Sage’s words hung in the air, a blunt, harsh reality check that you desperately needed. She was right: the planned and articulated version of you that had done everything with Ethan, down to following his diet, was supposed to be gone. That girl that should have been buried under a pile of cardboard boxes and gold-embossed wedding invitations all those weeks ago.

“New fiancée,” you absentmindedly replied as you tried to squeeze a pair of sandals into the side of your suitcase. You whispered, “What if this is all a mistake?”

Sage’s expression softened quickly, her hand covering yours to comfort you. “Then it’ll be a mistake in Europe. And don’t you dare doubt yourself.” 

“It’s just not me!” You exclaimed while Sage rolled her eyes.

“Listen, I know that for the first time in your life, you're doing something completely insane. But maybe you need this to step out of your comfort zone!” She held up a swimsuit, eyebrow raised as she looked at you with a horrified look that crossed her face. “The first step being throwing this away.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“No! Absolutely not.” You turned away towards your closet to collect more dresses to pack. A little twinge in your stomach pulsed as you pondered over the entire situation, if it’d even been the right thing to do after all these weeks. For the first two weeks after Rafe left that folder on your counter, you had completely frozen, as if touching it would’ve burnt you alive. It pained you not to know the contents of its package, but you knew it’d hurt you even more to see everything they would’ve done, while you were expected to move on as if the last eleven years were simply a snapshot that you never thought would mean so little. 

It wasn’t until one night that curiosity had gotten the best of you, leading to you typing Charlotte’s name into the search bar on Instagram. You should have removed every trace of them both to give them no access to your life, regardless of how much of a trainwreck it is behind the scenes. Yet still, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut that part off, perhaps out of nostalgia or that Charlotte had truly been nice to you, someone who’d held your hand as she’d laugh while retelling about a memory she’d shared with Ethan, or when she’d shown up at your doorstep with soup and medicine after you’d spent three days bedridden with the flu because Ethan had been away on a business trip.

Maybe that was what made it all hurt so much more.

It would’ve been easier if she’d been cruel, or if she’d been some villain that had deliberately set out to destroy your life. Instead, she had been woven into it, invited into your home for dinners and holidays like family, trusted with secrets and stories that you hadn’t shared with many others. She’d sat beside you while discussing wedding venues, smiled as you showed her photographs of dresses, and hugged you tightly when you told her how excited you were to spend the rest of your life with Ethan.

It barely registered in your mind as to what you’d been doing when you clicked on her profile, yet you immediately regretted that you’d done so. The image was still burned into the back of your eyelids. It was a photo of Ethan and Charlotte at a vineyard, the lighting perfectly golden. He was laughing, his arm draped around her waist in a way he used to hold you, while she looked at him like he was her entire world. The caption had read: The best chapters are the ones we never planned. Counting down the days. It was disgustingly adorable. 

It was a slap in the face when you saw your college best friend, one who was your friend before becoming yours and Ethan’s couple friend with her husband, looking like she’d be celebrating with them in the background. They weren't hiding; they were outright flaunting the life they’d supposedly “won”, yet stole from you and Rafe. 

That was the exact moment you had grabbed your phone, dialled the number in the folder, and told Rafe to count you in.

“Hey, earth to my nun of a roomie!” Sage’s voice snapped you out of the memory. You blinked, turning back around to see her tossing your old, sensible one-piece onto your bed with utter disdain. Before you could defend it, she lunged toward your closet, digging past the sweaters until she pulled out a hidden drawer at the very bottom.

“A-ha!” Sage emerged from your dresser with a triumphant grin, holding up multiple scraps of fabric that made your cheeks instantly flush.

It was a pile of striking, incredibly sultry bikinis you had bought on a total whim months ago during a late-night online shopping spree—and had promptly hidden away, too self-conscious to ever actually wear them around Ethan. Sage wriggled her eyebrows suggestively, dangling the small strings in front of your face. “Now this is what you pack for a euro-summer, babe. This screams ‘I am hot, single, and down for a rebound.’”

“Sage, oh my god, no. I am not wearing that,” you groaned, reaching for your one piece and putting it in, but she playfully swerved out of your sight.

“You absolutely are,” Sage insisted, shoving the bikinis directly into whatever space was in your suitcase. “Look, even if the whole sabotage plan goes sideways, you’re going to be under the Mediterranean sun. You need to put this in—even if it just means you get to hook up with some drop-dead gorgeous Italian or Greek guy to finally get over your ex-fiancé.”

She winked, leaning over your luggage. “Or, you know... there's always your partner in crime.”

“No, Sage, don't start,” you warned, though a nervous, electric flutter danced in your chest at the mere mention of Rafe. “He’s going through it too. The last thing we could ever do is hook up with each other. Plus, he doesn’t have the best…past.”

“And who told you that?” She queried, deadpan apparent in her tone. “The same guy who ended up with his fiancée?” Sage wasn’t wrong; it was a bit unfair to judge someone whom you’d barely known aside from the information Ethan had told you from a biased lens. It was obvious that he hadn’t approved of Rafe, often voicing his disapproval for him, which had you believing that perhaps he truly wasn’t worth your time. Though, ironically, looking at the evidence, Ethan was the one who turned out to be the only one who’d had you debating whether he was worth your time now.

"Fair point," you muttered, pulling the zipper around the suitcase, hopefully shutting any second thoughts of backing out as you finished packing. Sage firmly gripped your shoulders, the unwavering belief she had in you evident in the way she looked into your eyes. "Go have some fun, get your lick back from that man, and for once, do something that's just for you."

