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nadvs · 1 month ago

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escapism .* part one

pairing rafe cameron x socialite! female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary you live a turbulent life in the public eye as an unruly heiress from a controlling family. you thought you had your future all planned out, until you learn that your trust fund hinges on marrying a stranger.

tags arranged marriage au. canon divergence. reader is bratty and volatile. rafe is the calmer one for once (but not by much). they hate each other at first. six-year age gap. plot contains alcohol abuse, toxic family dynamics, chronic illness, trauma bonding, mentions of death, and smut that starts off as hate-sex oops!

» masterlist

author’s note i typically make reader inserts vague for relatability, but this is the most detailed one i’ve written. she’s misunderstood, guarded, and has a short fuse. she has trauma from childhood neglect and lives with a chronic illness, resulting in poor coping mechanisms and a desire to feel free. i enjoyed exploring a fmc like this and i hope you enjoy the read just as much <3

Rafe sits in the backseat, fingers grazing the edge of his jaw. The wrought-iron gate creaks open to reveal a long, manicured drive that curves out of sight, the estate lingering beyond the bend.

His loyalty to his father knows no limits. It’s why he agreed to go along with this ridiculous publicity stunt.

Yesterday, Ward told him about the unusual proposal one of his business partners made. Kal is the powerful patriarch of a high-profile family and apparently, now that his wife is entering politics, his family’s reputation has never been more important.

The only thing standing in their way to a respectable image is their daughter.

Rafe thumbed through every tabloid he could find last night. The headlines followed the same formula, all about a spoiled, wild socialite, the epitome of old money royalty, getting wasted at parties, dating around, and never backing down from any sort of altercation.

Kal had promised that with his corporate influence, this arrangement would give Cameron Development an edge it’s never had before.

And Rafe is determined to pull it off. He wants to make his dad proud. He’s been working for him for a few years now, eager to prove himself and move up the ranks.

This is an unorthodox way to do it, but he’ll take what he can get. And he might even like you. You seem like you have some charm to you to say the least, even if it is centered in chaos.

The driver pulls up to the front doors of your family’s home right on time for the meeting. When a butler welcomes Rafe into the foyer, every footstep and shuffle of clothes echoes through the manor’s enormous, gleaming frame.

The butler rushes away to fetch Kal. Rafe stuffs his hands in his pockets and takes in the vacuous, characterless space. His eyes land on a thick-framed image hanging between two rounded staircases.

He squints, sizing up the five figures. It’s not a photo, but a painting of the family that calls this place home.

He studies it from afar, already having committed your face to memory from all the research he did on his phone last night, eyes travelling over the brushstrokes of an older couple, two men, and his future wife.

Wife.

This is insane.

“Great to meet you,” Kal’s voice booms through the foyer. He crosses the room, offering a tight handshake.

Rafe follows him to his office. He expected you to be here, but the only other person in the brightly lit room is an older woman typing on a laptop. Kal introduces her as Celeste, the family’s publicist.

The door shuts and Kal settles in his place behind his desk, tearing right into business before Rafe even takes his seat.

“I know this is unconventional,” he says, “but Nora is announcing her intention to run for public office in two days, and it’ll be a rigorous campaign.”

Celeste nods with widened eyes, gaze still glued on her screen.

“I’m sure your father has told you that we need all the good press we can get,” he continues. “I don’t know how familiar you are with my daughter, but she isn’t the representation we want for our family.”

He clasps his hands together.

“And before we bring her in, there is something I need you to do.”

Rafe waits, tense.

“She’s unpredictable and secretive. It leads to bad surprises and even worse press,” he says. “I need to know her plans, her activities, absolutely everything you can find out. Can you keep me informed without her knowing?”

Rafe imagines his father’s expectant stare, the one he’s sure he’ll be wearing when he asks him how this meeting went. The familiar ache to impress him radiates through him, a desire he’s shouldered all his life.

He still remembers the look on Ward's face when he told him about his plans to go back to college, long after he’d dropped out as a freshman. It was the first time he seemed convinced that his son was turning his life around, that earning a solid education wasn't just another stint Rafe would give up on.

