Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
ISLA
I stop in the doorway, my heart hammering like it’s trying to punch its way through my ribs.
His cabin sits one floor above the main deck. It’s an upgraded, expanded, over-indulgent version of the luxury cabin I’d been banished to earlier.
Floor-to-ceiling windows form a curved wall around the front half of the room, giving view to the moonlight that casts a glow over an endless sea of black.
There are no city lights. No distant skyline. Just the haunting nothingness of open water under moonlight.
To the right, there’s a sculpted lounge chair—white leather, sleek, almost architectural. To the left, a small polished office desk and chair. No clutter. Just clean lines, smooth edges, and the signature of a minimalist man whose subtlety hides the lethal power beneath.
But my eyes lock on the bed. Dead center of the cabin. Massive. Sheets crinkled and silently intimidating.
It’s funny—every stupid, misplaced fantasy I ever had about him is right here, tangible, and almost within reach. Yet now they’re poisoned. Because the man I once imagined sharing them with no longer exists.
No. He never did.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I announce to the opulent cabin.
Raffael steps around me and strides into the room. “So you’re not getting dreamy-eyed for me again?”
Heat floods my cheeks, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
“There’s no denying I had feelings for you.
” I tighten my grip on the bags cutting into my hands.
“How could I not? You built a flawless illusion. The calm, collected god of the boardroom who always knew what to say and how to win. I admired everything about you. The way you commanded a room without raising your voice. How you made the impossible seem effortless.”
I pause, a bitter laugh escaping before I can stop it. “But I guess what I should’ve admired most was your acting ability. Because it takes a special kind of heartlessness to befriend someone while bartering their life like a possession behind the scenes.”
He says nothing, just moves to the bedside table, grabs his laptop, and walks to the lounger like I haven’t spoken.
At least he’s not slithering into the bed.
“How could you do it, Raffael?” I close the door behind us, not wanting the staff to overhear. “How could you have pretended to care while plotting against me?”
Still nothing.
He dumps the laptop on the lounger and returns to the bedside table. Silent. Tense. Those shoulders locked like he’s either absorbing every word or barely holding himself back from throwing me overboard.
I walk forward and dump the bags on the mattress. “I don’t know you at all, do I?”
Finally, he turns cold eyes to mine. “Not in the slightest.”
The truth hits harder than it should.
I blink through it. “I guess the same could be said for your father. What a piece of work he must’ve been behind all those kind smiles and polished compliments.”
“I suggest you leave Giancarlo out of this,” he warns.
“Oh, of course. God rest his soul—” I cross myself mockingly. “—unless it’s the devil who’s keeping him.”
His glare darkens, and for one beautiful second I think I’ve cracked his mask.
“What?” I give a pitying look. “Did you think I’d roll over under the terms of this agreement? That I’d be sweet and obedient while you undermined my future?”
He strides back to the lounger, his continued dismissal emboldening my hatred.
“Tell me,” I insist. “What went through your head when you negotiated my life like a fucking asset?”
He sits, crossing his feet at the ankles, and opens his laptop like I’m background noise.
I itch to slap a reaction out of him. To claw it from his handsome face.
“Come on, Raffael. You love a humble brag. Don’t rob me of the chance to hear how it felt to kiss a woman you’d already claimed as property.”
“I can’t remember,” he says flatly. Then his gaze flicks to mine. “Want to come over here and refresh my memory?”
My stomach flutters—low and traitorous—making me realize that while my mind recognizes him as the enemy, my body clearly hasn’t gotten the memo.
Shame comes fast, clawing its way up my throat.
And Raffael? He just returns his attention to his laptop, leaving me to choke on the silence.
It’s a game to him.
Is, was, and no doubt, forever will be.
I dig into my bag, desperate for a distraction, and focus on finding my pajamas.
My fingers close around silken material. Deep red. Thin straps.
I pull out the tiny slip, my nose scrunching.
Seriously, Quinn?
I’m not wearing that while sharing the same air as Raffael, let alone the same cabin. But the rest of the bag’s clothing contents—underwear, socks, and a midriff workout sweater—don’t offer much alternative than me sleeping in the suit I’ve worn all day.
It’s such a stupid thing to test my composure after everything I’ve been through. Yet here I stand, staring at the silk chemise as if it’s the last item on a checklist to mental collapse.
I’ve taken tonight’s revelations with relative decorum minus the minor tantrum in the office. I didn’t blow Raffael’s cover and risk Quinn’s life by breathing a word of this mess to my best friend, despite her being my only lifeline. I didn’t even dig in my heels about the shared cabin arrangement.
But this? All the exposed skin when my suit has basically functioned like armor?
Raffael shoves to his feet, his laptop discarded on the lounger, and treks toward the rear of the cabin. A narrow corridor separates the space, two doors on either side. He disappears into one on the right.
I’m still contemplating whether I can sleep braless beneath my blouse with my trousers on when he returns, tossing a swath of material at me.
It hits my chest, and I fumble to catch it before it falls.