Your suitcase felt heavy in your hand as you dragged it along the polished marble tiles in the airport, the anticipation and anxiety of this whole ordeal you’d gotten in bubbling deep within your stomach. The whole Uber ride was constantly checking your ticket, along with that moment replaying in your head like a record over the chains of events that’d strung together, yet you still couldn’t comprehend how it’d even come to be. 

It was the only thing that could consume your mind at work while the numbers on your monitor stared tauntingly back at you—another reminder of him that’d been etched into your life. Math might’ve been okay for you; finance wasn’t too bad for you to bear either; however, it was never your forte nor something you’d found yourself particularly drawn to. It only made sense because of how Ethan had framed it, leading you to both pursue the same career, even if the little voice at the back of your head nagged for the opposite.

Your spiral down memory lane was abruptly stopped when a low, gravelly voice cut through that haze. “You’re late.” 

Leaning against the support columns near the check-in desk was an unmistakable figure, his sunglasses resting atop his head despite the airport being entirely indoors, one hand shoved into the pocket of his navy jacket, the other absentmindedly gripping his phone. Your breath hitched at the sight, perhaps that this was truly about to happen. 

“I’m twenty minutes early from when we agreed to meet,” you frowned, instinctively looking towards the large clock suspended above the departures board.

"Could've been earlier."

Your eyebrows knitted together. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed." 

He only shrugged before turning on his heel. "C'mon." 

You stared after him in disbelief before hurrying to catch up, your suitcase bumping against your ankle. By the time you reached the priority counter, Rafe was already handing over his passport. 

“We’re checking two bags,” he told the attendant, his voice carrying that effortless authority he always seemed to have. You reached into your tote bag, sliding your own passport and printed confirmation onto the sleek marble surface. “I’ve already checked in.”

“With what ticket?” Rafe asked, puzzled. 

“The one that I bought?”

Rafe froze, like the gears in his head had stopped turning, and blaring alarms came on instead. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, his sharp eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. “...You what?”

“I… bought a ticket?” you replied, looking back at him as if the answer was obvious. "I'm sorry, am I confusing you?"

“No, I heard you.” His jaw clenched, a familiar stiffness taking over his shoulders. “I’m asking why.”

“Because it’s my ticket? It didn’t make sense for you to buy it.”

“The hell it didn’t.”

Beside you, the airline attendant suddenly found the keyboard in front of her incredibly interesting, her fingers typing rapidly to pretend she wasn't listening. You lowered your voice, stepping closer into Rafe's space, entirely aware of the expensive scent of his cologne cutting through the sterile, static airport air. It had you thinking about how much  “Rafe, you’ve already paid for the hotel, the ferries. Literally everything.”

“And?” he challenged, leaning a hand on the counter.

“My point is that I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own flight. I'm not a charity case.”

Rafe let out a sharp breath through his nose, running a hand over his buzzed hair before looking away toward the terminal windows. “Jesus Christ. D’you know how that looks? It looks like I dragged someone halfway across the world and made her pay for her own seat.”

You let out a small, bitter scoff, the exhausting weight of the last seven weeks making you bold. “Who cares what a bunch of strangers think?”

“I do,” the answer came so fast, so raw, it caught you entirely off guard. Rafe met your eyes again, his expression unreadable, stripped of his usual arrogance and instead, leaving something deeply frustrated underneath. Ward’s voice always echoed in the back of his head, demanding perfection, someone who was a natural leader, a man of status to match the prestige their family’s name held. To Rafe, letting you pay felt like a direct blow to his capability rather than an inconvenience. “I asked you to come, so ’m paying.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, your grip tightening around the strap of your tote bag.

“Me?” Rafe let out a humourless laugh, stepping into your space. “You act like letting someone do something for you is going to kill you. What is it with you and letting people take care of you?”

You shifted your weight, the cool, sterile air conditioning of the airport suddenly feeling suffocating. “I don't like owing people. I don't like being in debt.”

Rafe studied you for a long moment, his gaze tracking the defensive, rigid line of your shoulders, the slight tremble of your lower lip, and the stubbornness that wouldn’t crack. The heaviness of his gaze made you double down on him, your own expression mirroring his studying one as you refused to let yourself succumb to whatever Rafe had been trying to emphasize otherwise.

“You don’t have to do everything the way Ethan did.”

Your head snapped up, the mention of your ex hitting you like a physical slap. “What?”

“If the guy made you split every single bill or made you feel like a burden every time he spent a dime, that’s his problem,” Rafe said, his tone entirely matter-of-fact. “You’re here with me. So next time, let me pay for the damn ticket.”

For the first time since he’d stormed into your apartment, you found yourself completely speechless. You could only stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs as the weight of his words settled over you, unsure if you had the energy to defend your moral ground or fight Rafe for assuming anything.

The silence stretched between you until the airline attendant cautiously cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “...Sir, ma'am? Would either of you like to check those bags?”

Your heads snapped towards the attendant, an embarrassed flush making you feel hot while Rafe cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, just uh-get those checked in.”

With not a word spoken to each other, you and Rafe made your way onto the airplane, only to go part ways upon climbing aboard, with Rafe headed towards the front while you made your way to the back. Being in economy had never bothered you, and seeing your dispute with Rafe having gone south, it felt better not to have to face the one person you’d be stuck with for the next few days. But as your back hit the cushioned seat, the plane’s wing in your sight from the window, you were forced to remember how you ended up here, or the irony of your situation. 

