How had he found me? How did he know I was here?
I crumpled the note in my fist, then grabbed the rose and its vase and carried them to the kitchen. The flower went into the garbage disposal, the vase into the recycling bin, and the note into the trash. Evidence destroyed, at least physically. The fear, however, remained, crawling over my skin like invisible spiders.
I needed a distraction. Maybe exploring the penthouse would help.
I started with the obvious places—the living room with its panoramic views, the formal dining room where I'd shared that tense first meal with Rafe, the guest rooms with their pristine, untouched appearance. There was a home theater with seats that probably cost more than my old apartment's annual rent, a gym equipped with machines I couldn't name, a library filled with leather-bound books that looked too perfect to have been read.
It was on the west side of the penthouse, past a hallway I hadn't explored yet, that I found a room unlike the others—nearly empty save for a grand piano in the corner. The hardwoodfloor was bare, uninterrupted by rugs or furniture, stretching out like an invitation.
I stepped inside, drawn to the piano first. My fingers hovered over the keys, not quite touching. Did Rafe play? I tried to imagine those hands—hands that had guided me from the club, that had slipped a ring onto my finger, that had gripped my wrist with controlled strength—creating music and found I could picture it too easily.
But it was the empty space that called to me most. The room reminded me of dance studios from my past—from my childhood lessons to the professional spaces I'd trained in during college, to the cramped practice rooms I'd rented by the hour when money allowed. Spaces where I was most myself.
I returned to the bedroom and dug through my suitcase, searching for the dance clothes I'd hastily packed. Black tights, a loose-fitting crop top, no shoes. I changed quickly, the familiar routine of preparing to dance settled over me like a second skin before I hurried back to the piano room.
Putting in my earbuds, I scrolled through my phone until I found a favorite song—something slow and haunting that had always moved me. I closed my eyes and let the first notes wash over me.
For a moment, I just stood there. What if Edward walked in? What if Rafe came home early? What if I'd forgotten how to really dance?
Then the music swelled, and my body remembered what my mind had forgotten. My arms extended, reaching for something unseen. My back arched, my legs unfolded, and suddenly I was moving across the empty space, spinning and leaping and surrendering to the rhythm that had been my first language.
This wasn't the provocative dancing from the club, designed to entice and entertain. This was what I'd trained for, what I'd lived for—expressive movement that came from somewheredeeper than conscious thought. With each turn, each extension, the weight of the past few days seemed to lift slightly. The fear of the stalker's note, the guilt of lying to Evie, the confusion of my marriage to Rafe—all of it receded as I gave myself over to the dance.
My movements grew more confident as the song progressed. I forgot about the possibility of being watched, forgot about everything except the sensation of my body in motion, free in this unexpected sanctuary I'd discovered in the heart of Rafe's pristine penthouse.
For these few minutes, in this empty room with only the piano as witness, I wasn't Mrs. de Luca or Cece or even Cecelia. I was just a dancer again, moving through space the way I was always meant to, before life and failure and desperation had gotten in the way.
The song ended, and I came to rest in the center of the room, chest heaving, and a light sheen of sweat on my skin. For the first time since Rafe had carried me out of that club, I felt like myself again. Not whole, not fixed, but centered in my own body, connected to the one thing that had always made sense to me.
I didn't know what tomorrow would bring. I didn't know how to navigate this bizarre marriage or how to protect myself from the stalker who'd somehow found me here. I didn't know if I'd ever repair the trust I'd damaged with my sister or find a way to dance professionally again.
But for now, in this moment, in this room that would become my sanctuary whether Rafe liked it or not, I had found a small pocket of peace in the storm.
Chapter 8
Rafe
Ithrew open the door to my penthouse, exhaustion weighing on me like a concrete suit. Fourteen hours of damage control—smoothing ruffled feathers with clients who'd expected invitations to my wedding, fielding calls from media vultures hungry for details, and dodging my mother's increasingly venomous voicemails. My shoulders ached from the tension I'd been carrying all day. All I wanted was a glass of Bourbon, a hot shower, and the sight of my new wife—preferably in that order.
The thought stopped me cold. When the hell had seeing Cecelia become something I looked forward to?
Edward appeared in the foyer, his posture as impeccable as always, but something was off. A tightness around his eyes, a slight hesitation before he spoke.
“Good evening, Mr. de Luca.” His voice carried its usual formal cadence but lacked its customary warmth.
“Edward.” I handed him my coat, studying his face. I'd never seen him uncomfortable in his own skin. Until now. “What happened?”
His gaze flicked away from mine—another red flag. Edward never averted his eyes, not even when I'd stumbled in at dawn reeking of whiskey and bad decisions.
“Nothing of concern, sir.” He adjusted his tie. “Mrs. de Luca received a delivery today. I placed it in the entryway as per usual.”
“A delivery?” I followed his gaze to the entry table. Nothing sat there now. “What kind of delivery?”
Edward's shoulders stiffened further. “A rose, sir. In a vase. With a note.”
A , heavy, cold weight dropped into my stomach. “From whom?”
“The card was unsigned.” His discomfort was palpable now. “The concierge said it was left at the front desk. I apologize for accepting it without confirmation of the sender. It won't happen again.”
