Chapter 5
Cece
Iglared out the window of Rafe's private jet, watching the pink streaks of dawn pierce the darkness like accusatory fingers. Thirteen hours ago, I'd been a free woman with my own apartment and my own life. Now I was thirty thousand feet above the ground, hurtling toward Las Vegas to marry a man who'd essentially blackmailed me into being his wife. The platinum card-thick irony wasn't lost on me: I'd traded one debt for another, and this one came with a marriage certificate.
Across from me, Rafe sat typing on his laptop. He hadn't said more than ten words to me since we'd boarded, acting like whisking someone off to a shotgun wedding was just another Tuesday for him. Maybe it was. What did I really know about Rafael de Luca beyond his expensive suits and the way his jaw clenched when he was annoyed?
I shifted in the butter-soft leather seat that probably cost more than six months of my rent. Everything about the jet screamed obscene wealth—the polished wood tables, the crystal glasses, the fucking flight attendant who'd called me "Mrs. de Luca" when offering me champagne. I'd nearly choked.
"We're missing dinner at Kate and Tristan's tonight," I said, breaking the silence that had stretched between us since takeoff.
Rafe barely looked up from his screen. "We'll be back in time."
"No, we won't. Kate texted yesterday that they moved dinner to five instead of seven."
He checked his Rolex—because of course a simple Timex wouldn't do for Rafael de Luca—and shrugged. "We might be a bit late, but we'll make it."
The casual dismissal made me want to scream. Or maybe throw something at his perfectly groomed head. I settled for digging my nails into my palms, focusing on the sting rather than the heat spreading through my chest.
And of course my traitorous mind chose that moment to drift back to that morning when I'd woken to find the pillow barrier destroyed, and my body curled dangerously close to the invisible line dividing the bed. Rafe, who had already been awake, emerged from the bathroom with a towel slung low around his hips. Greedy water droplets had traced paths down his chest, drawing my attention to the tattoos I'd only caught glimpses of before—the fractured clock spanning his pectoral, the sheet music and fallen angel winding across his shoulder and bicep. His hair had been wet and disheveled, making him look even more devastatingly handsome.
Our eyes had met and something electric had passed between us before I'd yanked the covers over my head like a child hiding from a monster.
Except the monster wasn't Rafe. It was the way my body had reacted to him—instant heat pooling low in my belly, my thighs clenching involuntarily at the sight of those tattoos, that chest, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his towel.
"You're thinking awfully hard over there," Rafe's voice broke through my thoughts. When I glanced up, he was watchingme with that infuriating half-smile. "Can I assume it’s the excitement of our impending vows that has you so distracted?"
"You wish," I snapped, hating the flush that crept up my neck. "I was thinking about how ridiculous this whole situation is. You're dragging me to Vegas to marry you because your daddy wants you to marry someone else? Are you twelve?"
His eyes darkened, that muscle in his jaw twitching furiously. "I'm thirty-nine, as you well know. And my father doesn't want me to marrysomeone else. He wants to use me as a business transaction. There's a difference."
"And what am I?" The words shot out before I could stop them. "If not a business transaction?"
For a moment, something raw flashed across his face before the mask slid back into place. "A mutual arrangement between consenting adults."
"Is that a synonym for blackmail?"
Rafe closed his laptop with a decisive click. "You had a choice, Cecelia. You chose this."
"That I did," I muttered, turning back to the window.
The pilot announced our descent into Las Vegas, and my stomach dropped along with the plane. This was actually happening. I was about to become Cecelia de Luca, trophy wife to a man who saw me as a convenient escape hatch from his family's expectations. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to quell the nausea rising in my throat.
When we touched down, I half-expected to wake up from this bizarre dream—to find myself back in my tiny apartment with its leaky faucet and creaky floors. Instead, the flight attendant appeared to inform us that our transportation was waiting.
"Ready, wife?" Rafe asked, his voice holding that edge of mockery that made me want to slap him again.
"Not your wife yet," I replied, grabbing my small carry-on bag. "And if you call me that in public, I will knee you somewhere painful."
His laugh was unexpected—deep and genuine in a way I rarely heard from him. "Noted."
A sleek black SUV waited on the tarmac, and of course there was a driver in a crisp suit holding the door open. The transition from private jet to luxury car was seamless, as if Rafe moved through life on a conveyor belt of exclusive services designed to keep the real world at bay.
I stayed silent during the drive, watching the garish lights of the Las Vegas Strip blur past the tinted windows. The driver turned down a side street, eventually pulling up to a building that looked more like an upscale boutique than a wedding chapel. No neon signs, no plastic palm trees, just clean lines and tasteful landscaping.
"Of course you found the one wedding chapel in Vegas without an Elvis sign," I said as Rafe helped me out of the car.
"Who said anything about no Elvis?" He placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance. The heat of his palm seared through my thin blouse, making my skin prickle. "I just made sure it was the expensive Elvis."
