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nadvs · 6 days ago

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escapism . * part six

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.

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The daydreams won’t stop. It’s like you’ve discovered a new drug and you’re craving another hit.

You sat through your classes quietly today while your mind raged on, running through the memories of yesterday, your senses numbing every time you remember the way he felt, the sounds he made, the deepness of his voice and the coarseness of his touch as your bodies met in your bed.

The tension between you, laced with disdain, was finally broken open, but it’s like it’s just built itself back up today.

You haven’t seen him since he slipped out of your room, but you’re sure he’s doing the same thing you are. Remembering it. Wanting to do it again.

Rafe is a distraction. The fact that it was so hard to focus today is proof. That’s why you took yourself straight to the library after class to work on your senior project. With just weeks left in your final college year, you refuse to let anything derail the master’s degree you’ve poured everything into.

It’s late when you finally push your key into the front door, every edge of the condo blanketed in shadows. After you drop your bag onto your bedroom floor and change into your pajamas, you walk to the kitchen for water.

The appliances buzz in the quiet of the night as you reach for a glass in the cupboard. You’re sure you have a good grip on it, but you realize just how tired you are when it slips out of your hand, ricochets off the counter, and shatters to the floor.

You brush your hands over your face, expelling a quiet sigh. You should know better by now not to work yourself this hard. You can’t operate like you can afford to get burned out, to get so exhausted that you’re lightheaded.

You gently sink to your knees to start to collect the translucent shards of crystal off the tile, the glass clinking together softly.

Moments later, Rafe squints as his eyes adjust to the kitchen light. He realizes you’re crouched on the floor, and the anger he let go of yesterday comes back tenfold, because it’s past midnight and you’ve woken him up in yet another reckless drunken stupor, the splitting smash of the glass having pulled him out of his deep sleep.

“Wasted again?” he rasps.

You look up to see him standing over you just a few feet away. He’s expecting the worst of you, like always.

Your heavy fatigue makes you teeter in place, nicking your knee on a piece of glass. You inhale a sharp wince.

“Jesus,” Rafe mutters, closing the distance, gripping your elbows.

You’re frustrated, but too exhausted to fight it as he guides you to stand, holding his hand open next to yours. You stare at his palm, fatigue enveloping you almost completely. You don’t catch onto what he’s doing; he turns your wrist to gently drop the shards of glass in his hand.

“How fucked up are you?” he mutters, in disbelief of how zoned out you are.

He guides you backwards, his grip still on your elbow, to create distance between you and the mess you created. But you’re too stubborn to let him. His grimace is judgemental, narrowed eyes brushing over your face as he towers over you.

“I don’t need your help,” you tell him.

“Move,” he says. You’re too tired to resist his force this time, stepping back, pulling your arm out of his grip with a frustrated huff.

He bends to pick up the remaining shards, wondering what the hell he’s doing cleaning up your mess. But when he glances at your bare legs, noticing those tiny shorts on you yet again, he realizes it’s to make sure you didn’t cut yourself too badly.

A part of the tension bothering him is concern. And he hates that he cares, and that he has to hide that he cares, but if the last half of a minute showed him anything, it’s that nothing about how much you piss each other off has changed.

“You’re doing what your dad wants you to do when you party. You know that, right?”

“I was at the library,” you say sharply. “Working on my senior project.”

Rafe stands to toss the glass into the garbage. When he looks down at you, taking in how disoriented you are, he’s not sure he believes you.

And it’s a reminder of how the entire day, down to the moments before he fell asleep, down to the way he touched himself in the shower, he was thinking about how pretty you looked when you were on top of him, thinking about how he wants it again, wants you again.

“What’s it on?” he asks.

You scoff, pushing past him as you reach for another glass from the cupboard. He grips it right before you can, holding it higher, using his height to his advantage.

“Tell me,” he says.

“Are you seriously testing me to see if I’m lying?” you snarl.

Rafe shrugs, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Your brows furrow, and he thinks about how much easier this would all be if you didn’t look so hot when you’re pissed off. His anger is dissolving, his body remembering how good you can make each other feel.

But you’re obviously still very much upset, eyes swimming with irritation.

“I already told you I’m getting an MBA,” you mutter.

“What kind?”

You suck your teeth, stepping forward, letting your body press against his. As you’d hoped, the misleading gesture throws him off, and his arm lowers just enough for you to take the glass out of his hand.