With enough time and effort, finally, Rafe had a shred of his father's approval. He graduated and now, at thirty, he’s back on track to take over Cameron Development. The job had practically been lined up for him since birth and he'd nearly squandered it through his rocky adolescence, a trainwreck in response to losing his mother.

He refuses to fuck anything else up. He crawled his way out of the hole he’d once been in and he has no intention of falling back into it. He won’t stop for anything.

“I can do that,” he agrees.

Kal nods, then presses a call button on his desk, instructing the butler to bring you in. As the air fills with silence, the suspicion that you haven’t even been told about the arrangement yet gnaws at Rafe.

“Does she know about any of this?” he asks, a slightly disbelieving chuckle spilling from his lips.

“She’s about to,” your father says.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Your eyes follow the words in your textbook as you type on your laptop, music softly buzzing from your speakers. The house is always so quiet, forcing you to listen to your own thoughts.

You need the noise. Any distraction.

You’re in your last few months of working towards a master’s degree in business, taking advantage of the schooling you have access to, all in an effort to prove yourself and be set up for success for when you can finally leave this place in the rearview.

Most of your life has been a waiting game, and you’re in the homestretch to getting your trust fund. All you need to do is make it to your next birthday. You can’t survive without that money. Your medical expenses are too high.

The dream of walking out the front door and never stepping foot in this house again consumes you. You long to be your own person, away from the gossip rags, free from your family’s restrictions.

You’re not proud that you don’t have the self-restraint to quietly wait out your time. You’re driven by anger, by the pull of escapism, constantly getting out of control with your drinking.

But it's too addictive and the spiteful side of you enjoys knowing you’re a PR nightmare, publicly embarrassing the people who gave you your last name.

A month ago, as a result of your mother’s sudden interest in politics, you’ve been put under harsh restrictions to avoid any and every risk of unfavorable press. You were ordered to give back your credit card and live at home instead of on campus, with no access to transportation unless a driver has been appointed to take you somewhere.

You’ve still found ways to rebel, sneaking out to see friends, partying to numb your pain. Your parents try to keep you under control because they care about public perception. About notoriety. Not you.

You learned long ago that you’re just a thorn in the family’s side.

Knuckles tap on your bedroom door. You stand and swing it open to meet Mathieu’s tired eyes.

“You’re needed in your father’s office, miss,” the butler says.

“You know my name, Mathieu,” you say with a gentle smile. “I can’t. I’m in the middle of an assignment.”

“He said your attendance is required, miss.”

He winces, correcting himself for calling you that again, saying your name instead. You’ve seen your father’s staff on edge all your life. He runs a tight ship, and it’s one you’ve wanted to jump off of for a long time.

Because of that, you have a soft spot for the people who work in your home. At least they’re nice to you. Even though it’s their job to be.

You agree, simply because you don’t want Mathieu to have to deal with the collateral damage of your father being told no.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Three heads turn towards you when you enter the office.

You meet your father’s eyes immediately, clenching your fists at your sides because, like always, being in the same room as him triggers an onslaught of anger through you.

“What is it?” you say curtly.

“Have a seat,” Kal says, his voice clipped.

“I’m busy,” you answer.

“Sit.”

Rafe’s gaze follows you as you cross the room and settle in the chair next to him. There’s a sudden heat in his chest, a frustration in how he can’t pull his eyes off of you.

The photos he saw online, the painting in the foyer, they do you no justice. You’re stunning, radiating confidence, moving like you expect the world to get out of the way for you.

Maybe liking you won’t take much pretending after all.

“You know Celeste,” your father says.

You return her pointed frown. You didn’t mind her at first, but then, she realized she could get away with ridiculing you, safe from any of your family members coming to your defence.

Once she knew that her job was secure, she’s passively jeered at you many times, calling your antics fodder for the rags, calling you shameful and childish.

“And this is Rafe.”

Your eyes flitter towards the stranger. You’re in awe of how near impossible it is not to melt under his gaze, his eyes piercing, every plane of his face strong and refined.

