“Don't,” he warned, face inches from mine, “do that again.”
I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the expensive cologne that clung to his skin. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was certain he could hear it.
“Get away from me.” The words came out breathless rather than commanding.
“Pack your things,” he said, his voice dropping to a low timbre that made my skin prickle. “Before I do it for you.”
Neither one of us willing to back down, we just stared at each other. I was acutely aware of every point where our bodies almost touched—his chest nearly brushing mine with each breath, his lips close enough that I could feel his words more than hear them.
“You're a bastard,” I said.
“And you're stalling.” He finally stepped back, creating space between us I desperately needed. “Ten minutes, Cecelia. Then we leave, with or without your things.”
I wanted to argue more, to throw his offer back in his face and tell him to get out of my apartment and my life. But the reality of my situation crashed down on me like a wave. I had no money. No prospects. And now, a debt to a man who wouldn't hesitate to collect in ways I didn't want to imagine.
With a sound of frustration that was half-sob, half-growl, I pushed past him and yanked my suitcase from my closet.
“Happy now?” I snapped, unzipping it forcefully.
Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, Rafe watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes. “Ecstatic.”
I grabbed clothes at random—leggings, sweaters, underwear—and shoved them into the suitcase. Dance gear followed: leg warmers, leotards, my favorite worn pointe shoes even though they were nearly dead. Each item I packed felt like another piece of my independence being stripped away.
“Don't forget your toothbrush,” Rafe said, checking his watch. “Seven minutes.”
“I know how to pack,” I snarled, grabbing my toiletry bag from the bathroom. “I've been taking care of myself for a long time.”
“Clearly.” The word dripped with sarcasm.
I paused with a framed photo of Everlee and me in my hands. It was from when we were kids, both of us laughing at something out of frame. Carefully wrapping it in a sweater I placed it too in the suitcase.
“Six minutes,” Rafe called.
“Would you stop that?” I yanked open drawers and grabbed essentials. “This isn't a bomb defusal. It's my life you're dismantling.”
He didn't respond, just kept watching with that infuriatingly calm expression.
I moved to my desk, gathering my dance journal, headphones, chargers. The withered rose still sat on my windowsill, a darkreminder of things I didn't want to think about. I left it there. Let it rot.
When I finally zipped the overstuffed suitcase closed, Rafe glanced at his watch again. “Nine minutes and thirty seconds. Not bad.”
“I want it on record that I'm doing this under protest,” I said, dragging the suitcase off the bed.
Rafe moved forward, taking it from my hands before I could object. “Duly noted.”
Grabbing my purse and keys, I hesitated at the door. This apartment, as small and shabby as it was, had been my sanctuary, the first place that was truly mine. Leaving it felt like surrendering a piece of myself.
“I need to call my landlord,” I said, hating how uncertain my voice sounded. “I can't just disappear.”
“I'll have someone handle it,” Rafe replied, already moving toward the stairs. “Coming?”
I took one last look at my apartment, committed it to memory then switched off the light and followed him down.
Outside, Rafe's Aston Martin gleamed under the streetlights, obscenely expensive and out of place in my neighborhood. He stowed my suitcase in the trunk with an awkward efficiency that suggested he wasn't used to carrying his own luggage, then opened the passenger door for me.
“Your chariot,” he said with a hint of mockery in his voice.
I slid into the seat without acknowledging his gesture, staring straight ahead as he closed the door and moved around to the driver's side. As we pulled away from the curb, I refused to look back at my building. Refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing my resolve weaken.