It’s your turn to smirk as you brush past him, swinging open the fridge door behind him.

“Is it some kind of secret?” he taunts.

“I don’t owe you details,” you murmur, filling the glass.

“Come on,” Rafe chuckles.

You roll your eyes as you take a sip. The track you chose for your degree was an easy choice for you. A given.

All your life, you’ve watched what happens when someone leads by fear and intimidation. You want to make something of yourself, to work with people, to be more than your father is and to prove that you can do what he does and better.

Your academic goals may be driven by spite, but at least you have motivation. It’d be easier if you took a different career path entirely, but this one interests you. You’re good at it.

It must run in your blood. You try not to think about what could have been if your parents wanted you. Where you’d be. How well you’d do in the family business.

“Management,” you reply curtly.

“So, you want people to answer to you,” Rafe says.

“Doesn’t everybody?” you reply, then take another sip.

His eyes travel down your body. You notice. If you weren’t so tired, you’re sure you’d already have him naked at this point. But then again, the power you have over him, the only control you hold in this situation, is addictive.

“So, what, is it a case study?” he presses.

“Why are you asking?”

“It’s called a conversation.”

“I never asked for one.”

He cocks a brow, the amusement in his face refusing to fade.

“Research project?”

“You never stop, do you?” you say through a tired sigh.

“You liked it last night.”

The words render you speechless for a moment, your lips parting, your core warming. And because of that comment alone, that cockiness, you decide you’ll string him along yet again.

“I have to design a strategic plan,” you reply.

Rafe crosses his big arms and leans back against the counter.

“Got finals going on, too?”

“Yeah,” you reply.

He nods, wearing a sense of recognition, as if he’s reminiscing. You won’t ask. You won’t give him the satisfaction of showing that there’s a quiet pull of curiosity tugging at you.

You drain your water, stepping closer to him to leave the glass in the sink. Your arm brushes his, and you feel it, the undeniable magnetism, the one that was satisfied for only a moment yesterday just to lodge itself between you once again.

Rafe studies you. It’s disarming, seeing the depth of your work ethic.

“And you’re in school ‘cause you want to be?” he asks.

“Why else?” you huff.

In a matter of a minute, he’s seen a side of you he didn’t know was there. You’re doing this out of your own will. And taking it seriously. He’s certain your trust fund would cover everything for you. But you want to work towards something.

It doesn’t line up with everything he’s read about you, everything he’s seen from you firsthand.

“I was in the analytics track,” he mentions.

“Must have been hard to do before computers existed,” you chide.

Rafe’s lips pull into a smirk again.

“I’m only six years older than you.”

You almost crack a smile, but you look down. Then, your head pinches with dull pain.

Rafe notices that you hold onto the counter, watches your quick blinks and hears your shaky exhales. He’s seen you after a few drinks, and this is nothing like it. You’re being honest. You aren’t drunk. You’re exhausted.

It comes back, that needling sense of protectiveness that he felt not that long ago, the unsettling and confusing urge to disentangle you from your troubles, even the ones you bring on yourself.

He tells himself it’s because you’ve obviously always been alone, your family versus you, and he knows what that’s like. It's just impulse to want to do something about it.

“Go to bed,” he rasps. “I can look at your plan tomorrow.”

You scoff and turn away from him, making your way back to your bedroom. You have no idea why he’d offer to help you with your project. It’s not even possible for anything an opportunistic person like him says to be well-intentioned. And he’s invading something sacred.

Your pride flares hot in you. You don’t need anyone. If you ever were to let him help, it’d be admitting weakness. And you would never do that to a man who’s witnessed your pain and still treats you like a PR strategy. Who didn’t defend you when you needed him to. Who implies that you’re lazy and spoiled. Who tries to control you.

“I already said I don’t need your help,” you reply.

Rafe watches you leave.

He’s not an idiot. He didn’t expect that after last night, which was obviously purely physical, you’d suddenly grow to be nice to him. But he thought the ice would’ve cracked a little.

And now he’s wondering if you saw it as a one-time thing, if that was enough for you and you’re back to treating him like he’s a hassle, instead of a man who has no choice but to be in this arrangement with you, a man who you should cooperate with to get through this.

You really are going to hate him, no matter what. He’s sure of it now. He thought he was fine with that. The weight on his chest tells him otherwise.

