This wasn't for me to witness. This private pain, this vulnerability—he hadn't offered it to me. I'd stumbled upon it, an intruder in a moment that belonged only to him.
As I made my way back to our bedroom, each step was weighted with questions I hadn't thought to ask before. Who was Rafael de Luca, really? What ghosts haunted him enough to drive him to that piano in the darkest hours of the night? What secrets lay beneath the perfect, controlled exterior he showed the world?
And why did I suddenly care?
I slipped back into bed, wrapping myself in sheets that still smelled faintly of his cologne. The pillow wall seemed ridiculous now, a childish gesture against a man who carried oceans of grief inside him. But I left it intact, a boundary I wasn't ready to cross.
Sleep came eventually, chased by dreams of music and tattooed skin and hands that created beauty from pain.
When I woke again, sunlight streamed through the windows. The space beside me remained empty, the sheets undisturbed. I blinked at the clock on the nightstand. I’d slept later than I had in a really long time.
Stretching, memories filtered back slowly—the fight with Rafe, my bath afterward, the piano music in the middle of the night. Had that last part been real, or just an elaborate dream constructed by my guilt-ridden subconscious?
I needed a shower and coffee before I could face whatever new tension awaited me this morning.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of Rafe's ridiculously soft towels. I'd forgotten to bring clothes into the bathroom with me but considering the time, I knew it was probably just me and the staff there. And none of them would come into the bedroom without knocking.
I was wrong, of course.
I’d made it halfway across the room when the door suddenly opened.
Rafe stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, his eyes widening slightly as they took in my nearly-naked state. His gazetracked a droplet of water as it slid from my collarbone down toward the edge of the towel, and something hot and dangerous flickered in his expression before he snapped his eyes back to my face.
He looked exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but he'd armored himself in another perfect suit, his hair once again styled immaculately. If I hadn't seen him hunched over that piano hours earlier, I might have believed the facade.
“I thought you might have left for work,” I said, my voice a whole lot steadier than I felt.
“I was waiting for you to join me for breakfast. Lucia made something special.”
I clutched the towel tighter, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I felt under his scrutiny. “You should have woken me then.”
“I thought you needed the rest.” He shifted his weight, eyes never leaving my face. “I'll wait for you in the dining room.”
The door closed behind him before I could respond. I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, then quickly moved to dress—jeans and a soft sweater, something comfortable but not too casual. My hair would have to air dry; I didn't have the patience for a blow dryer this morning.
Bracing myself for another awkward, tense meal, I made my way to the dining room. The scent of coffee and freshly baked pastries greeted me before I even entered, and my stomach growled in anticipatory response.
Rafe sat at the head of the table, a tablet propped against a silver coffee pot, his attention seemingly absorbed in whatever he was reading. He looked up as I entered and set the device aside.
“Morning.” He gestured to the chair beside him. Not across the table as I'd expected, but adjacent, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in those dark eyes.
I sat cautiously, eyeing him with the wariness of someone who'd been bitten before. “Morning.”
Edward appeared with coffee, pouring me a cup with that same efficient grace that seemed to be standard for everyone in Rafe's orbit. The rich aroma wrapped around me like a promise, and I inhaled deeply before taking the first sip.
“Thank you, Edward,” I said, offering him a small smile.
He nodded. “Lucia will bring breakfast momentarily, Mrs. de Luca.”
When he'd gone, silence settled between us like a third presence at the table. I took another sip of coffee, trying to figure out how to navigate this strange morning-after to a night where nothing and everything had happened.
“I was wrong,” Rafe said suddenly.
The words were so unexpected that I nearly choked on my coffee. Setting the cup down carefully, I stared at my husband. “Sorry?”
“About the flower… the note,” he continued, meeting my gaze directly. “About how I handled it. About... many, many things.”
I blinked rapidly, searching his face for signs of insincerity or manipulation. Finding none, I managed, “Who are you and what have you done with Rafael de Luca?”