You didn’t know what you were expecting coming in here, but it wasn’t him, staring like he’s waiting for you to do something.

“Hi,” you say stiffly, then look at your father. “What do you want?”

“You’ve been an embarrassment,” Kal says.

You remain perfectly still, no stranger to your father scolding you no matter who’s in the room.

“You’re kidding,” you say, your tone flat and sardonic. “What is it this time?”

Rafe gathered that you’re difficult, and he’s no saint himself, having had many disputes with his own dad, but he always had the sense to argue behind closed doors. He didn’t expect you to be so bratty from the get-go, so openly abrasive towards someone you’re supposed to respect.

“We can’t have you causing any trouble,” he says. You sigh, feeling Rafe’s gaze on you. He must be the latest bodyguard your father’s hiring, yet another man you’ll drive to quit his job. “I refuse to let my wife’s campaign be ruined.”

“Wait, so, if she loses, it’s my fault?” you breathe a laugh.

Your mother’s step into politics is just another line on the list of her meaningless ventures. It reeks of boredom masked as ambition; a move made only because she can afford the luxury of trying everything once.

“I’ve had the conditions to your inheritance amended,” Kal says.

Rafe watches your smugness fade away, your brows pinch together.

“What?” you say. The cockiness you wore has slipped, nothing but unease in your features now, as if the existence of your trust fund was the only thing granting you any sense of poise. “What do you mean?”

“You’re tarnishing our reputation,” he says. “I’m not allowing you to continue to drag our name through the mud. Your brothers have set good examples. It’s time you do the same. If you don’t, your inheritance is void.”

“No,” you say. “The terms are that I get access to it when I turn 25. You can’t just change that.”

“Yes, I can,” Kal says. “The new conditions–”

“This is all because Mom decided she wants her name on people’s lawns?” you interrupt with a humorless laugh, straightening in your seat. “You’re insane.”

Rafe catches on that you call her your mom, while your father refers to her as his wife.

“It’s important to her,” Kal says evenly.

“Sure,” you say in a huff. “Whatever. Fine. I’ll be good.”

Rafe would laugh if this wasn’t so awkward. He wants to get the hell out of here. It’s bullshit that this isn’t already all settled. But when he thinks about his dad, who’d told him how important his cooperation in this is, he doesn’t budge.

“You think I can believe you?” Kal asks. “You need to convince the public you’ve grown up. Represent us well for once. You won’t have access to your trust unless you get married.”

“Married?” you echo.

Kal’s eyes dart to Rafe.

“Rafe has already agreed to pose as your husband.”

“What?!” you half-shout, glaring at Rafe. “Are you serious?”

Your father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Either have your tantrum and lose your trust,” he mutters, “or agree. Everything’s already in place.”

“We have appearances scheduled and an engagement announcement and a wedding in the works,” Celeste pipes up. “All you have to do is show up. And behave.”

Dread sinks into you slowly, wretchedly. Everything’s already in place. And you’re just the pawn expected to go along with this.

Your heartbeat thumps in your ears, any safety you felt when you entered this room erased. Your trust fund is your ticket out of here. Now, that ticket is being torn to shreds right in front of you.

“How long would I have to go along with this?” you say, blinking.

“Until the end of the election cycle,” he says.

“About six months,” Celeste clarifies. “And we can’t risk faking it. Marriage licenses are public records. It’d take one diligent reporter to blow everything. It will be real. And quietly annulled afterwards, of course.”

Half a year of pretending you’re fond of the stranger sitting next to you, of acting like you’ve suddenly been tamed because you fell in love, with your trust fund hanging in the balance. This has to be a bad dream, a nightmare you’re having up in your bedroom.

“Why a marriage?” you breathe.

“Cameron Development is a distinguished company,” Kal says. “They’re respected by our community, and our families publicly joining will benefit their bottom line and our reputation.”

“A wedding is a great photo op,” Celeste adds. “And an opportunity to invite everyone with influence. It’ll help with polling, too.”

