this and starts digging.”
Silence.
I don’t kid myself that I’ve swayed him. I can practically hear him gritting his teeth, fists clenched, fury boiling just beneath the surface.
“I should step in,” he grates.
I slide from the bed. “This situation’s volatile enough without your Midas touch of malevolence.”
“But I’m not emotionally invested like you are.”
“I’m not emotionally invested, either.” I struggle to keep my tone in check. “Just give me some fucking time, Eli. There’s too much riding on this to screw it up by pushing too hard.”
A timid knock on my door slices through the tension.
My pulse increases at the thought of it being her.
“I have to go.” I snatch my suit jacket from the end of the bed and slide it on. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
“In the morning? I’m not waiting until the fucking—”
I disconnect the call.
“Come in,” I bark.
Elena opens the door, pausing inside the frame, her hands clasped in front of her like she’s bracing for impact. “Sorry to disturb—”
“Is she ready?”
She winces. “She hasn’t said so, sir. That’s why I came. You mentioned she needed to stay onboard to make a press announcement, but… I’m not sure she’s in a state to complete the task. I was thinking maybe I should show her to a guest cabin.”
I narrow my eyes. “What state is that, Elena?”
“Inebriated, sir.” Her face pinches with regret. “I’m sorry. I should’ve noticed sooner. She didn’t eat much dinner and—”
“It’s not your fault.” I adjust my lapels with a sharp tug. “Clock off. Get some sleep.”
She blinks. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll handle our guest.” I stride past her, descending the spiral stairs slowly, every step taken in forced calm despite the pulse pounding in my ears.
Isla’s exactly where I expect her to be—lounging in my chair at the head of the dining table, hair a tangled mess, posture liquor-loose. She cradles a wineglass in her palm, the stem nestled between two fingers like she’s a goddamn art critic as she swirls the golden liquid.
I stop two feet inside the room, keeping distance so I’m not tempted to strangle the stupidity out of her. “I heard you’ve decided to drown your responsibilities in alcohol.”
She raises her glass in a lazy toast, her glazed eyes meeting mine. “Unfortunately, I’m in no state to deliver a coherent statement.”
Her tone is light. Playful. It’s perfectly measured intoxication—not drunk enough to lower her defenses but just buzzed enough to derail everything.
Smart move, sweetheart.
“At least you provoked me in style.” I nod at the open bottle of Montrachet, the liquid arrogance coming in at five grand a pop. “You’re lucky I don’t charge you your firstborn for the indulgence. Though your father wouldn’t bat an eye at doing so.”
A flicker of hurt flashes across her face, the jab landing harder than I’d intended.
Shame hits me square in the chest.
“You need to fix this, Isla.”
She exaggerates a wince. “Which brings me to my next predicament—I can’t exactly make a statement tomorrow in the same clothes I wore today. It’ll raise a red flag. It’s best if I go home, sleep this off, and try again when I’m not so thoroughly railed by trauma.”
Nice try.
“You’re not leaving the Requiem,” I growl. “You can sleep in one of the cabins. I’ll arrange for your father’s driver to collect your things.”
“Like hell you will. I’m not letting Fletcher snoop through my drawers. He’d die of shock. I’ve got a stockpile of things in there that vibrate.”
I arch a brow, unsure if the admission is another tactic or the alcohol talking. “Sounds like quite the collection. Please accept my deepest condolences for the lackluster love life.”
“My love life is just fine, thanks. But even if it wasn’t, the sex toy industry exists because men like you have no fucking idea how to make a woman come.”
I’ve kept a close enough eye on her to know she doesn’t date. But the time for taunts is over. We need to find a resolution.
I step closer, hoping the proximity provides the necessary intimidation. “Who do you suggest I send for your belongings?”
She perks up. “My best friend has a key to my apartment and lives in the same building. Grant me cell service and I’ll call her.”
I level her with a flat look. “Cute. Give me your phone. I’ll send a text.”
Her expression turns sullen.
“Now, Isla.” I bridge the space between us and hold out a hand.