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Days later, chatter fills your ears as you step into the softly lit restaurant on Rafe’s arm. It’s time for another publicity stunt, another staged romantic dinner with your supposed boyfriend.

The photos from the boat party did their job. The cheating rumors that swirled around fizzled.

You settle across from Rafe, still feeling weird about the other night in the kitchen. You don’t want him thinking you can be some twisted version of friends now. You would never take his help, no matter what the intention behind it is.

It’ll always bother you, that he could have backed out of this scheme. All that was on the line for him was approval. All he had to say was no. You have so much more at risk and he didn’t have the humanity to refuse to put you in this position. You could never forgive that.

He’d told you he tried to back out, but you don’t believe it. The man you’ve reluctantly been getting to know is hard-headed as hell. He wouldn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.

You can tell by the way he’s looking at you that he’s craving you again. You want him, too, but while you typically give into impulse, you’ve drifted into what you were doing before. Tempting him, torturing him, giving him no indication if he’ll even get you again.

As you look over the menu, Rafe stares at you, frustrated that he can’t figure you out. You gave him fiery passion, then you iced him out.

“Appetizers on the house, miss,” the waiter says, placing a steaming plate in the middle of the table.

Your brows furrow, looking up at him, gazing around, feeling eyes on you.

“Thank you, but this isn’t necessary,” you say in a hush.

“We insist,” he says. “Please enjoy.”

Rafe catches the contempt in your features, the subtle shake of your head as the waiter rushes away. He thought he was getting a different picture of who you are, but again, he can see why you have the reputation you do. It’s beyond him why anyone would get annoyed over a complimentary gesture.

“You just got a problem with everything, don’t you?” he rasps.

You grit your teeth. It’s so irritating how he sticks with the negative story he’s written in his head about you.

“They’ll ask me to post a picture or do a review or something,” you explain. “This wasn’t them being nice. They just want publicity. Everyone’s got an angle.”

He agrees. He doesn’t really believe in the good of people, either. But it’s become second nature to needle at you now.

“That’s what you think?” he asks.

“That’s people for you.”

“But you want to manage them?” he scoffs.

You cock your head, glaring at him.

“That’s different,” you say.

“Is it?”

“What’s your deal?” you sigh. “What’s with all the questions? My dad give you a new assignment?”

Rafe breathes a humorless chuckle.

“You’re makin’ me regret telling you about that,” he says. “I’m bored. Don’t you think this shit gets boring? Just sitting with nothing to talk about?”

You want to ask him what the hell he expected from a girl he cornered into an arranged marriage. But when you remember the night you pretended to meet, when he came home disheveled and annoyed, you begin to speak.

“Remember what you asked me when this started?” you say. “You wanted to know what I needed. I said to leave me alone when I say to, which by the way, you never do, and to not bullshit me. Right?”

Rafe nods, frustration still etched into his handsome face.

“So, keep your word. For once. No bullshit.” You lean closer. “What do you think about the way my dad operates? Professionally, I mean?”

He grimaces. The cover story, the one that you and that publicist believe, is that he’s only here to benefit from the press visibility and business exposure. But beneath it, he’s protecting his family’s name. And it’s all because your father twisted his arm and put a job on Rafe that he couldn’t refuse.

“He’s ruthless,” he answers.

Your brows lift a little in surprise. He looks like he means it. Like he condemns it.

“That’s why I’m studying business management," you admit. “To prove you don’t have to be like that to get somewhere in life.”

He gently taps his knuckles against the table, looking at you in a way you haven’t been looked at in a long time. Maybe ever. Like what you’re saying is important.

“You’re not going to work for him, are you?” he says, wondering where this somewhere you’re talking about would be.

You stiffen. You would never tell him your plans, that you’re going to take a one-way plane ticket hours away to the north of the coast, find a place to live, get a job, start a new life.

You don’t trust Rafe at all. You’re not sure of what he would do with any information you give him. Even talking about something as surface-level as school is making you tense.

“No,” you finally say, then swallow hard. “You were right. He set this up to fail. I could tell the last time we met. It’s like he was happy that photo came out. He’s obviously twisted.”

Rafe stares in that way again, and you can’t, you won’t let yourself think he’s hanging on your words because he cares. He has something up his sleeve.

“Did you say I was right?” he murmurs with amusement.