You stare down at your lap. This is unhinged. Your hunger for an upper hand, for some kind of rebuttal, twists in your core. You refuse to just stomach this.

You do have some power here. You know how bad it’ll make your father look if you outright defy him and leave everyone in the lurch. He cares about his reputation way too much.

This is how all your communication with your parents goes. It’s a battle. A struggle for control.

“I have terms,” you say, an imperceptible tremble in your voice.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” your father responds.

“Actually, it is,” you say, staring at him. “If you don’t level with me, I’ll leak things to the press that would never redeem this family. I’ll do so much damage that you can never fix it.”

Rafe is floored by your viciousness, by the way you have no loyalty to the people who raised you. Now he can see why your father had to go to such extreme measures.

“Your inheritance will be gone,” Kal states.

“And Mom will lose,” you threaten. “And we’ll all be left with nothing.”

Your father’s silence is enough for you to know he’s backed into a corner, waiting to hear your demands.

“I can move out immediately,” you state. “I get my credit card and my car back. And the second this is over, I get full access to my trust fund.”

You lean forward, your rage deafening. You reach for the quiet thread of strength buried deep inside you, grasping it the way you always have, even as a child.

“I’ll follow the rules,” you say. “I’ll go to every event, pretend I want to be there, and stay out of trouble. I’ll go along with this only if you agree.”

Kal sucks his teeth, frustrated, but left with no choice but to comply.

“Fine. You’ll do everything Celeste says, do you understand?”

“And you can’t tell a soul,” Celeste explains to you. “One leak could ruin everything.”

She pulls out two stapled stacks of paper, neatly placing them on the desk in front of you and Rafe. The words at the top are heavy and bolded: Confidential Marital Agreement.

Another chill floods your system. You’re being controlled in yet another way, jammed under your parents’ thumbs, all while everyone else is acting like this is completely normal.

“You need to convince everyone that this is real,” Celeste emphasizes. “The public has to believe that you’ve grown up and had a complete change of heart.”

“Yeah, I got it,” you mutter.

You look at Rafe again, this time with nothing but disgust. You regret having thought anything good about the man who’s helping your father humiliate you like this.

“But don’t expect me to be civil about it in private,” you say to Rafe, rising from your seat, swiping the contract in a tight grip. “You’re an asshole for doing this.”

You storm out, itching to punch something.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You sit in the front study of your home as the smooth, plastic clamp squeezes your forefinger. Iris notes the numbers on the small monitor.

You know the order of the tests, how each one feels, how the fifteen-minute appointment is bookended by the worst part. It’s a cycle you go through with your nurse every month.

After a string of respiratory infections as a child, you were diagnosed with a chronic lung disease. Your treatment plan calls for frequent check-ups, aggressive medication, and an inhaler on you at all times.

It’s apparently genetic, and why your lungs won’t work right while your two older brothers breathe easy in every way is a constant, twisted reminder of your place in your family.

All you know is the feeling of limitation, of being near suffocation. In every possible way.

“Time for the worst part,” Iris says. You pull up your sleeve, giving her access to the inside of your elbow.

She sanitizes your skin and you make a fist, staring out the window into your family’s enormous, manicured backyard, a sliver of the sea visible behind the trees lining the back of the estate.

The prick of the needle makes you wince, and she apologizes, and you tell her it’s not her fault, just like every other time. You usually make conversation with her, but you’ve been in a daze since the ambush in your father’s office this morning.

“How’s Milo?” you finally ask.

“Good,” she says proudly. “He made the basketball team.”

You can only imagine the excitement her fourteen-year-old must have felt.

You wish you were a better person, that you could just be happy for others, but your chest pinches in jealousy. You fear your envy will always remain a wound, a flaw in your character you can’t rid yourself of.

And you know how out of touch it is to be jealous when you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but there are some things money can’t buy, like a parent’s love, like the freedom to play a sport without worrying your lungs will give out, and the emptiness rooted in your soul is proof of that.

“That’s amazing,” you tell her. “Can I get him anything?”

“Absolutely not,” she quips, gently pulling out the needle. “You’ve spoiled him enough.”

