"I didn't force you into anything," he said, his voice dropping dangerously low. "You made a choice."
"A choice?" I stalked toward him, fury overwhelming common sense. "You blackmailed me. You threatened to tell my sister about Santiago if I didn't agree to marry you."
"And now you're protected," he countered, still infuriatingly calm. "From Santiago, from financial ruin, from having to dance in clubs to pay your debts."
"Protected?" I spat the word like poison. "Is that what you call this? I'm not protected, I'm owned."
Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes. "You're not owned, Cecelia. You're my wife."
"I'm a transaction!" I screamed, my voice breaking on the last word. My gaze landed on a crystal vase sitting on a side table and before I could think better of it, I grabbed it and hurled it at his feet.
The vase shattered spectacularly, shards skittering across the marble floor like ice on a frozen lake. Rafe didn't even flinch, his eyes never left my face as I stood there panting and surrounded by the evidence of my rage.
The sight of his perfect calm while I fell apart was the final straw. I turned and fled down the hallway to the master bedroom. Slamming the door behind me, I twisted the lock with trembling fingers.
A single knock came moments later.
"Go to hell!" I shouted, sliding down the door until my ass hit the floor.
My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket—undoubtedly messages and missed calls from Evie, Izzy, probably Kate too. I pulled it out and the screen immediately lit up with notifications.
Izzy:What the actual fuck, Cece?
Evie:Please call me. We need to talk.
Evie:Are you okay? Do you need help?
Izzy:Seriously, what is going on? Call me NOW.
Unable to face their questions, their concern, their judgment, I turned the phone off. Crawling to the massive bed that still held the scent of Rafe's cologne, I curled into a ball on top of the covers and finally let the tears come.
I was married to a man I barely knew, cut off from the people I loved, trapped in a gilded cage of my own making.
What the hell had I done?
Chapter 6
Rafe
Her sobs pierced through the heavy wood of the bedroom door, each one a dagger straight to my chest. I pressed my palm against the cool surface, close enough to hear her crying but worlds away from knowing how to fix it. The urge to knock, to apologize, to mend what I'd broken clawed at me, but my knuckles wouldn't make contact. What the hell could I even say? "Sorry I dragged you out of dinner after announcing our Vegas wedding to everyone you care about"?
Yeah, that would fix everything.
"Cecelia," I whispered, my lips nearly touching the door. She wouldn't hear me, and maybe that was the point. I could pretend I'd tried while still being the coward who didn't face her fury head-on.
Another sob reached my ears, this one weaker, as if she was running out of energy to hate me. My fingers curled against the wood, nails digging into the expensive finish. I'd done this. I'd taken a woman drowning in debt and thrown her into another kind of prison altogether. And for what? To spite my father? To avoid marrying Samantha Hastings?
No. It wasn't just that. The truth pressed against my ribs like a blade—I'd wanted Cecelia. Had wanted her since the first time I'd seen her, laughing with her sister at one of Liam's functions. She'd been forbidden fruit then, too young, too connected to people I cared about. Now she was my wife, and still completely out of reach.
"Stupido," I muttered to myself, dropping my forehead against the door. My knuckles rose, hovered, ready to knock…
But I didn't. Instead, I backed away, watching the thin line of light beneath the door that separated us. I'd give her space. Time. We'd talk in the morning when emotions weren't so raw.
The guest bedroom felt sterile and unwelcoming as I pushed the door open. I'd never slept here before, never brought anyone to this penthouse who wasn't staff. Yet here I was, exiled from my own bed because I'd bullied a woman into marrying me and then humiliated her in front of everyone she loved.
With a sigh, I loosened my tie and threw it on the chair by the window, followed by my jacket and shirt. The room was too hot, too small, too empty. Stripping down to my boxers, I crawled onto the unfamiliar mattress and stared at shadows on the ceiling.
Sleep didn't come. How could it? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Cecelia's face when I'd announced our marriage to the table. The shock. The betrayal. The absolute hatred that had flashed across her features before she'd schooled them into that mask of indifference. I'd wanted to make a clean break of it—rip the Band-Aid off in one go—but I'd only succeeded in breaking her trust entirely.