“That’s what you’re focusing on?” you say. “I’m done talking about this.”

You look back down at the menu. Rafe doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Truthfully, he barely has since he met you, and it’s like tonight in the soft, dim lighting of this intimate restaurant, he’s seeing past the woman you pretend to be.

You’re bratty and spiteful and irritating. There’s no doubting that. But you’ve trapped him in a daze that he doesn’t see himself falling out of. There’s more to you. Ambition, intelligence, a fire that he keeps coming back to, a fire that he keeps letting himself get burned on.

“So, what, back to silence?” he asks.

“Works for me,” you reply with a careless shrug.

At the end of the night, the restaurant owner comes by and subtly asks that you post about your meal. You look at Rafe with a snarl that tells him, I told you.

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You’ve reached the two-month mark. Your mom’s campaign is garnering attention. Everyone in your family is told to travel with strict security, no exceptions.

And the announcement of your engagement has just hit the media.

You fielded the texts and calls from your friends, accepting their congratulations and agreeing that this was all so fast, lying through your teeth about how it just felt right.

Celeste told you and Rafe that the supposed proposal happened behind closed doors and the real press opportunities would be within the following week: a photoshoot of you two, followed by an engagement party days after.

As if you hadn’t already spent enough time in your family’s home, your engagement photos are being taken in the manor’s conservatory.

Rafe snags a glance at the painting he saw when he first visited as he follows you through the foyer. The idea he had of that sullen-looking woman has flipped in so many ways in the past two months.

Things have been tense, and you’re back to doing what you were doing before, toying with him, giving him no indication of if you want him again.

He follows you as you storm down the corridor, making your appointment just on time. You’ve been your typical self: distant, and curt when spoken to.

Bright lights surround the expansive room, made of glass and marble, manicured plants spread out across tables, hanging from the ceiling. He watches you make friendly introductions with the photographer. Your smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

It’s getting even more annoying to see how you can force warmth for other people, but he gets nothing but scowls, no matter how hard he tries with you.

Minutes later, you’re facing each other in front of a window after the photographer angled everything to her satisfaction. She instructs you to place a hand on Rafe’s chest, step a little closer, and look up at him for your first shot. You feel the thumping of his heart beneath your palm.

“What a gorgeous ring,” she says kindly.

“Thanks,” you say tightly, but your eye contact with Rafe says a thousand words between you. You already muttered to him about how gaudy, how not you, the ring Celeste chose is.

“You’re a beautiful couple,” she says.

You can’t even muster a thank you this time.

The camera begins to shutter as you gaze at each other. You hate how familiar the sound is to you.

And you stare at him, surprised to feel relief that you can do it under the guise of needing to.

Rafe looks good in white and you’re sure he knows it. His tailored button-up matches your silk dress, the picture of two people who are put-together and poised, when in reality, you’re pretty sure he’s just as damaged as you are.

Not that you care. Not that you feel bad for him in any way.

You move through the motions, following the photographer’s instructions, smiling when she tells you to, every bit of contact you get with Rafe reminding you of how good he felt bare against you.

You think of that night so often, ache for him, but he’s the one thing you can delay your gratification for. You find a thrill in waiting for him to crack.

“Alright, these are coming out a little stiff,” the photographer murmurs as she clicks through the photos on her camera. “Some couples just get camera shy. I have a good trick for that. Look at each other again.”

You lick your lips, eyes fluttering up to meet Rafe’s. The only thing more irritating than his brashness is how handsome he is.

“Now, think about your first kiss,” she tells you. “Place yourselves in that memory.”

You catch the tick in Rafe’s jaw, his eyes boring into yours. It wasn’t that long ago when your lips finally pressed together in your bedroom, followed by the most passionate night you’ve ever had. You slightly tilt your head as you imagine it, the tension in your body softening just a little.

His eyes drift down to your lips, glossy from the way you’d just licked them, thinking about how good your tongue tasted against his.

“Great,” she says. “The sun is perfect at this angle. Can you kiss her cheek?”

Your pulse thunders in your ears as Rafe leans down, soft lips gently pressing against your skin.

“A real one now?” she instructs.

You tense up, hating how fake this feels, hating that you’re doing this because your parents told you to, hating how the only way Rafe will be tender with you is if it’s for show. Your dynamic is rough and angry and nothing like this, and it feels wrong to force gentleness that doesn’t exist.