You smirk. Your track record for spoiling her son started the day she became your nurse over five years ago. There’s satisfaction in spending money this way - not for show, but for joy, for the quiet delight of a little boy and his mother who would never ask for anything.

“How are you, sweetheart?” She puts a cap on the tube, putting away the blood sample and shutting her case. “You’re quiet today.”

You look away and think of Rafe’s heavy gaze, of the edges of his face, of how you didn’t even hear him speak.

It’s absurd that you’re expected to pretend he’s someone you fell into a whirlwind romance with, a man whose voice you don’t even know, a man who conspired with your father to degrade you, to rip away your free will.

You’ll have to deceive everyone, even the people you care about. And it makes you feel rotten.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe likes to think that he’s improved over the years. He’s not as helpless against his own temper, not giving into impulse every opportunity he gets, not as reckless as he was when he was younger.

He’s better. Not perfect, but better. Yet when you called him an asshole yesterday, it’s the closest he’s come to snapping in a long time.

You’re beautiful, but you’re a nightmare.

He didn’t think it would be like this. Yesterday caught him off guard. It left him speechless, and nothing leaves him speechless, but the weight of what’s at stake hit hard. One wrong move, and everything, his career, his future, could start to crack.

He didn’t know you’d be threatened into this arrangement. But putting your trust fund on the line was obviously necessary if you’re this unwilling to stay out of trouble.

He’s not looking forward to dealing with you.

You enter one of the spare offices in your home, the scowl on your face hard as you settle at the desk next to Rafe, across from Celeste.

“Hello,” Celeste says. “How are you?”

“Don’t pretend like you care,” you murmur. You’ve been dreading this meeting since you were told about it just last night. “Just get on with it.”

Celeste’s brows inch up in irritation, but her shrug tells you that you’re right. She slides two pages across the desk, housing identical color-coded calendars.

“This is how everything will play out,” she explains. “You’ll pretend to meet for the very first time at the investor gala on Thursday night, where Nora will announce that she’s running for office. You’ll be seated next to each other.”

It’s been so long since you were last seen with your family that you can’t even picture it. Back when skipping out wasn’t an option, you were dragged along to countless events, ordered to pretend like everything behind the scenes wasn’t fraying at the edges.

It makes your stomach turn, thinking of sitting with your parents and older brothers, subject to their vitriol.

“And then, you two will fall so in love,” she says, the sarcasm in her tone thick, “that you’re constantly spotted together. You’ll get engaged two months in, and have a beautiful, quaint summer wedding three months later.”

“God,” you sigh in frustration, sick just thinking about what a stupid farce this is going to be. You hate that you have no say, that you’ve always been smothered by what other people want, that you’re just a puppet on a string.

“You’ll need to look the part,” Celeste says flatly, her eyes darting between you and Rafe. “Right now, you two couldn’t look more miserable.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate being called an asshole,” Rafe mutters, his gaze catching yours.

You scoff as his deep voice reverberates through you. It’s more cutting than you anticipated: cold, precise, aimed to dominate.

“I don’t appreciate you being an asshole,” you reply, your features strained in anger.

“I thought you knew the plan,” he says. “I came here yesterday thinking you were ready to do this.”

You still for a moment, the hatred you have for him almost dulling. Almost.

“You just assumed that?” you ask, eyes narrowed.

His hesitant glare makes it clear that he did.

“If you knew my dad, you’d know he’d never give a shit about who’s ready when he wants something done,” you scoff. “You should take the time to see who you’re working with instead of blindly kissing ass.”

The stab at his ambition, his pride, makes his blood boil.

“You don’t know shit about–”

“Please,” Celeste interjects, her palms up. “Can’t you be adults about this?”

“Can’t you admit that this is idiotic?” you say to her. “All for what? Good press?”

“You’ve made it clear that you don’t care about how you represent your family,” she says evenly. “But your actions affect them. And they affect the business that gives you the amazing life you live.”

“Amazing,” you echo with a snarl. “Give me a fucking break.”

