“You have no idea.” I threw back the second shot with less ceremony, already feeling the first one softening the edges of my anger, of my hurt.
Izzy matched me, then grabbed my hand. “Come on. Let's dance this shit out of your system.”
We pushed our way onto the dance floor just as the DJ transitioned into a new song, something with a heavy beat and lyrics about bodies and desire and forgetting. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me, through me, let it pull my body into motion.
This was what I'd been missing—the freedom of movement, of expression through my body. Not the choreographed precision of ballet or the calculated seduction of the club where Rafe had found me, but something raw and primal and honest. I raised my arms above my head and swayed my hips with the beat.
Time blurred, measured only in songs and the occasional break for more drinks. Izzy stayed close, her presence a comforting constant as men approached and were summarily dismissed with a look or a turned shoulder. I wasn't here for them. I was here for me, for the release that came with surrendering to the rhythm, for the way the alcohol and the music combined to make me forget—if only temporarily—the emptiness in Rafe's eyes, and the coldness in his voice.
Hours later, sweat-slicked and breathless, I broke away from the dance floor. My throat was parched, my body overheated from exertion and alcohol and the press of bodies around me. I signaled to Izzy that I was heading to the bar, receiving a thumbs-up in return as she continued dancing with a tall brunette who'd joined our circle.
The crush at the bar had thinned somewhat as the night wore on, making it easier to find a space to lean against the polished wood. I ordered water and another shot, needing both hydration and the continued numbness that tequila provided.
As I waited, I felt someone slide up beside me. His cologne hit me first—too strong, too manufactured, the kind of scent that tried too hard to be masculine. I didn't turn to look at him, keeping eyes fixed on the bartender preparing my drinks.
“Haven't seen you here before,” he said, his a practiced purr that probably worked on drunk girls more often than not. “I'd remember someone who moves like you do.”
I accepted my drinks from the bartender, taking a long sip of water before acknowledging my unwanted companion. He was tall, conventionally handsome in a way that probablyphotographed well on dating apps—styled brown hair, square jaw, eyes that were either blue or green. His smile was too white, too perfect, the kind that never quite reached the eyes.
My initial reaction was disinterest bordering on annoyance. I wasn't here to be hit on by cologne-soaked strangers with recycled pickup lines. I was here to forget, to lose myself in music and movement and the temporary oblivion of alcohol.
But then Rafe's face flashed in my mind—the coldness in his eyes when he'd shut me out, the way he'd dismissed me as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience. The way he'd looked right through me when I'd tried to reach him.
Something shifted inside me, a petty, wounded part that wanted to prove I didn't need Rafe's attention. That there were other men who found me desirable, who wouldn't shut down and shut me out.
I turned toward the stranger, allowing a small smile to play on my lips as I downed my shot. “Maybe I'm new. Or maybe you haven't been looking in the right places.”
Clearly encouraged by my response, his smile widened. “Must be the second one. I'd definitely be looking if I knew you were around.” He took a step closer, his arm brushing mine. “I'm—”
“I don't care,” I cut him off. His eyebrows rose in surprise, and I softened my tone. “I mean, names aren't really necessary, are they?”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by a gleam of interest. “No, I suppose they're not.” His hand came to rest on the small of my back, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of my top. “Would you like to dance?”
I didn't pull away from his touch, even as my skin crawled slightly with the wrongness of it. These weren't the hands I wanted on me—they were too soft, too eager, lacking the controlled strength I'd felt in Rafe's grip.
But Rafe didn't want me. He'd made that abundantly clear. And maybe this man—this stranger whose name I didn't want to know—was exactly what I needed tonight. Something simple, straightforward. Something to make me forget the man who'd married me but wouldn't even look at me.
“Sure,” I said, setting my empty glass on the bar. “Let's dance.”
As he guided me back toward the dance floor, I wondered if this was what freedom felt like—the ability to walk away, to choose someone else, to be wanted without complication or history. Or if it was just another kind of cage, one built from spite and wounded pride rather than blackmail and secrets.
Either way, as the stranger pulled me closer on the dance floor, I decided to find out. Maybe I couldn't fix whatever was broken in Rafe. Maybe I couldn't bridge the chasm he'd placed between us. But I could have this. This moment, this night, this temporary escape from the beautiful prison of his penthouse and the cold emptiness of his eyes.
Chapter 15
Rafe
Ichecked my watch for the tenth time in as many minutes as I paced the penthouse. Four hours. Cecelia had been gone for four fucking hours, and her phone had gone straight to voicemail the last eight times I'd called. Something was wrong. I could feel it in the hollow pit of my stomach.
This city swallowed people whole every day. Pretty girls disappeared without a trace. And I'd let her walk out that door alone, angry and hurt because I was too much of a coward to face the ghost that had followed me for twenty-two years.
“Where the fuck are you, Cecelia?” I muttered, staring out at the Manhattan skyline as if it might answer me. The city lights blurred together, a constellation of artificial stars that usually calmed me. Not tonight. Not when she was out there somewhere, possibly in danger. Possibly with someone else.
That thought sent a fresh spike of something acidic through my chest. I'd pushed her away. Practically shoved her into the arms of whatever man might be waiting to catch her.
I'd fucked up. Again. Gabriel's name had sent me spiraling back to that place of ice and isolation, and I'd locked Cecelia out.When she’d walked into my office and offered an ear, offered understanding... I'd shut her down.
Now I'd give anything to rewind time. To pull her to me instead of pushing her away. To tell her the truth about Gabriel, about the accident, about the weight I'd carried since I was seventeen. To explain why my parents' words cut so deep.