Rafe shifts just an inch, but you look down, as if you’re ashamed.

“Sorry,” you say to the photographer. “PDA’s a little weird for me.”

“No problem,” she says. “Let’s move over to the fountain and get some photos of you holding hands?”

“Sure,” you say, stepping away, losing all contact with your fiance.

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You don’t look at Rafe when you sit in the backseat after an hour of taking photos, your cheeks hurting from the forced smiles.

Beneath the frustration of your stubborn rebellious streak, Rafe feels bitter rejection. You were tangled up in each other that night he can’t stop thinking about, but now you act like he disgusts you.

“You can’t just play along?” Rafe mutters.

“When something is forced, no, I can’t,” you snap. “All I could think about was how I’m only doing all this because of a contract I was cornered into signing. And that pisses me off. I hate being told what to do.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he says. That was the first thing he learned about you.

“This is all so stupid,” you scoff. “It’s ridiculous to kiss someone because someone else told you to. I have to draw the line at some point.”

Rafe looks through the window as the car trails down the driveway, your words tumbling in his head.

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When you enter the quiet penthouse, the space is dim now that the sun has dipped below the horizon.

Your head swims with the studying you have left to do. The project that’s been hanging over you. The degree you’ve been working so hard on. The way you have to balance it all while managing an illness that silently takes so much out of you–

“I wasn’t going to do it because someone told me to,” Rafe’s low voice interrupts your thoughts.

You look at him. He savors that half a second of curiosity he sometimes sees on your face before it turns into frustration.

“What?” you breathe.

His brows furrow, his gaze darting to your lips before it trails up to your eyes again.

“You know what.”

You do. He’d kiss you because he wants to, not because it was instructed or orchestrated or demanded of him.

“You can’t play along,” Rafe says, his words heavy with desire, a pinch of pain swirled in, “but you can pretend that the other night didn’t happen?”

You glare at him, desire coiling beneath the frustration, impossible to separate, impossible to ignore.

“I’m not pretending anything,” you say.

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose, barely hanging on by a thread now.

“You’re so…” He exhales sharply, looking down and turning away to go to his bedroom. “Fuck.”

“I’m so what?” you challenge.

“You just make everything so damn hard.”

“You think you’ve made it easy?” you say to his back.

“I’m trying,” he snips, turning around to stare at you again.

“Are you?” You cross your arms. “Or are you just mad I haven’t let you touch me since then?”

Rafe’s jaw tenses, his blue eyes hard with lust. He hates your games, yet he keeps playing them.

You feel it spike in your chest, the rush, the satisfaction, the focus. You have so much power over him that every little step forward of yours is loaded.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” you taunt. “You want me again?”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a tense swallow, staring down at you, all domineering breadth and sharp edges. Your pulse picks up when his gaze drops to your lips again.

“Wish I didn’t,” he murmurs, tense that you’re tempting him just to slip away. The corners of your lips curl in a satisfied smile.

Rafe shakes his head, as if he’s trying to convince himself it’s a dream he can’t indulge. But it doesn’t last long. He can’t resist you and he takes the risk and leans lower, cradling your jaw in one hand while the other finds your waist, pulling you in.

You melt under his touch in an instant, his mouth hot on yours. Your hands have a mind of their own, dragging up his hard torso, tugging at his collar.

Your body buzzes with anticipation, impulses taking over as you shove him forward. He could easily withstand you, but he doesn’t, letting you shove him into the living room, onto the couch, watching as you lean to straddle him, bunching your dress up to your hips.

His hands are on your thighs, squeezing over your pantyhose as your lips meet again, even more feverishly this time. You roll your hips against him, feeling how quickly he’s gotten hard, his cock urging to push out of his pants.

His buttons are stubborn under your fingers and you lose patience, tugging so hard that a button breaks off. He retaliates, his warm hands dragging to your inner thighs, pulling until your pantyhose rip.

It’s urgent, nothing but pure hunger as you palm him over his clothes. His breath is ragged as he unbuckles his belt, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shifts to pull down his pants.

You stroke him over his briefs, a moan slipping past your lips when you feel a drop of precome in the cloth. His body needs you so badly, and yours needs him, the ache between your legs hot and wet.