“But Italy is so overrated, and there’s barely anything exciting there,” Ethan exclaimed as you flipped through a travel magazine. The bright blues of the water and the small passages that could hold more value than they were intended for appealed to you, even if they were just ink on a page in front of you. “I think you’d like it more in Australia, trust me, it’ll be so much better.” 

“Italy’s pretty fun too, though, like here! Look at the Emerald Grotto!” You pointed at its image, though the disdain on Ethan’s face was pretty telling otherwise. 

“Australia has the same thing.” 

You looked back down at the photograph, mulling over the fact that it probably did.

“Really?”

“Probably better.”

"Oh." You looked back down at the magazine before offering him a small smile. "Then Australia it is." With one last look at the page, you pondered whether you’d ever get to go, but pushed that thought away because perhaps he was right. Australia had so much to offer that perhaps one place could never, or so you told yourself as you forced yourself to flip the page, trying to forget the idea of spending the summer in someplace that was almost everything.

Yet now, you found yourself on a flight to the same exact place he’d been bashing about, only for him to agree to go with someone else. Someone else who wasn’t you, someone who you hadn’t ever felt insecure of until now.

The hazy Italian sun flooded through the tiny airplane window, a stark contrast to the sterile fluorescent lighting of the cabin. The humid air of Rome wrapped itself around you the moment you stepped out of the airplane, replacing the stale, recycled air from inside with the energy that made you feel lighter than you’d been for the past two months. The scent of espresso drifted from a nearby cafe, mixing with the warmth of the sun-soaked pavement and the subtle note of cigarettes, yet somehow, it made everything feel more vibrant than home. It was all so surreal, and for a brief moment, you forgot why you were here in the first place. 

Before even landing, you’d noticed the terracotta rooftops peeking out from under the plane as you flew above them, your parents’ voices suddenly surfacing in the back of your mind as they reminisced about the summer they’d spent lazing through Italy before you’d been born. They'd always promised they'd take you one day, your mother insisting you'd fall in love with the little cafés hidden between cobblestone streets while your father swore you'd spend more money on gelato than souvenirs.

If only you’d had the chance with Ethan. 

By the time you navigated your way through customs and dragged your feet toward the baggage claim carousel, the jet lag was already starting to settle heavily into your bones. The area was a chaotic sea of weary travellers, with drifted conversations in both Italian and other languages flowing effortlessly around you, though Rafe was impossible to miss. He was already standing right at the edge of the moving belt, his dark sunglasses back on, looking completely unaffected by the nine-hour flight.

As you finally caught up to him, your mouth opened to say something, but the words died in your throat when you noticed the rigid, lethal stillness in his posture. He was staring intently at a pair of matching, designer leather suitcases that had just tumbled onto the carousel. They were unmistakable; large, monogrammed, and the luggage tags showed to be none other than Charlotte’s and Ethan’s, with their names embossed in the same gold tone.

Before you could even process the sheer coincidence of their bags arriving on an earlier connection, Rafe stepped forward. His movements were swift, practiced even, with not a sliver of hesitation. He reached down, hoisting Ethan’s heavy bag off the belt with one hand. With a quick, violent flick of his wrist, he ripped the personalized leather name tag right off the handle. He didn't stop there, grabbing Charlotte's bag and tearing her tag off too, tossing both pieces of plastic into a nearby trash bin without a single shred of remorse.

Sure, it was cruel, but something in Rafe made it feel more cruel to him that Charlotte had discarded their relationship, left him behind, and still willingly went ahead with the plan that he’d done for her. Perhaps the first time he’d done for anyone, purely out of making an effort to show his love for her.  

“Rafe!” you gasped, your eyes widening as you looked around the crowded terminal, panic surging through you. “What are you doing? Someone’s going to see you!”

“Let them look,” Rafe muttered, his voice a low, venomous rumble as he deliberately pushed both of their untagged bags off the moving carousel, sending them sliding aimlessly onto the concrete floor behind a massive pillar where they’d be completely obscured from view. He turned to you, a dark, chaotic glint in his eyes. “Good luck to them trying to find those anytime soon. Let's go.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a mix of adrenaline and terror coursing through your veins as you remembered that this was truly happening. You didn’t even have time to recover before Rafe gripped your elbow, steering you firmly through the sliding glass doors of the arrival terminal and into the bustling, humid Italian air. A crowd of private drivers stood behind a barricade, holding up signs with various surnames printed on them. Rafe’s eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk until they locked onto a man in a sharp black suit holding a sleek white placard that read in bold, black letters: CAMERON.

“Still can’t believe she was going to go on MY dime,” Rafe muttered and shook his head before marching you both forth toward the man. “C'mon, keep up.” 

The driver’s face instantly lit up with a warm, professional smile the moment he took in Rafe’s expensive jacket and your presence beside him. “Buongiorno! Mr. Cameron? And the beautiful new bride, Mrs. Cameron?” the driver asked in a thick, melodic Italian accent, gesturing toward a luxurious black Mercedes idling at the curb.

“Oh, we’re no-”

“Yes,” Rafe interjected before you could finish your sentence, and immediately, your head snapped towards him in astonishment. The lie slid smoothly from his mouth, his voice dripping with an effortless charm that was sure to have anyone falling for him. “That’s us.” Your breath hitched, and it only got worse when you felt Rafe’s hand slide down to wrap firmly around yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a tight, warning grip that silenced you instantly.

