Sweat dampens my palms and I press them into the copious amounts of silk of my dress to hide the sudden embarrassment. I don’t have a lot of friends but to have the few I do have insulted or judged is also a judgement on me.
His words hit harder than they should, probably because some part of me has always suspected the same thing but never wanted to admit it. I look at the two women who have been constants in my life since boarding school, at their perfect smiles and their designer clothes and their complete lack of awareness that I was nearly married to a monster today, and I feel something shift inside me.
“Isn't that how you see me?” The question escapes before I can stop it, sharp and accusing. "Convenient?"
Something passes over his face that I can't quite name—surprise, maybe, or something softer that he buries before I can identify it. His grip on my waist loosens slightly, and for just a moment, he looks like a man caught off guard by his own emotions.
But then Calla throws her arms around me, and the moment shatters into jagged pieces.
“Babe, we heard about the wedding!” She pulls back and examines my face with wide, concerned eyes that don't quite reach deep enough to be genuine. “Sorry we couldn’t make it. Mum was there though. She said there were gunshots? Are you okay?”
As Calla stammers on her gaze flicks to Rafael then to the few men he has covering the rear like they are all on the cusp of breaking out their guns and doing a repeat.
Kiara hovers behind her sister, her gaze flickering between me and Rafael, too, with barely concealed curiosity. “We can takeyou somewhere safe if you need to get away. My father has a place in the Hamptons, nobody would find you there.”
Rafael stays silent, but I can see the pounding of his pulse in the vein in his neck. He’s not happy about being interrupted.
For a moment, I consider their offer. I consider walking away from Rafael Milano and his dangerous promises, from the price of my wish, from whatever cage he’s building for me in his penthouse above the clouds. I could disappear with my superficial friends and their superficial solutions, and maybe that would be enough to survive. But survival isn't the same as living, and I’m so fucking tired of just surviving. Besides, my father would find me and I would be right back at square one with him and Magnus dead set on controlling my life. At least with Rafael I have some sort of control.
I look up at him, but he’s slipped his expression behind a mask of barely controlled tolerance for my friends. There’s no way he will let me walk out of here.
His arm tightening around my waist again is a silent confirmation.
“I'm okay.” I hear myself say the words and I'm surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “Really. I’m exactly where I need to be.”
Kiara’s face puckers into a frown of worry. “Are you sure?”
She doesn’t look like she believes me.
Calla’s perfectly shaped brows draw together in confusion, and Kiara's gaze slides to Rafael with new understanding dawning in her eyes. They don't know who he is, not really, but they can sense the power radiating from him the way anyone with half a brain can sense danger in a dark alley.
“Yeah, are you sure?” Calla presses, reaching for my hand. “Because we’re your friends, P. We’re here for you.”
“You didn’t care to go to your friend’s wedding, you didn’t care to call her, you didn’t care to forgo your evening out in order to be there for her on her big day. Your mother did, but not you two. Your feigned worry is…noted.” Rafael’s square jaw rocks back and forth with palpable irritation, his tone is glacial as he chooses his words.
Carefully articulated or not, his accusation rings hollow in the marble lobby. I think about what Rafael said about convenience and how my friends left me alone in a room full of wolves. These women have known me for over a decade, and not once have they ever asked about the scars I hide beneath my clothes, why I am always wearing a shawl or bolero or anything that covers my arms and back. Nor have they asked about the fear that lives behind my eyes whenever my father's name is mentioned.
And it’s okay. Really. I’m happy that they are so unaware of the ugly world I live in.
“It’s fine and yes, I’m sure. But thank you.” I squeeze Calla’s hand once and then let go, stepping back into the circle of Rafael’s arm like it's the most natural thing in the world. “I'll call you later, okay? We’ll get brunch or something.”
The lie tastes like ash on my tongue, but it's easier than the truth.
I watch them walk away, their sequined dresses catching the light as they disappear through the lobby doors, and something inside me loosens and tightens at the same time. Rafael's thumb traces small circles against my hip through the silk of my dress, and I don't know if the gesture is meant to comfort or claim.
The elevator carries us upward in silence, floor after floor passing by as the numbers climb toward the sky. When the doors finally open, I step into a penthouse that looks like it was designed for a king—soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase Chicago's skyline in all its glittering glory, modern furniture in shades of charcoal and cream, and artwork on the walls that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime.
It's beautiful and cold and utterly impersonal, like a spread in an architectural magazine rather than a place where someone actually lives.
“I gave everyone the day off,” Rafael says, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the back of a leather chair with casual elegance. “I wanted it to be just us for your first day here.”
The words should feel romantic, but all I can think about is the fact that I'm alone with a man who crashed my wedding with guns blazing and claimed me as his prize. A man whose name makes powerful people flinch, whose empire stretches across Chicago like a spider's web, whose interest in me is still undefined and therefore terrifying.
“How many days will I be staying here with you? We still need to go over all the details.”
Ignoring my question he asks, “Are you hungry?”
He moves toward what I assume is the kitchen, his movements fluid and unhurried. “I can have something brought up, or?—”