Your knees press into the plush couch as you perch yourself up, watching him use the space to pull his briefs down. His cock springs out and you’re moving as if you have seconds left, because that’s what it feels like.

You shift your panties to the side, watching as he holds himself at his base, ready for you.

When you sink onto him, you both breathe a sigh of relief at the same time. Your head falls back, eyes shut as he stretches you out, filling you with the pressure you’ve been thinking about every day.

You squeeze his shoulders as you start to roll your hips, writhing in hungry, desperate thrusts. Rafe’s head is swimming in pure pleasure, watching the pretty way your face pinches, feeling how good your walls tighten around him.

His hand finds your jaw again, cradling like before, but tighter this time, guiding you so you’ll stare at him. You meet his eyes, staring into them as your bodies melt together, thinking about how frustrating it is that behind them is someone so cruel and so irresistible.

“Keep looking at me,” he says.

You obey, panting, writhing, thighs growing sore from how fast you’re riding him.

He’s in awe of how perfect you manage to be, even with all your flaws, even with how deeply you get under his skin.

And he doesn’t want your eyes off of him, not for a second. He wants you to show how good he makes you feel. He wants to see those pretty eyes roll from pleasure instead of annoyance.

“Don’t make me wait this long again,” he says hoarsely.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, earning a wince from him.

“I’ll make you wait longer,” you whisper.

“You want to look me in the eye when you lie like that?”

His grip on your jaw stiffens and his thumb’s so close to your throat that it sends a whisper of fear through you, afraid he’d dare to choke you.

You put your hand over his, cupping it roughly.

“Move your hand,” you snap in a hush.

Rafe’s face falls in a way you haven’t seen before, a mix of confusion and curiosity, but he listens, resting his hands over your thighs again, shifting back a bit to give you more of him to straddle.

Your hands skim down his hard chest as you sink even lower and let him reach even deeper.

“Fuck, you feel good,” his voice comes out rough. “Keep bouncing like that.”

You groan breathily as you move, angling to feel him rub against your sensitive bud with every rock of your hips. Euphoria curls at the base of your spine, heat trickling through you.

Your orgasm floods through you and the sound of you sighing so erotically, the feeling of you clenching around him, the sight of you in ecstasy makes Rafe feel high.

He’s seconds behind you, his pleasure coming out of him in hard, hot pumps. Your foreheads press as you slowly come down together, skin sticky, exhausted, blissed out.

You’re both in the middle of a storm, but in this minute, the world is quiet. It’s something you both desperately needed.

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Lights twinkle across the grand ballroom, music and the hum of conversations float through the air, and once again, your hand is at the inside of Rafe’s elbow.

You stand by the framed photo of you two. It’s only been days since the shoot, but the image of you, backlit by the glowing sun, is sitting by the entrance of your engagement party, conveniently placed next to you as you greet guests.

Despite yourself, you can admit it’s a nice photo. Neither of you are smiling, and that’s probably because you looked too disingenuous when you tried to, but it works.

It’s an elegant shot of you gazing at each other. You do look like two people who’ve fallen into a hard, fast romance.

You shake yet another hand, quietly greeting a man you’ll never see again after tonight. Or, you might, at the wedding. It’s hilariously sad, how these are all just strangers with influence, instead of the people you’d really want surrounding you to celebrate a milestone.

Rafe is relieved you’re actually doing this. When Celeste told you that you were expected to greet guests upon their arrival, you scoffed. But here you are, doing it.

You meant it when you said you can see that your father was banking on this to fail. And now, spitefully, you’re going along with it. He feels a confusing sense of pride over you.

The evening stretches too long. You reach for a drink whenever there’s a break in the chaos. Your father’s toast, veiled as pride, name-drops your mother’s political campaign and lands a jab about you finally settling down.

It doesn’t feel like any sort of celebration. It doesn’t even feel like your life. Just a carefully choreographed role. And it drives you to drink more.

The event photographer scurries around the room, snapping photos. The guests focus on talking to your parents rather than the couple they’re supposedly here for, not that you care.

And as the next hour passes, Rafe loses you. After a stressful search, he finds you, standing by the bar, arms crossed. He can see the glaze over your eyes. The anger in your features. He knows you well enough by now. You’re close to imploding.

Anger burns through him. The pride he thought he felt is gone. Then again, everything to do with you is a rollercoaster. Highs when you’re naked together, catastrophic lows when you’re not.