“Ah, meraviglioso! Congratulations to you both!” The driver beamed, stepping forward to take your suitcase. But before he opened the car door, he paused, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a small, beautifully wrapped velvet box tied with a satin ribbon. He handed it directly to you with a respectful bow. “A complimentary welcome gift from the hotel. We wish for you to have this the moment you touch down in Italy to celebrate your marriage.”

You held the heavy velvet box in your hands, the plush material pressing into your palms as you looked from the driver to the sleek car. You glanced up at Rafe, whose jaw was clenched tight, though a victorious, razor-sharp smirk played on his lips. You were officially holding the gift meant for the woman who stole your fiancé, sitting in the car meant to take them to paradise. There was no turning back now; you were completely in the driver's seat of their stolen life.

The second the driver disappeared to load the luggage into the trunk, you turned to Rafe. “You didn’t cancel any of your reservations?” You frowned. “How’d she know you had them booked in the first place?” 

Rafe, who was completely engrossed in looking out the window, looked back at you with a somewhat satisfied smirk on his face. “I was going to until I saw her email inbox. She’d been forwarding every confirmation to herself.” 

He said it so matter-of-factly that it almost made you forget just how invasive that sounded. “She never changed the password.”

“So... you read all of them?”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, but he couldn’t tell himself if it was out of pity for him or how dumb she’d been to overlook such a thing. “It wasn’t like I was going looking for recipes, now was I?”

“You know...” he continued, “at first I was pissed.”

“At first?”

“I was gonna cancel every booking she had.”

You blinked. “You were?”

“Mhm.”

“And then?”

His smirk widened. “Then I realized she'd already be expecting that.” The corners of your lips twitched despite yourself.

“So instead,” he continued, turning back towards you, “I figured it'd be a hell of a lot more fun if we just... beat 'em to everything. Like how they’re losing their shit right now.”

Following Rafe’s finger pointed at the airport behind the windows, you could see a poor desk attendant having to deal with exasperated people who’d been arguing with him. It was none other than Ethan and Charlotte, luggageless, while Ethan’s one vein began to bulge how it always did when he was distressed. You found yourself enjoying it more than you should have, a laugh escaping before you managed to bite it back, “Oh my god.” 

It was then, when the car drove away, you found yourself almost feeling bad for how much trouble Rafe had already put them through. Yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, laughing at it didn’t make you feel guilty.

It probably should have been obvious that for a honeymoon, Rafe would’ve booked a honeymoon suite, yet neither of you had realized it would be a bedroom you’d have to share. The bed, which was bigger than four of your twin-sized beds combined, had a huge bouquet of roses, with a note that had a congratulatory message written on it. Just beyond that was a terrace with a whole overview of the private estate's lush Roman gardens, the distant, sun-drenched rooftops of the historic city stretching out beneath a pale blue sky.

It was breathtaking, romantic even, yet everything that probably shouldn’t have been experienced with Rafe by your side. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whispered, your voice echoing off the vaulted, white-washed ceilings of the villa.

Your eyes slowly travelled from the majestic view back to the single, massive bed dominating the center of the room. The sheer white canopy netting hung elegantly around it, and the sprawling arrangement of blood-red roses sat right in the middle of the silk sheets like a glaring red flag. Behind you, the heavy wooden door clicked shut. Rafe dropped his duffel bag onto the terracotta tiled floor with a dull thud and tossed his sunglasses onto a nearby marble console table, his eyes sweeping over the room with a sudden, rigid tension that hadn't been there a moment ago.

He picked up the cream-colored card resting against the vase, his eyes scanning the elegant cursive. A cold, bitter laugh escaped his lips. “‘May your love bloom as beautifully as the coast. Warmest wishes to the happy couple, Mr. and Mrs. Cameron.’ Happy my ass.” Rafe said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble as he walked toward the bed. He ripped the card in half, tossing the pieces carelessly onto the mattress to kill the reminder of who Mrs. Cameron was supposed to be in this case. 

“Rafe, there’s only one bed,” you pointed out, the panic finally breaking through your jet-lagged haze. Your heart did a strange, erratic flip against your ribs as you thought of what would inevitably have to happen if there wasn’t another bed. “When you said we were booting them out of your reservations, I thought you meant we’d have separate rooms. A suite usually has a pull-out couch, or a second bedroom, or—"

“Darlin’, this is the honeymoon suite,” Rafe interrupted, his tone entirely matter-of-fact as he turned to face you. He loosened the top button of his shirt, the sharp lines of his jaw tight as he observed how on edge you were. As the fabric shifted, the afternoon light spilling through the terrace doors caught against the tanned skin just beneath his collar, your eyes lingering for a fraction too long before you forced yourself to look away. “There are no other rooms. This is what I paid for when it was supposed to be a honeymoon.”

You stared at him dumbfoundedly, your heart spiking in both frustration and confusion at Rafe’s reaction to the lack of space for you both, while the reality of the situation was crashing down on you. You were thousands of miles away from home, in a country Ethan had told you wasn't worth visiting, about to share a bed with Rafe Cameron—a man who was currently acting as the architect of a chaotic revenge plot.

“I can go ask the front desk if they have a vacancy,” you muttered, already half-turning back toward the door, your middle-class instinct to fix the problem kicking in. “I can pay for a standard room. It’s fine, I’ll just—”

“Nah, nah, nah. Not this shit again,” Rafe snapped, his hand shooting out to catch your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm, the warmth of his hand sending an unfamiliar current up your arm that you immediately hated yourself for noticing. It had only been a touch, one meant to stop you from walking away, yet your body had reacted as though it had forgotten whose hand it belonged to. 