Rafe grits his teeth. The tabloids are right. You’re nothing but an ungrateful princess, and you’re damn near unbearable to be around.

“Classy,” Celeste mumbles under her breath, handing you a small manilla envelope. “Let’s just get through this. Your credit card. You’ll notice the limit’s much lower than before.”

You sigh, taking it from her. She pulls out two envelopes next.

“And here are the keys to your condo,” she explains. “It’s confidential that you’re living together. Keep it that way. We’ll make it look like you moved in after the engagement.”

“What?” you snap. “What’s the point of us living together right away, then? When I said I wanted to move out, I didn’t mean with him.”

Celeste’s eyes flash to Rafe, the promise he made to Kal an unspoken secret between them. You can’t know Rafe has been tasked with keeping an eye on you.

“I just relay your father’s decisions,” she says. “You know that.”

You sneer. Of course he finds a way to only partially meet your demands, while ensuring your misery. You can’t believe you considered doing this. Nothing will be on your terms, not entirely. It’s how it’s always been.

“It’s a sizable penthouse,” she says. “You practically have your own wings. All you share is a kitchen.”

“And it’s not like I’ll be there much,” Rafe mutters. “Some of us work.”

This earns a snort from Celeste and a murderous look from you. He can usually keep this type of disdain in, especially in what’s technically a business meeting, but it’s like you undo all the work he did on himself.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket before you can ream him out. You check who’s calling, tilting the screen towards you, but Rafe sneaks a look at the contact name to see Family Law at the tailend.

“I have to take this,” you say, rushing out of the room.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

When you come back into the office, you’re even angrier than you were when you left.

Your lawyer just confirmed over the phone that your father’s amendments were entirely fair, that he had failsafes set up in case he needed to make changes to the conditions of your inheritance.

You settle next to Rafe, listening to Celeste continue to drone on about how you’re expected to present yourselves as a couple in the public eye.

Every bit of you aches. You hate that you’ll have to pretend you’re fine being around your family, when all they do is hurt you.

You hate that you’ll have to fake happiness at Rafe’s side, a man who’s a prime example of the type of smug, heartless opportunist that you’ve been avoiding all your life.

You hate that yet again, you’re powerless.

There’s no getting out of this. Not unless you get Rafe to back out. It’s worth a try.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

“That should cover everything,” Celeste says, concluding the meeting. “Contact me if you have questions, but if you follow the schedule, you’ll be fine. I’ll be in touch.”

She smooths down her skirt and collects her things.

“And I still need both of your signed contracts,” she says, but her eyes are fixed on you, the only person in this equation making things difficult.

Her heels click as she strides out of the office. You’re still in your seat, the lump in your chest refusing to dissipate.

You can’t allow your parents to weaponize your trust fund just to satisfy their own ruthless agendas, just to appease their malicious need for control.

And living with Rafe isn’t an option. If he witnessed your steady rotation of medical visits, it’d shatter your carefully maintained illusion. You’ve hidden your illness from everyone outside your family, even close friends and past boyfriends. Not out of shame, but survival.

The press would twist it into something ugly, weak, marketable. It’s the one thing you’ve managed to keep private, and you’re not about to hand Rafe and the press another piece of you to tear apart.

You can’t go through with this. You’re too consumed by the price you’d have to pay.

There’s always been a voice whispering to keep going, that the finish line is close. But another angrier one is so much louder, demanding to know what the point is if you leave your self-respect behind. Screaming at you that without dignity, you’ve already lost.

Rafe stands, adjusting the lapels of his jacket, rounding his seat to leave.

“Wait,” you say, your voice thin.

He stops, his hand on the back of his chair.

“What?” he says sharply.

You don’t make eye contact. You continue to stare ahead, settling into the realization that this is the first private moment you’re having with the man you’re expected to marry.

But he hasn’t signed his contract. There’s still time.

Rafe lingers. The fierce anger he’s seen in you has shuffled away, replaced by quiet tension.

“Do you really have to do this?” you say.