And he hates how you don’t have it in you to keep it together for just one evening. You won’t do it for yourself. For him.

“Ever think you might have a problem?” he says sharply, gesturing to the drink.

You thought you didn’t expect good in Rafe. But the way his words sting show you that something has crept in. Hope. And you’re furious that your subconscious let you put your guard down.

He’s just like them.

“I know I do,” you respond bitterly. A small hint of recognition flashes over your face, noticing that his gaze loses some of its hardness.

The words spilled out before you could stop them. You have to get out of here.

“I need to leave,” you realize.

Rafe’s stomach clenches with tension. He looks around the crowded ballroom.

“You can’t,” he says.

“Yes, I can.”

He says your name evenly. You glare at him.

“We have to get through this,” he adds, eyes traveling over your face. “You’re forgetting what’s on the line.”

“So are you when you’re such a dick to me,” you mutter. “Why are you provoking me? Why are you so…”

You stop yourself from saying it. Mean. He’s mean. And the word implies that his jab at you hurt. You won’t show him that.

“Tell everyone I was tired,” you mutter.

“Please,” he begrudgingly whispers, leaning closer. “I’m sorry, alright?”

You shake your head. Things with him have gotten even more twisted. You have no idea where you stand, although you’d like to just be two people who have nothing in common but a contract and sexual tension.

But nothing’s ever that simple.

“I can’t be around him, Rafe,” you admit quietly. “Did you hear that toast? He meant to embarrass me.”

He nods, searching your face with softened eyes.

“He’s an asshole,” he says. He looks down, trying to find some way to fix this. “Listen, you know when that chick was recording you?”

You shrug, failing to see the relevance.

“You squeezed my hand so hard I thought you were going to break it,” he says.

“I should’ve squeezed harder,” you reply, some of the edge in your tone gone. “What’s your point?”

“Just - just do that when you get pissed off,” he says. “Don’t lose your shit like you always do. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

“I don’t always lose my shit.”

He widens his eyes. You roll yours.

“So, you want me to break your hand?” you say flatly.

“If it gets us through the night,” he says.

He holds out his hand. You sigh. But then, you accept it.

And you take him up on it. Every time someone annoys you, every time Celeste whispers to you to adjust something, every time one of your parents is in sight.

You squeeze. Hard. And he lets you.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

When the night winds down, Rafe isn’t sure he can breathe a breath of relief until he steps foot out of here.

He heads towards his father, and he notices the way he guides his wife with a hand on her back. As always, seeing that affection hits quiet and sharp and unwelcome.

It always reminds him of how his mother was treated, how Ward only gave her warmth and softness after the diagnosis. As if she didn’t deserve to be loved only until her days were numbered.

He shakes away the thought.

“You managed,” Ward says when he sees him.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“I’ll find you out front, honey,” he says to his wife.

Rose offers a small smile before she leaves.

His father looks ahead, and Rafe follows his eyeline, eyes landing on you. You’re sitting with your elbow on the front table, one hand holding your chin up, legs crossed, foot shaking with impatience.

On the outside, you look bored and apathetic and annoyed. A spoiled princess who doesn’t even care about the event made for her, celebrating her.

But he sees past it. He sees how much anger simmers within, how much self-control it takes for you not to snap every minute.

“Don’t let her forget she needs you, alright?” Ward says. “She’s emotional, but you just need to be logical. Logic always wins.”

“Yeah,” he replies, although he’s not sure he agrees with that word for you, or at least the connotation. He knows his father means emotional in a negative way. It’s how he’s been raised. Feelings are weak.

But Rafe sees no fragility in the woman he’s staring at. He sees someone who’s taken punches and never misses the opportunity to punch back.

“Few more months and it’s over,” Rafe murmurs, just to have something to say.

“Just…” Ward claps a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Get to the finish line.”

He looks to his dad. No praise or thanks, only curt advice, as if Rafe needs to be told to make it to the end of this. As if he isn’t here to pay for a deal his father made years ago.

Ward steps away. Rafe used to argue with him. He used to have a backbone, until he clued in that he needed to take the hits to earn a place back in the family.

He looks at you again. You’re difficult as all hell, but at least you have it in you to fight back. He thought he did, but he’s nothing compared to you.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe makes it a habit to stick around the office. It makes a good impression. Because that’s what’s driven him for most of his whole life: to look competent, to be respected.