He stepped closer, towering over you, the expensive scent of his cologne completely overtaking the room's lemon-scented air. “There are no vacancies. This is peak season in the country, and frankly, I’m not lettin’ you spend your money on some subpar room when my name is on the deed for this entire place for the next four days.”

You looked up at him, breathless at the sheer intensity he held in the cerulean hues of his eyes. “So what do you suggest we do, Rafe? Just sleep together? Like it's nothing?”

Rafe’s gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes, as if he were considering it. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it sporadically, sometimes lying at night, wondering if you’d be needing someone’s touch more intimately. Except, you were currently getting on his nerves a lot more than you did before, which made it hard to desire. 

“We’re adults,” he said softly, a dangerous, low cadence taking over his voice as his fingers slowly uncurled from your wrist. “The bed is huge. Jus’ keep t’your side, I’ll keep t’mine. We’re here to do a job, remember? Don't let a piece of furniture make you chicken out now.”

Neither of you moved. The breeze drifting through the terrace doors stirred the sheer canopy overhead, carrying the scent of citrus blossoms from the gardens below. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang across the city, yet neither of you seemed capable of looking away first.

It was you who broke eye contact, stepping around him toward your suitcase with a muttered, "I'm taking the left side." Rafe let out a quiet hum behind you. "Wasn't gonna argue with you, Angel."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, already irritated by how effortlessly he got under your skin, yet somehow still unable to decide whether his lack of protest was disappointing or relieving.

“This is where they’re supposed to be in a bit for their reservations,” Rafe said matter-of-factly after looking up from his phone screen. He looked to see you fidgeting with the side of your dress as you stared at the restaurant, uneasiness radiating from you. “Hey, uh- y’don’t need to stress ‘bout it.” 

You stopped twisting the fabric of your dress, cutting your eyes toward him with a flat, unimpressed look. "I'm not stressing, Rafe, I'm just… calculating the risk of everything." You levelled him with a firm gaze, making sure he knew you weren't about to fold or scurry off to hide the second things got real. "If we're committing to this, we can’t fuck this up."

Rafe’s lips twitched, a sudden, genuinely amused gleam cutting through his serious demeanour. "Fair enough, but you're wit' me. Nothing's gonna happen."

The nervous flutter in your stomach didn't fully melt until the hostess led you out onto the main terrace. The second your heels hit the stone floor, it was as if the air in your lungs were suddenly gone. The view was entirely unfair for the current circumstances you’d come here for. The restaurant was carved directly into the cliffside, hanging over a sea that looked like liquid sapphire under the setting sun. Below, the historic rooftops of the coastal town glowed in warm, golden hues, and the soft strumming of a mandolin drifted through the air, almost exactly how you’d imagined it, yet more. 

"Oh my god," you breathed, completely forgetting to be on guard for a split second. "I gotta hand it to her, she’s got taste."

"Yeah," Rafe murmured, though when you glanced at him, he wasn't looking at the sunset. He was scanning the layout of the patio, checking the perimeter like a man preparing for a casino heist. Once seated at a prime, frontline table overlooking the water, a waiter in a crisp white tuxedo slid two heavy, leather-bound menus into your hands. “Buonasera. May I start you with some wine, or are we ready to order?”

You opened the menu, your eyes scanning the Italian words as a sudden, deeply annoying wave of blankness washed over you. For all these years, your culinary identity had been entirely dictated by Ethan. 'We don't like seafood, remember, babe? Let's just share the truffle pasta.' You realized with a sickening jolt that you didn't even know what you liked to eat anymore because of how long you’d spent adapting to his preferences to keep the peace; your own personality had completely stalled.

"We'll do the Branzino al Forno," Rafe spoke up smoothly, not even looking at his menu. "And a bottle of the '21 Brunello."

The waiter nodded, pen poised. "And for the lady?"

“She’ll have the lemon risotto, but hold the capers.” Rafe froze immediately after the words left his mouth, while you blinked, staring across the table at him, lowering your menu. The second instinct he had to immediately jump to this order stunned him, the memory of it all making him peeved. “Actually, what do you want?”

You looked at him, just as ashamed as you softly replied, "I don't know."  A heavy, incredibly ironic silence settled over the table. You were a blank slate, entirely stunted by Ethan’s control, and Rafe was a carbon copy of Charlotte’s ghost, ordering her favourite dishes out of sheer, co-dependent habit. You were two fractured people trying to play roles that didn't even belong to you.

The waiter stood awkwardly between the two of you, clearly unsure of what was happening. "...Would you like another minute?" 

“No, it’s uhm, okay. I’ll try the risotto, but keep the capers please.” The waiter disappeared, causing silence to settle on the table that was heavy with shame and guilt. Somehow, between the two of you, neither one actually knew what they liked. Not because you'd never had the chance to discover it, but because somewhere along the way, the people you'd loved had quietly started deciding for you.

“To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever ordered for myself,” you confessed to Rafe, not really caring if he’d been listening or not. “Ethan mostly did it because his diet was more complicated and ‘better’, whatever that meant, so I guess it was safer just to follow that.”

Rafe let out a quiet breath through his nose before shaking his head once. "Jesus." A humourless smile crossed his face while rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I don't think I have either."

"You literally just did."