Soft cotton. Gray. A large T-shirt. Worn in, yet clean.
For a split second I consider thanking him.
Then he says, “You can save the silk for the honeymoon,” and all hope for civility is lost.
My fingers curl into the shirt as I bite back a scathing retort, barely having the restraint to replace it with a muttered, “Where’s the bathroom?”
He jerks his head toward the corridor he came from, indicating the doors on the left.
“Yours.” Then nods to the identical ones on the opposite side.
“Mine.” His laptop becomes his sole focus again.
“If you walk into the wrong room in the middle of the night don’t be surprised if you see something you don’t anticipate. ”
“Relax. It’s not like I’d be able to make out your three inches in the dark.” I snatch my bag from the bed and storm into my bathroom, locking the door behind me.
The quiet inside is deafening. The isolation soul deep.
I stand in the surrounds of more pristine whites and creams, the shower luxurious and trimmed in gold, the sink gleaming under warm downlights.
Emotion gnaws at me, threatening to devour.
Like hell I’ll let that happen.
I discard my clothes as if they’re offensive, every undone button and lowered zipper a small act of disarmament I fight to ignore. I don’t even pause to dwell on how demeaning it is to tug on Raffael’s shirt. I just do it, letting the buttery-soft material rest against my naked chest.
Sleep will help.
It has to.
I’ll wake up refreshed. In a better mindset. Ready for battle. At least that’s the plan, until I meet my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself.
The person staring back at me isn’t the emboldened interim CEO I sculpted from years of control and poise.
She looks wrecked—pale, glassy-eyed, hair like it lost a bar fight. Aka Bride of Chucky if Tiffany went on a three-day bender, skipped her flat iron, and doubled her instability.
I wash my face. Brush my teeth. Blink back the tears stinging behind my lashes.
At one time, the thought of the Raffael Cavallo seeing me like this would’ve killed me.
Now? I step out of the bathroom with my head held high.
He watches me, probably on the scout for any new telltale signs of weakness. But I don’t meet his gaze. It’s enough to feel his attention coasting over me, looking for cracks.
I return to the bed, remove the garment bag, and rest it on the office desk, then climb under the covers without making a scene.
I roll onto my side and turn my back, my lungs filling with the scent of him. It’s everywhere—the sheets, the pillow—all expensive cologne, woodsy undertones, and a tsunami of masculine energy.
It doesn’t help that I can still see him through the reflection in the glass.
He switches off the main lights, leaving a single lamp to cast a muted glow across his side of the room, then settles back onto the lounger.
I breathe through my mouth and force myself to focus away from him, on the black water beyond the windows, the moonlight dancing over the sea for what feels like hours before sleep finally claims me.
When I wake it’s to the sun spilling through the tinted glass, warm and cozy against the bedding.
It takes a second to gain my bearings. For the horrors of yesterday to rush back in.
I chance a slow glance over my shoulder, unsure what I’ll find.
But the room is empty.
There’s no arrogant male sprawled on the lounger. No trace of his presence, except the deep imprint of his large frame in the coverlet on the opposite side of the bed.
Then I hear him, his voice sharp, clipped, and far off.
I slide from the mattress, the faint forward momentum of the yacht a low thrum through my bare feet as I tiptoe to the cabin door and strain to listen.
Raffael rarely raises his voice, but what carries from downstairs is unmistakably hostile.
I crack the door open an inch and tilt my ear to the opening.
“You don’t need to remind me of the terms,” he snarls. “I’m well aware.”
Who’s here?
I ease the door wider, creep to the top of the staircase, and hesitantly peer over the banister.
He’s nowhere in sight, but his voice carries from the open door of the salon.
“You’re not welcome,” he warns.
He must be on the phone, but with who? My father? His brothers?
He could be discussing any terms. But out of all the arrangements and takedowns he manages, I have a feeling he’s talking about the one that involves my future.
He scoffs. “I know what your fucking position is.”
I ease down the first step, not wanting to miss a word.
“I’m telling you—she’s under my protection. Make another threat and I’ll—”
The statement catches me off guard, my attention too attuned to his conversation that I slip and miss the next stair. I gasp, grabbing wildly for the railing, not gaining a strong enough grip before my ass hits the step below with a thud.
The yacht falls silent.
The conversation mute.
My heart thunders in my throat as I freeze.
Then Raffael appears in the salon doorway, already dressed in tailored authority, sleeves rolled, hair damp, his phone held to his ear as his lethal gaze locks on me seated halfway down the stairs.
He snaps something in rapid-fire Italian, the sinful accent coating a biting tone before he ends the call and pockets the cell.
“Juvenile snooping doesn’t look good on you.” His fury fades so fast it leaves a chill. In its place comes a slow burn of something cruel as he devours me with a look that feels both punishing and condescending. “Although my shirt certainly does.”
And just like that my hatred is reborn. My glare awakened.
He jerks his chin toward his cabin. “Go get dressed. Breakfast is being served. Then it’s time for you to fulfill your obligation.”