But he can hardly stand it today. After his dad’s comment last night, he’s been pissed off all day.

After what was meant to be his last meeting is canceled, Rafe heads home. He’s halfway to his bedroom when he hears it. Laughter. A light, clear burst of it. Yours.

It stops him cold. Not because it’s unpleasant. The opposite. He’s never heard you laugh like that. Not in public, not around him.

He hears another voice. You have someone over. And you didn’t tell him. Who knows how often you’ve done this without him knowing?

He storms through the penthouse, ignoring how much it pisses him off that this is the first time he’s heard you sound truly happy and it’s when he’s not around.

You’re perched on your desk chair, sleeve rolled up, looking down as Iris gently places the bandage on the inside of your elbow from where she just drew blood. There’s still a small smile on your face from the story she’d just shared about her family.

You told her why you weren’t taking your monthly appointment at your family’s home for once. Even though you trust her almost completely, you can’t risk anyone knowing the truth, so you went along with the public story that you just got engaged and moved in together.

She was happy to see you’ve moved out. It didn’t take her long to realize how difficult your relationships with your family are. There’s a risk Rafe might come home. But he won’t. He always gets here at five at the earliest. You have over an hour until then, and Iris is done here anyway.

The door silently opens under Rafe’s grip. A stranger in scrubs is kneeling over you, her gloved hands pressed around your arm. And for one sudden, nauseating, disorienting second, he’s twelve years old again, standing outside his mother’s room, nurses and doctors surrounding her.

His voice, sharp as a blade, startles you, “What is this?”

You flinch. Iris looks up, startled but calm.

“I was just finishing up,” she says quietly. Her eyes find yours, and you shake your head in confused apology, caught off guard.

You’re not often left speechless, but this is too much. Rafe snapping at one of the people you truly care for, seeing you like this, jumping to anger, as if you’ve done something wrong.

His hands are clenched, and there’s a storm behind his eyes.

Iris packs up, her back to you. You glare at Rafe in disbelief, then turn your head towards her again.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly. “He’s…”

You don’t know how you could possibly find a justification for his outburst. There isn’t one.

Iris nods, offers you a tight smile, and leaves with her head down. Rafe steps back as if in disgust, as if your nurse brushing past him is something he’s too good for.

“What the hell?” you say, your voice in a tremble.

Rafe opens his mouth, then closes it. His jaw twitches. For a breath too long, he says nothing. Then he just turns and walks away. Fast. Like he’s trying not to breathe the air in your bedroom.

Your pulse thunders. In the last ten seconds, everything has started to crumble.

You clench your fists, fury pooling through you as you stand to find him. You cross the kitchen, the living room, through the hallway to his side of the condo. You’ve never been here.

You push open his bedroom door. If he has no respect for personal space, you won’t, either.

Rafe's chest is tight, the same tightness he used to feel as a kid when the beeping machines echoed down the hall, as he stands looking out the window.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, throwing him out of his daze. Unlike a moment ago, he doesn’t hesitate to respond to you. He turns, his jaw clenched in anger.

“You bring people like that here, you tell me,” he snaps.

“People like that?” you repeat. “You were such an asshole to her. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He only glares. You shake your head. If you have to give it to him in terms that he’ll actually care about, you will.

“We’re supposed to be putting on a show, remember?” your snarl. “You think we just looked like a happy engaged couple?”

“You gave me your word that you’d tell me your plans.”

You’ve already prepared a lie in your head just in case, ready to claim that you needed a medical house call for something minor. You’re terrified of pity, of anyone seeing you as fragile.

“Do I need to call you every time I have a headache?” you say mockingly. “I’ve been stressed out. It led to migraines. I wanted to see a professional to make sure I was okay. In private.”

You exhale. Slow, tight. Your hands shake, just a little.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares.

“You don’t see anything wrong with the way you just treated her?” you ask. “Or me?”

Your voice shakes on the last word. Because you thought you meant something to him after you found a semblance of common ground, after your exchanges have grown to have some softness to them.

He says nothing. You slam the door on your way out.

And Rafe is left to stand alone again, trying desperately not to remember the antiseptic smell of another room, another lifetime, where someone he loved was slowly slipping away.

(to be continued)

updates will be a little slower for the next while. my update account is @xorafe-library if you want post notifications.

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