"I wasn't orderin' for me." His gaze drifted toward the view, a distant look in his eyes. "I was orderin' what Charlotte would've gotten."

Before you could say anything, Rafe reached across the table, straightening the candle before adjusting the position of your wine glass by less than an inch.

"What?" He asked, suddenly feeling hotter under your analyzing gaze as you watched him.

"Nothing."

He smoothed down the front of his jacket, adjusted the watch on his wrist, then glanced around the restaurant for what felt like the tenth time since you'd sat down. You couldn't quite figure out what he was looking for, or why he cared so much. Suddenly, a rise in voices and its ensuing commotion near the hostess stand caught your attention, causing you both to look in that direction. Through the small gap between people and their menus raised, you saw them.

Ethan and Charlotte walked onto the terrace looking like they’d been to hell and back. Their clothes were wrinkled, their hair was windblown from the coastal air, and Ethan was clearly carrying the stress of their previous mishap, his face red from the humid trek up the cliffside steps. But to your surprise, they were still clearly in love—Ethan was murmuring an apology, his hand resting against the small of her back—but the romantic illusion was definitely cracked.

“I hate to say this, but I feel bad that their trip started off this way,” You confessed, taking in the way her hand was wrapped around his arm, as Ethan’s eyes looked at her with a glimmer of love. Even with it all, you somewhat found it adorable how they’d still managed to find comfort in each other, not letting the circumstances affect them. 

Rafe looked at you before looking in their direction, seeing the amount of love you still held for Ethan in your eyes as your pupils widened with a glint of bittersweet that made it obvious that you were replaying the moments when it’d been you and Ethan in that exact position. He’d seen it one too many times at every backyard barbecue, every social event, at any and every setting your paths would cross, and yet, no part of him questioned if Charlotte had ever looked at him with that same gaze. Because for some reason, he knew she didn’t. 

Then, looking at the two, he couldn’t help but tense under how Charlotte had eased into Ethan’s touch, while most of the time, she was usually stiff under his. The realization was enough to make his stomach turn as he recounted all the times in the past two years that he’d told himself that she wasn’t affectionate, that physical touch was simply not her thing. That she showed love differently, and he was asking for too much every time he'd reached for her hand only to be met with frigidness and a polite smile. Even in their dishevelled, agitated state, she leaned into him like he was her gravity, a natural reflex that Rafe had never managed to evoke from her no matter how many luxury vacations or diamonds he threw her way.

He shifted his gaze back to you, watching the way your lower lip trembled slightly before you bit it down, forcing the bittersweet nostalgia back into the shadows where it belonged. A sudden, unfamiliar spike of resentment flared in his chest, not at Ethan, but at the sheer injustice of it all. You were sitting here, practical and sharp, holding onto a love that had been completely weaponized against you. On the other hand, he was sitting across from you, drowning in the phantom echoes of a relationship that had probably been a lie from the very first page.

Rafe tore his eyes away from them with a scoff, shaking his head once as if the movement alone could rid him of the sight. “Nah, fuck that. I’m hoping they get food poisoning from this place.”

“Rafe!” You giggled at his bluntness, making Rafe smile despite his mind saying otherwise. “That’s excessive!”

“Yeah? Well, it’s either that or them getting an STD-they’re coming this way. Look the other way!” Rafe reached for your hands, your nimble fingers finding a place in his palm as he rubbed his thumbs across your fingers in a loving manner. For the first time all evening, the knot sitting in your chest loosened just enough that you forgot—if only for a few seconds—that the two people sitting twenty feet away had once been the center of your entire worlds.

"I don't understand why our reservation was pushed back an hour," Charlotte complained in her honey-like voice as they were led past your table toward a cramped, dark corner near the kitchen doors. "And we were supposed to have a water view!"

“It’s okay, honey. We'll make the best of it,” Ethan soothed her, making you roll your eyes at their calm demeanours.

As they disappeared into the back corner, Rafe turned back, a victorious, entirely chaotic smirk spreading across his handsome features as he snapped his fingers, gesturing the waiter back over. 

"Sir?" the waiter asked politely.

Rafe leaned in, "The couple that just sat back by the kitchen—the Americans. Send them a complimentary bottle of this.” He pointed at the menu. “And tell them it's a special gift from the kitchen to celebrate their... delay."

“I must advise you, sir. That is very bitter; they’ll have a headache in two sips.”

“I know,” Rafe smirked, sliding a crisp hundred-euro note across the tablecloth with practiced ease. The waiter’s eyes widened slightly at the bill, but he smoothly pocketed it with a respectful nod. “Right away”

You watched the waiter walk off, then turned your gaze back to Rafe, who was looking entirely pleased with himself. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you studied him. "You know, for someone who claims he doesn't care about anything, you are deeply obsessed with how the world sees you. And getting revenge."

Rafe’s smirk only grew bigger at the mention of it. "It keeps me alive."

“You got nothing else to live for?” You raised your eyebrows.

“It’s either that or making my dad proud.” 

“Doesn’t it get suffocating though?” You challenged, the analytical side of your brain digging in. “Trying to fit into a box?”

The question hung heavily in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Rafe didn't answer; he just stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the sudden wall between you growing ten feet high. The reality was that you didn't really know each other, which made you feel worse about pushing it. You were just two tragic casualties of the same war, forced into a beautiful place under terrible circumstances.

