I stalked toward her, closing the distance until we were inches apart. “Never put my staff in an uncomfortable position like that again.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Edward and Lucia have been with me for years. They deserve better than to be caught in the crossfire of our arguments.” Leaning closer, I kept my voice low. “I expect you to treat them with respect.”
Something flashed in her eyes—hurt, maybe, before it hardened into fresh anger. She screwed the cap back onto the water bottle with deliberate slowness.
“Respect,” she repeated, the word dripping with sarcasm. Then she hurled the bottle directly at my chest.
I caught it instinctively, years of boxing with Liam making the movement automatic despite my exhaustion.
Before I could open my mouth, Cecelia stormed toward the doorway with the same fluid grace she'd displayed while dancing. She stopped at the threshold, one hand on the frame, and looked back over her shoulder.
“You care so much about me treating your people with respect,” she said, her voice suddenly quiet. “But why won't you do the same for me?”
I opened my mouth but before a single word could escape, she was gone. Standing alone in the kitchen with the water bottle still clutched in my hand, my anger drained away like air from a punctured balloon, leaving me hollow and cold as her words sank in.
You care so much about me treating your people with respect. But why won't you do the same for me?
I hadn't respected her. Not when I'd blackmailed her into marriage. Not when I'd announced our union without warning. Not when I'd accused her of betrayal without giving her a chance to explain.
Suddenly feeling every hour of the day's exhaustion, I set the water bottle on the counter and ran a hand over my face.
“Fuck,” I muttered to the empty kitchen.
She was right. And I had no idea how to fix it.
Chapter 9
Rafe
Slamming my office door, I made a beeline for the liquor cabinet. My hands shook with a toxic cocktail of rage and guilt causing the Macallan bottle to clink against the crystal tumbler as I poured a generous three fingers, then knocked it back in one burning swallow that did absolutely nothing to quiet the echo of Cecelia's words.
Fuck. When had I become this person—this demanding, controlling bastard who threw accusations before asking questions? I poured another drink and sank into my leather chair, the weight of my failures pressing down on me like a physical thing.
The second glass disappeared as quickly as the first, heat spreading through my chest while my mind replayed our confrontation in high definition. Her flushed cheeks. The hurt in her eyes when I'd waved that note in her face. The way she'd looked in that dance studio—so fucking beautiful it had stolen the breath from my lungs—before I'd ruined it with my accusations.
And the flower. The damn flower that I still didn't have an explanation for.
I set the empty glass down with a loud thunk. The alcohol wasn't helping. Nothing would help except fixing this mess I'd created. I stood, my legs steadier than they had any right to be after two rapid-fire glasses of scotch.
“Stupido,” I muttered to myself. “Always fucking things up.”
I hesitated at my office door, hand on the knob, trying to figure out what the hell I'd say to her.Sorry for accusing you of cheating on our sham marriage after I blackmailed you into it?Yeah, that would go over well.
The walk to our bedroom felt longer than it should have, each step bringing me closer to a conversation I wasn't prepared for. When I reached the door, I expected resistance—she'd locked me out the previous night, after all—but the knob turned easily in my hand. That surprised me enough that I pushed the door open without knocking.
The bedroom was empty, the bed still made from Edward's morning attentions. But light spilled from the bathroom doorway, which stood slightly ajar. Steam curled through the gap, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and something else I couldn’t quite put a finger on.
I knew I should announce my presence. Call her name. Close the door and try again later. But my feet carried me forward without conscious thought, drawn to that sliver of light like a moth to flame. As I approached, the sound of water lapping against porcelain reached my ears, followed by a sigh, barely audible but unmistakably feminine.
I froze, my pulse quickening as possibilities raced through my mind. Then I heard it again. A sigh that edged into a breathy and uninhibited moan.
I shouldn't look. I knew I shouldn't. But I was already moving, angling myself to see through that treacherous gap in the door.
The mirror reflected her perfectly—Cecelia sprawled in my oversized tub, surrounded by bubbles that did little to conceal her body. Her head was tilted back against the rim, exposing the elegant column of her throat. Her eyes were closed, lips parted in a perfect 'o' of pleasure. One arm disappeared beneath the water, its motion creating gentle ripples that lapped against the sides of the tub.
She was touching herself.