“Suit yourself.” She pulls her cell from inside her blazer, unlocks it, then passes it over. “Be my guest.”
It’s bait. I take it anyway. “What can I send that won’t raise suspicion?”
She rolls her glazed eyes. “I’m on a yacht with a man I publicly humiliated. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“What’s her name?” I snarl.
“Quinn,” she says saccharin sweet. “Q-U-I—”
“I can spell.” I glare and pull up her friend’s contact details. “It’s not my lack of intelligence that got us into this.”
I draft the message carefully:
Isla
Hey, I need a favor. I’ve decided to take a quick reset escape. Can you do me a solid and drop an overnight bag at North Cove Marina? Just clothes and the essentials. Will text when I have service again.
I read it twice for good measure and determine it’s Isla coded. Then I deactivate the signal jammer, hit send, and watch as the message status changes from delivered to read to those three dots of impending reply.
“She’ll need to feed Nyra, too,” Isla states with misplaced authority.
I scowl in question.
“My cat,” she clarifies.
I feel the groove between my brows deepen as I start texting again.
Isla
Please feed the cat, too.
“What did you send?” She eyes me with anticipation.
I ignore her, my concentration narrowed in on those dots on screen that twinkle, then disappear, twinkle, then disappear.
“Has she responded?” Isla presses.
Her cell finally vibrates.
Quinn:
Sure…
Pajamas? Then what sort of day clothes? You thinking comfy casual or corporate slay?
I type back.
Isla
Corporate slay. Still have work obligations to handle via video. There’ll be a tender waiting at the marina to collect everything whenever you can get there.
Then, for added femininity, I back it up with the usual compulsive gratitude.
Isla
Thanks.
I re-engage the jammer, lock the phone, and hand it back. “I’ll organize someone for the pickup. Until then, you can wait in one of the cabins.”
She shifts in her chair, making herself more comfortable. “I’m not done drinking.”
Like hell. “You’ve had enough.”
She peers up at me over the rim of her wineglass. “Is this a prelude to what marriage would look like? Because I’m starting to think being a commodity is the better option.”
A colder man would laugh. A weaker one would flinch. I do neither, but a part of me wants to show her exactly what being my wife would entail.
“Make the statement, Isla, and you won’t have to worry about either.
You can have your CEO title. I’ll maintain mine.
We can let our staff handle the tasks that would typically place us in the same room so we never have to see each other again.
But until you fix this, I suggest you watch that mouth of yours. ”
She sips. Defiant. Radiant.
Enough.
I stride forward, yank her chair back, and haul her over my shoulder.
“Wait. Stop.”
Wine spills over my jacket, the glass crashing to the wood floor and smashing into pieces.
“Put me down.” She kicks. Flails. Screams.
I carry her along the hall to the first cabin, setting her down inside the door.
She stumbles, rights herself, then launches at me, one hand flying at my throat. “I don’t care what the fuck you think you have over me.” Her nails bite through skin. “Don’t touch me. Ever again.”
I still. Freeze.
Well, not entirely. I can’t help that my dick has a mind of its own.
“Do you hear me?” Her voice rises. “You don’t get to put hands on me.”
I give her a moment. A beat to vent. To let the fire burn itself out.
Then I move—slow, deliberate. My hand settles over her collarbone, her skin warm beneath my palm. I drag my touch upward until I’m mirroring her grip, my fingers curling around her throat.
The only difference? My hold isn’t tight. Or painful. It’s merely a warning.
She stiffens. Perfectly motionless. Exquisitely statuesque.
I take it as understanding. Yet, I tighten slightly, enough to make sure.
Her hand loosens.
Her glare flickers. And then I see it—fear.
I don’t want her to feel like this. I need it.
“I’ll do as I see fit,” I murmur, the words barely more than a breath. “And you’ll fall in line, my little dividend.”
Her alcohol-glazed eyes narrow, her glare molten as her hand falls to her side. “I fucking hate you.”
I gently rub my thumb along her throat, indulging in her riotous pulse. “I’d be concerned if you didn’t.”