The rest of the dinner was a quiet, slightly awkward affair, with small talk about how the food was good. You ate your risotto—which, ironically, you actually enjoyed—and watched from afar as Ethan took a sip of the terrible house wine, his face instantly twisting in disgust while Charlotte had a grimace on her face that she tried to mask as pleasure.

You found yourself looking into the bathroom mirror, trying to think of all the ways you could stall getting into the same bed as Rafe for the night. The nightly skincare routine was scattered on the bathroom counter and had all been applied with five minutes for each step, trying to delay every second you’d have to face him after awkwardly ending whatever banter you both had going on. 

With a deep breath, you looked up to the sky, eyes closed as you pleaded, “Please let him be asleep. Or hooking up with another woman in their room. Or anywhere but here.” 

As you stepped back into the room with whatever false confidence you could muster up, you looked to see Rafe, shirtless as he lay on the bed in his pyjama pants, scrolling absentmindedly on his phone. But once Rafe glanced up, for a second, he forgot what he'd been reading.

The pale satin of your pyjama set caught the warm glow from the bedside lamps, the fabric shifting with every hesitant step you took toward the bed. It wasn't revealing by any means, yet something about the way it draped over you so effortlessly made it impossible for him to look away. You looked softer than you'd been all day, more like the woman he'd watched laugh across the dinner table rather than the one who'd spent the afternoon arguing with him at every opportunity.

He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes back down to his phone before you caught him staring.

"You took forever."

You rolled your eyes. "I was hoping you'd disappeared by now."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Mmm, tough luck, Angel."

A quiet smile tugged at your lips upon hearing the nickname, despite yourself. You climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, making a dramatic effort to keep as much distance between the two of you as humanly possible. The mattress dipped beneath your weight. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the awkwardness of the situation feeling more apparent than ever.

You reached over to switch off the lamp before pausing.

"You know," you said quietly, turning back to see Rafe already looking at you, "today could've gone a lot worse."

"We're still alive."

"I was thinking more along the lines of not getting caught."

"We didn't."

"No thanks to you stealing their driver."

"Aye, they weren't usin' him."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

"You're truly something else."

"I've heard."

Silence settled over the room again, though this time it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable. You found yourself stealing a glance in his direction. The dim light softened the sharpness that usually lived in his features. Without the tailored shirts and expensive watches he'd worn all day, he looked different from all the times you had seen him; he looked younger and more relaxed. Less like the polished businessman he'd spent years trying to become, and more like himself, even if you hadn’t met that version yet.

The thought caught you off guard, making you quickly turn your attention toward the ceiling. Beside you, Rafe turned back to stare stubbornly at his phone screen, though he hadn't read a single word in the last minute. 

Jesus Christ, he thought to himself. He needed to stop looking at you in the light he was seeing you in right now. This was temporary anyway. You were temporary. You were just the girl he'd been dragged into this ridiculous revenge scheme with, nothing more, nothing less.

"Night," he muttered, finally locking his phone before setting it on the bedside table.

"Good night," you whispered back, turning towards the balcony door to see the tinge from the street lights glow from under. For what felt like an eternity, the only sounds were the distant hum of Rome beyond the doors and the quiet rustling of sheets every time one of you shifted, both painfully aware that there was another person only a few feet away.

Eventually, the steady rhythm of breathing replaced the silence. Tomorrow was another day, another opportunity to ruin their day, yet you hadn’t realized how much you dreaded doing it with the stranger sleeping on the other side of the bed.

dividers: @cursed-carmine @saradika-graphics

taglist update!!!: hi all, i mean this with my heart when i say I truly get so happy when see any of you asking to be on the taglist for eys. unfortunately, i’ll have to close the taglist solely because its getting hard for me to maintain, as i’m writing on top of working a corporate job which has become more demanding as i’ve gotten promoted. feel free to have the notifications on my notif blog @/starkeyscumdoll to be updated. i'm so sorry to disappoint anyone and thank you for understanding! :’)

you swore you heard a few people gasp when you leaned up a little, snaked your arms around luke’s neck, and hungrily pulled him into you for a kiss. he was taken aback for a second, but quickly got into a rhythm- moving his lips in sync with yours as his hands roamed over your curves.

you were just beginning to wonder how long you’d have to make out with luke when you felt an even stronger hand than his grab the back of your forearm and yank you away, causing you to collide with a hard surface you could only assume was rafe’s chest.

you barely had time to confirm it was him before he was pulling you away from the party. when you glanced over your shoulder, luke shot you a wink and you giggled before turning back around, following rafe to wherever he was leading you.

when the two of you finally reached an empty bedroom, rafe threw the door open and dragged you inside. he slammed the door behind you and pushed your back against the cool surface.

as soon as you looked into his eyes, you felt a wet patch begin to form in your panties. rafe was towering over you with dark eyes. his chest rising and falling rapidly due to his anger.

“what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” his ring clad fingers wrapped around your throat as he spoke.

“what are you talking about?” you flutter your eyelashes innocently at him, causing him to roll his eyes and squeeze your neck harder.

“no, don’t play dumb with me, Y/N. you know what i’m fucking talking about. you think i didn’t see you all over that guy? think i’d miss the way you were practically fucking him in the middle of the living room, hm?” he sneered.

you gulped before replying. “ohhh, that? that was just luke. he’s nothing.” you were sure you saw steam come from rafe’s ears as you shrugged.

