He nodded once, his expression unreadable. "Get some rest. The worst of the hangover should pass soon."
As he turned to go, I called out to him. "Rafe?"
Pausing, he looked back at me.
"I think Gabriel would be proud of the man you've become. Even if your parents aren't."
His breath caught audibly and his eyes widened a fraction before he controlled his expression. For a moment, I thought I'd gone too far, overstepped some invisible boundary. But then his shoulders relaxed, and he gave me a small, genuine smile that transformed his face completely.
"Get some sleep, Cecelia."
After he left, I sank back against the pillows, my fingers idly tracing the spot on my wrist where he'd touched me. The hangover cure was working its magic—my headache was fading, my thoughts clearing. But something else had shifted,something that had nothing to do with tequila or green smoothies.
For the first time since our arrangement began, I felt like I'd seen the real Rafael de Luca. Not the controlled businessman, not the arrogant blackmailer, but the man beneath all that armor—wounded, complex, and unexpectedly vulnerable.
And that was far more dangerous than any attraction I felt toward his body.
Lifting his shirt to my nose, I inhaled deeply and surrounded myself with his scent—expensive cologne, clean laundry, and something uniquely him. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if this were real. If he were really my husband, and I were really his wife, and the barriers between us were gone.
The thought terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.
Chapter 17
Rafe
Music had always been my confessional. When words failed me, when the weight of expectation and guilt became too much, my fingers found the keys and translated all that broken shit into something almost beautiful.
I'd been in the music room for hours, losing myself inChopin's Nocturnein C-sharp minor, a piece Gabriel had loved. The irony wasn't lost on me—playing my dead brother's favorite composition after finally telling Cecelia about him. It felt like opening a vein and letting the poison seep out, note by painful note.
My eyes were closed, my body swaying slightly as my hands moved across the piano from muscle memory alone. Every chord progression, every subtle shift in dynamics was etched into my bones after years of repetition. This piece in particular was like breathing.
I'd left Cecelia to rest after our conversation about Gabriel. The rawness of sharing that part of myself with her had left me feeling exposed, like I'd peeled back a layer of skin and was waiting for the air to hit the wounds. So I'd retreated here, to theone place where I could process the tangle of emotions without words.
My fingers faltered suddenly, a discordant note breaking through the melody as awareness prickled along my spine. I wasn't alone anymore.
I opened my eyes and turned toward the doorway. Cecelia stood there, her body framed by the entrance to my sanctuary. Her hair was wet from the shower, dark strands clinging to her neck and shoulders. She wore simple black dance tights and an oversized gray t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone. No makeup, no jewelry, no armor of any kind—just Cecelia, stripped bare of pretense.
And fuck me, she was stunning. The kind of beautiful that made my lungs forget how to pull in air.
"Sorry," she said, her voice soft as she took a step back. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
My hands hovered over the keys, suddenly unable to remember what came next in a piece I could play in my sleep. "You're not."
She glanced down at the piano, then back at me, uncertainty written across her features. It was a new look for her, this hesitation. I was used to her sharp edges, her quick retorts, her unwavering confidence, not this vulnerable creature who looked ready to bolt.
"I heard the music," she explained, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "It was beautiful."
"It's Chopin." My voice sounded rough to my own ears. "Nocturne in C-sharp minor."
She nodded as if that meant something to her, though I doubted it did. "I'll let you get back to it." She started to turn away, and something in my chest constricted.
"Wait." I shifted on the bench, patting the space beside me. "Stay. If you want."
Surprise flashed across her face as she hesitated for a moment longer before crossing the room. I watched her approach, struck by the fluid grace of her movements. Dance was written into every line of her body, every step a carefully controlled placement of weight and balance.
The moment she slid onto the bench beside me, the air between us changed—charged with a current I could almost taste on my tongue. The scent of her shampoo hit me first, something citrusy and clean that made my mouth water. Then the warmth of her, radiating through the thin cotton of her shirt where her arm pressed against mine. My skin prickled with awareness at every point of contact.
"Do you play often?" she asked, her eyes on the sheet music I'd long since abandoned for memory.