He gets the sense that you rebel against everything you’re told to do just for the sake of it. And he’s not a fool who’ll give in to you after all you’ve done is insult him. He can’t believe he thought he would like you.

“It’s just showing up to a few things,” he mutters, his grip tightening on the chair.

You stiffen, frustration etched into your face as you turn to look up at him.

“How do you not see how ridiculous this is?” you ask, your anger back in full force.

“I do,” he scoffs, “but it’s a smart move. It benefits everyone.”

You stand up to face him, crossing your arms. Anyone who calls something your father thought up as smart is an idiot in your book.

“Back out,” you say evenly.

He smirks. It’s satisfying, getting revenge on someone who’s done nothing but make digs at him, telling her no when she’s so used to getting her way.

“So, you don’t want that money?” he says, his tone teetering on mockery.

You groan, infuriated.

“What are you really gaining here?” you snap, your chin pointed up at him. “Is he paying you? Does he have something on you?”

If Rafe ever were to admit to someone just how badly he wants to impress his father, to prove his allegiance to him and the company, it wouldn’t be to you. Someone who would never get it, who has no sense of loyalty, who is so childishly spiteful.

“It’s just six months,” he replies curtly.

You’re desperate, willing to say anything to get him to refuse. Willing to beg as much as your pride will allow you to.

“Please,” you say. “If you refuse, they’ll respect it. They won’t respect me.”

He glares down at you. Of course they won’t respect you. You’re intolerable. You’re trying to sweeten him up, make him pity you, and it’s not working.

You stiffen under his stare, uncomfortable that you have to plead. He’s not giving in. You can tell by the coldness in his eyes.

“I’ll make your life hell if you do this,” you threaten. “Just six months will feel like an eternity.”

He dismisses you, stepping away with a condescending chuckle. But he wholeheartedly believes you.

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#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron and you #rafe cameron and reader #rafe cameron and y/n

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lexiputellas · 4 months ago

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Fractured Pieces - From the Broken Vows series

The dining table is a battlefield of school supplies.

Pencils roll dangerously close to the edge, erasers are scattered across the wooden surface, and Nora’s workbook is flipped open to a page she’s half-heartedly working on. You already know how this will end—she’ll finish her assignment, push her chair back, and run off without a second glance at the mess.

Then, you’ll call her back. She’ll groan. You’ll ask again. She’ll groan louder. You’ll threaten no screen time. She’ll sigh dramatically and say, 'Mom, in a minute! I’m playing.'

You already know the script.

Right now, though, she’s pretending to concentrate, tongue poking out slightly as she grips a red pencil and presses it into the paper a little too hard. You watch her from across the table, chin resting on your hand.

"Nora, careful. You’re going to rip the page."

She loosens her grip but doesn’t look up. "I know."

You hide a smile. She’s stubborn, just like her other mom.

For a few blissful moments, the only sound is the faint scratch of her pencil against paper. It’s peaceful, almost.

Then—

"Mom?"

There’s something about the way she says it that makes you pause.

"Yeah, baby?"

She finally lifts her head, eyes wide, brows scrunched together in that serious way that makes her look too grown for her little face.

"Why isn’t Mama here anymore?"

The question slams into your chest like a freight train.

You choke. Literally choke. Air catches in your throat, and for a second, all you can do is blink at her, heart pounding.

"What do you mean, baby?" You force a smile, keeping your voice light. "Mama’s always here."

Nora’s lips press together in a tight line. She’s not buying it.

"No, she’s not. You don’t sleep in the same bed anymore."

Your stomach twists.

"Abi said you and Mama are breaking up. She said that’s what happens when parents don’t love each other anymore."

Your jaw clenches.

"Abi said that?"

Nora nods, playing with the corner of her workbook. "Yeah. Her parents don’t live together anymore, so she knows stuff. She said first you stop sleeping in the same room, then one moves out, and then… then they don’t love each other anymore."

There’s an ache in your chest so sharp it’s hard to breathe.

"Sweetheart," you start gently, reaching across the table to brush a curl from her face. "That’s not what’s happening, okay?"

Nora’s nose scrunches. "Then why doesn’t Mama sleep here?"

