I'd been sixteen, already fighting against the future they'd planned for me since birth. The disgust on my father's face when I'd told him I wanted to be a pianist instead of joining Orologio had been seared into my memory.
“You are a de Luca,” he'd said, as if that explained everything. As if being born with that name meant surrendering any dreams that didn't align with the family legacy.
Gabriel had been different. My brother, five years older and already the golden child, had defended me. “Let him play, Father. He's gifted.”
Gabriel, who'd never had to fight for approval, who'd worn the de Luca name like a crown instead of a collar. Gabriel,who'd encouraged me to pursue my passion even as he dutifully followed the path laid out for him.
Gabriel, who'd died in a car crash that should have been mine.
My chest tightened at the memory, my throat constricting with an emotion too raw to name even after all these years. I moved to the piano bench and sat. My fingers hovered over the keys without touching them, afraid of what might escape if I allowed myself to play.
Music had always been my refuge, my confession booth. But after Gabriel's death, it became something else—a reminder of what I'd lost, of what I owed. I'd packed away my dreams along with his belongings and buried my passion as deeply as we'd buried him.
This room, with its perfect acoustics and empty space, was both sanctuary and prison. A place where I could remember who I'd been before grief and guilt had reshaped me, but also a reminder of the price I'd paid for surviving when he hadn't.
And now Cecelia had claimed it too, had danced across these floors like she belonged here, like she understood what this space meant. Had she felt it? The ghosts that lingered here, the dreams that had died?
My finger lowered to a single key—E flat, Gabriel's favorite note. I pressed it gently and the sound vibrated through the empty room, clear and perfect and heartbreaking.
Chapter 10
Cece
Iwoke with a gasp, my body still humming with the ghost of pleasure that had followed me from dreams into consciousness. The sheets were twisted around my legs, damp with sweat despite the perfect temperature Rafe maintained in his pristine penthouse. My hand drifted unconsciously between my thighs, pressing against the lingering ache there—an echo of what I'd done to myself in the bath hours earlier.
Fucking hell. Even after our fight, after his accusations, my body still betrayed me with this relentless want.
The pillow wall I'd constructed remained intact, a pathetic fortress that had done nothing to protect me from my own treacherous desires. I ran my fingers over Rafe's side of the bed. Still cold, the sheets still untouched. He hadn't come to bed at all?
“Serves you right, asshole,” I muttered into the darkness, but the words lacked conviction.
Flopping onto my back, I stared at the ceiling and willed my body to calm down, to forget the fantasy that had driven me overthe edge in that oversized bathtub. A fantasy that had featured hands too large to be anyone's but his, lips too full, eyes too dark.
It was just proximity and stress, I told myself. Nothing more than biology. I'd been wound tight since this whole arrangement began, and my body was confusing anger with desire. That's all this was.
I'd almost convinced myself when I heard a single piano note drifting through the silence of the penthouse. Then another. Then several in succession, forming the beginning of something haunting and beautiful.
I sat up and strained to listen. I'd assumed Rafe was sleeping in the guest room again, avoiding me after our confrontation in the kitchen. But someone was playing the piano, and unless Edward or Lucia had developed a sudden passion for nocturnal concertos, it had to be him.
The melody pulled at something deep inside me. Without conscious thought, I slipped from beneath the covers and moved silently, guided only by the music that grew stronger with each step.
It led me to the music room. I paused in the doorway, half-hidden by shadows.
Rafe sat at the grand piano, his back to me, shoulders hunched in a way I'd never seen before. Gone was the perfect posture, the controlled power he always exuded. This Rafe was raw and exposed. His body curved over the keys as if protecting something precious and wounded. He wore only pajama pants, his back bare in the moonlight, the tattoos I'd glimpsed earlier now fully visible—intricate designs flowing across his left shoulder and arm, each one stark against his skin.
His fingers moved across the keys with practiced precision, coaxing out a melody so full of longing it made my chest ache. I recognized the piece vaguely—something classical, something that spoke of loss and memory and things that couldn't berecovered. The notes seemed to pour directly from him, each one drenched in an emotion I hadn't believed him capable of feeling.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. This wasn't the arrogant, controlling man who'd blackmailed me into marriage. This wasn't the cold businessman who ran his life with ruthless efficiency. This was someone else entirely, someone broken and beautiful and utterly exposed.
The music built, growing more complex, more desperate. His body swayed slightly with each phrase, muscles shifting beneath tattooed skin. One hand reached up briefly to rake through his hair, leaving it disheveled in a way I'd never seen before. When he returned both hands to the keys, the tempo increased, notes cascading faster and wilder, until they crested in a crescendo that tore through the room like a physical force.
I pressed my hand to my mouth and became aware of the wetness on my cheeks. I was crying. Standing in a doorway in the middle of the night, crying over a man I was supposed to hate, a man whose music had somehow reached inside me and touched something I'd been desperately trying to protect.
The piece shifted, moving into something slower, more deliberate. Each note hung in the air like a confession, a truth too painful to speak out loud. Rafe's head bowed lower, his shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths that seemed to punctuate the phrases.
For a heartbeat, I considered stepping into the room. Considered placing my hand on his shoulder and offering whatever comfort I could to someone who was clearly carrying a weight I couldn't understand. The urge was so strong it frightened me.
I retreated instead.
