Chapter 13
NIKKI
The first rule of surviving a kidnapping? Find the angle. I'm not saying I'm thriving. I'm not exactly sending postcards home bragging about the view. But I'm going viral again. And I didn't even have to flash a single nipple. Though, honestly, if it guaranteed my freedom, I might consider it.
The mirror selfie did exactly what it was supposed to do. The internet is frothing over Rafe, like he’s the second coming of dark-haired danger. And the best part? Rafe's losing his damn mind.
Because I may not have a way out, but I still have a stage. And as long as they’re watching me, I’m not invisible. I’m not gone.
He doesn't yell or snap. No, he's above such human emotional outbursts. Instead, he calmly watches me like I'm a particularly vexing math problem he hasn't solved yet.
Like I've shifted, somehow, from "asset" to "threat" in his immaculate, designer-suit-wearing brain. And honestly, it's giving me a fabulous high I didn't know I needed.
I'm mainlining pure, unadulterated chaos, and it feels fucking fantastic.
We're at another rooftop lounge now. I don't know the name. He won't tell me. He never tells me anything that isn't directly relevant to my continued survival or his public image. I just know it's members-only.
The kind of place where the silence feels expensive, and no one's dared approach our table since we sat down. We're practically radiating an invisible force field of "don't even think about it." It's kind of hot, actually.
Rafe's sipping something dark and expensive from a heavy crystal tumbler. Probably scotch again. Or the tears of his enemies.
I'm pretending my Aperol Spritz doesn't taste like crap, but it kind of does. It's bubbly and orange, just like my public persona, and just as empty on the inside.
He hasn't spoken in ten minutes, just stares out at the city with a handsome jawline that launched a thousand fan accounts. I break the silence the only way I know how.
I raise my phone, aiming it casually, like I'm about to take a landscape shot. "Should I tag you," I ask. "I mean, the people want to know who you are, Rafe. They have questions. And I'm a giver."
He cuts his eyes at me. Slow. Lethal. "You're not funny, Nikki."
"Wrong," I correct him, a confident smirk on my face. "I'm extremely funny and the internet agrees. They think I'm hilarious. My feed is full of laughing emojis. Do you get laughing emojis? No, I didn't think so."
He says nothing. Just leans back in his chair, all menace and marble jawline, letting the silence drag on. He thinks it intimidates me and it does, a little. But I've learned to push through the fear. It's like a muscle. The more I do it, the easier it is.
I snap the photo anyway. The flash in his face is intentional. He almost flinches…almost. His fingers twitch on the glass, a subtle tremor that only I would notice.
"Don't," he warns.
"Oh, please," I scoff, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the pristine white tablecloth.
"You want this to look real, don't you? You want to de-mystify yourself, to become the world's most boring, overexposed boyfriend.
And real couples post thirst traps and passive-aggressive story quotes.
It's called authenticity. You might want to look it up.
" I flash him a syrupy sweet smile, the kind I reserve for brand deals I secretly hate.
"Besides, my line, 'He knows my order' was a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself.
It implies intimacy. The little details that make people believe we're a real couple. "
"I don't need your followers thirsting over me," he replies. "Whatever that means." He picks up his glass, swirls the liquid. The ice clinks, a sharp, cold sound.
The ice swirling is a tell of Rafe's I quickly picked up on. It means he's uncomfortable, unsettled. Every glass swirl is a point in my favor.
"Too late," I say, shrugging. "Own it. Embrace your inner MafiaBae. It's your destiny, Rafe. One you were always meant to be."
I watch him, and I swear, I finally see it. The flicker. The glitch in the matrix. A fleeting tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible clenching of his jaw. He's not unaffected by me after all. He's just very, very good at pretending.
I can't resist pushing him. I lean forward, real slow, as if I'm about to whisper something dirty, something illicit, my words dropping.
“I could make you go viral again… for something way hotter than a grainy background cameo.” My gaze drops to his lips, then back to his eyes.
The tension in the air is thick, suffocating, yet thrilling.
It's a game of chicken, and I refuse to blink first.
His expression doesn't change. But his grip on the glass tightens, the knuckles turning white. I sense the heat radiating off him, a dangerous warmth that reaches me even across the table.
"Careful," he grits out. "You're not immune to consequences. You're playing a very dangerous game and you clearly don't understand the stakes."
"Oh, babe," I lean back, taking a slow sip of my Spritz, trying not to make a face at the taste.
My voice is soft, almost a purr. "I understand the stakes far better than you give me credit for.
I've been living with stakes my entire life.
They just didn't come with private jets and designer shoes. "
It's the truth, the ugly truth about Florida trailer parks and scraping by, and it's a direct challenge to his carefully constructed perception of me. It's a glimpse of the real Nikki, the one who fought for every single follower, every single dollar, without any mafia connections.
He stares at me, and for a long moment, the air crackles between us, thick with unspoken words.
His eyes, usually so guarded, flicker with something I can't quite decipher.
Surprise, perhaps. Or a grudging respect.
Or maybe just a fleeting recognition of a kindred spirit, two people playing parts we didn't audition for, both of us in too deep to back out now.
The physical space between us shrinks, not because either of us moves, but because the emotional intensity pulls us closer. I feel a strange pull, a current that flows between us, something dark and potent.
It's terrifying.
And exhilarating.
I crave more.
He suddenly stands, the movement breaking the spell. "We leave in ten minutes," he states. The crack is gone and his wall is back up.
Well, damn. That was fun while it lasted.
"What if I'm not done posting?" I want to keep pushing, keep finding those cracks.
"You're done when I say you're done," he says.
He walks away, leaving me sitting alone, buzzing and entirely too alive. Because he thinks he's in control. He thinks he's pulling all the strings.
But maybe… maybe I’m not just the headline.
Maybe I get to write the story this time.