You hesitate—too long. She notices.

"She just… needed to stay closer to training and the city for a little while," you lie.

It’s a bad lie. Even you don’t believe it.

"Then why can’t we live there too?"

You open your mouth, then close it again.

"Because… her apartment is small. It wouldn’t fit all of our stuff, would it?"

Nora stares at you. Unblinking.

"But it’s just for now," you add quickly, too quickly.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to work out a puzzle with missing pieces. You can see the gears turning in her little head, the doubt creeping in.

You swallow. This is going to come back and bite you. You know it will.

After a long moment, she looks down, dragging a finger over the edge of the page.

"Is it going to take long?" she asks quietly. "For her to come back?"

Your heart shatters.

"No, baby," you whisper, stroking her hair. "It’s going to pass faster than you think."

She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t believe you. You don’t either.

"I miss her," she murmurs. "Iris misses her too."

Your throat tightens.

"I know," you say, and it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night.

She doesn’t push anymore. Just nods, picks up her pencil, and goes back to her homework. But the mood has shifted. There’s a weight in the air that wasn’t there before.

You glance at the clock. It’s late.

"Finish this last part, and then we’ll clean up, okay?" you say, trying to steady yourself.

"Can’t you do it?" she groans.

"Nope." You stand, stretching. "Your homework, your responsibility."

She huffs, slumping over the table dramatically. "Ugh. Fine."

You don’t answer, already walking toward the kitchen, heart still pounding. You grab the baby monitor, checking the screen. Iris is curled up in her bed upstairs, one tiny fist resting against her cheek.

She’s been clinging to you more than ever lately. So much so that even her naps are restless unless she knows you’re nearby.

You exhale slowly.

Maybe therapy wouldn’t be a bad idea. For them. For you.

Your phone sits on the counter, screen dark now, but you remember the morning—

Alexia had called earlier, just after breakfast. You had picked up.

"Hey," she had said, voice careful, almost too soft. "I wanted to talk about Nora’s birthday. What are we getting her?"

You kept your voice even. "She wants a new bike. Says her old one is too small now."

"Yeah, I remember her saying that," Alexia murmured. There was a pause, then— "Do you want to pick it out together?"

You blinked, caught off guard. That wasn’t what you expected.

"Uh… if you want."

"I think we should," she said, her voice careful. "I mean… it’s her birthday. We should do this together."

The words made your stomach twist. They were reasonable. Too reasonable. Like she was trying too hard to sound normal.

You hesitated. You didn’t want to do this with her. But you had to.

"Yeah," you said finally. "Okay."

"Okay," she echoed, softer this time. Then, "And what else? What should we get her?"

You exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers against your temple. "She’s been asking for more art supplies. I was thinking of putting together a little kit."

"That’s a good idea," Alexia said. Then, after a beat, "Maybe we can pick those out together too?"

There was something about the way she said it. Careful. Testing the waters.

You didn’t want to. Not really.

"If you want."

"I do."

Silence stretched between you, long enough that you could hear your own pulse in your ears.

"How is she?" Alexia asked. "And Iris?"

"They’re good," you said, even though good wasn’t the right word.

Another pause.

"And you?"

The question felt dangerous. Too close to something you weren’t willing to touch.

"I’m fine," you answered, because anything else would be too much.

Alexia hesitated again, like she was on the verge of saying something more.

"Can I pick you up tomorrow morning? We can go together."

Your stomach twisted again, this time sharper. No. That was your first instinct. But then you thought about Nora, about the way she still checked the front door at night, as if hoping Alexia might walk through it.

"I’ll drive there," you said instead. "We can meet at the mall."

There was a slight pause before she responded, hesitant. "Okay."

You swallowed hard.

A million thoughts raced through your mind, all leading to the same realization—tomorrow, you’d have to see her. Spend time with her. Go through the motions.

You weren’t ready. But you’d do it anyway.

For Nora. For Iris.

Because that’s just what you do.

#barcelona x reader #woso x reader #x reader #alexia putellas x reader #brokenvows

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