“nothing?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“nothing. but, i don’t understand why you care so much anyways. it’s not like we’re…together.” the way his eyes were boring into you, the way the cool metal of his rings felt against your skin, the way you could feel him hardening through his pants as his hips were pressing into yours had you struggling to keep up your innocent facade.

rafe closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head, taking a deep breath and leaning closer to you before he spoke again. “guess you’ve forgotten who you belong to.”

he didn’t give you time to respond before he was crashing his lips onto yours, dragging his free hand up and down your body.

rafe bit your bottom lip and pulled on it roughly as his hand now worked to bunch your dress up and slip your panties down.

the sudden feeling of his fingers inside of you made you gasp and your legs began to shake.

rafe chuckled darkly at this before saying “wonder who’s got you this wet- me or that fucking loser?”

you tried to answer him, but your state of bliss caused your words to come out jumbled.

“speak up.” again, rafe’s hand squeezed tighter around your throat slightly, making you moan.

“you! y-you, rafe.” your response seemed to satisfy him as a smirk crept upon his face.

the way his fingers were thrusting in and out of you joint with the way his thumb was toying with your clit had you seeing stars. rafe always knew how to make you feel good, it was one of the things you loved about him. one of the things that kept you coming back.

his dick hardened in his pants at the way you clenched around his fingers, silently telling him you were about to cum.

“you gonna cum, baby?” rafe asked, amusedly.

“mhm!” you nodded and rafe just shook his head.

“tell me who’s making you feel this good first.” he smirked as he curled his fingers inside of you, causing you to gasp.

“you a-are, rafe!” you curled your toes as you tried to keep your orgasm in, but his pace was making it almost impossible.

“me. and only me. now make a mess around my fingers, princess, come on.” his words had that coil in your stomach popping immediately. his dick was now painfully straining against his pants as your juices soaked his fingers.

rafe must have noticed you beginning to relax and trying to catch your breath as if that was it, because he suddenly began laughing.

you blinked several times, trying to get out of the daze he had you in.

“you think i’m done with you?” his hands were under your dress now, moving it up and over your head, leaving you bare in front of him.

“i…i…” you tried to speak but couldn’t find words. rafe didn’t mind, though. because, before you knew it, you heard the sound of his expensive belt hitting the floor.

within seconds, rafe’s thick length was slamming inside of you. you moaned as he drew his hips back, pulling completely out before driving himself right back into your cunt.

“rafe!” you practically screamed out, causing him to go even harder.

“what was that, angel? who’s making you feel this good? who’s pussy is this?” rafe asked you, his fingers dug into your hips holding you in place.

“you, rafe-fuck!! it’s you!” your eyes fluttered closed as threw your head back, not even caring that it hit against the door a little harder than you would’ve liked.

“me?” he questioned again with a smirk.

“mhm!” you whined out, your nails digging into his back.

“that’s right, baby. me. this tight, pretty pussy is mine. you are mine.” rafe’s right hand moved from your hip to your throat as he spoke. “look at me. let me see those pretty eyes.”

you obeyed, opening your eyes at his sharp tone.

“i don’t want you to ever act like you don’t know that again. do you understand me?” rafe’s hand tightened around your throat as he waited for your reply, still thrusting into you at an unrelenting pace.

“yes s-sir!” you replied breathily, nodding.

his dick twitched at the name and he swore he could’ve came right then. the sight of you, naked, whimpering and moaning underneath him while he fucked you relentlessly had him seeing stars. sometimes, you’d tease him about being pussydrunk and he’d fervently deny it (despite it being so obviously true).

rafe groaned when he felt your walls clenching around his dick.

“rafe! ‘m close!” you wrapped your hands around his shoulders for support.

“i know, baby. me too.” his hands gripped onto your hips.

the pit building in your stomach had tears welling up in your eyes.

“i can’t, rafe! please! ‘need to cum!” you whined out.

“yeah?” he asked with a smirk.

“yes! please, please!” tears were rolling down your cheeks as you drug your nails down his back.

“cum for me, baby. make a mess on my cock.” with his words, you practically flooded his dick with your cum. your orgasm led him to his own, and within seconds he was shooting thick, white ropes of cum into your walls.

rafe’s hands cupped your head and he planted a passionate kiss onto your lips as he fucked you through your orgasm and his own.

once he was done, he pulled out and placed another kiss onto your forehead before reaching for your discarded dress and panties. rafe helped you step back into your clothes before redressing himself.

your eyes widened when you finally looked at the mirror hanging on the wall across from you

rafe caught this and began laughing at the way you gasped and immediately tried to fix your hair.

his hand came up to stop you, though, grabbing your hands and holding them in his own. “no.”

“rafe! let me fix my fucking hair!” you tried to snatch your hands away out of his grip but he only held on tighter and shook his head, pulling you closer to him.

“and keep everyone from seeing you after i’ve fucked you dumb? not a chance.” rafe swung open the door and patted you on the ass twice, urging you to go. “now, let’s go.”

you swallowed thickly as you and rafe made your way back out into the party. he stood beside you, smirking proudly with his hand on your waist the entire time. you, on the other hand, began feeling a bit flustered at the looks everyone was sending your way.

one conversation you overheard made you want to giggle and kick your feet like a schoolgirl, but you refrained and kept a straight face as you and rafe finally made it to the front door.

“damn bro, i’d love to get a piece of that.”

“are you fucking stupid?

She’s stretched along the couch in an old shirt and little cotton shorts, one bare foot hooked over the armrest, watching a game show at a volume loud enough to cover the hum of cicadas outside. A sweating glass of lemonade sits on the floor beside her. The ice has mostly melted. 

The host on television is asking a woman from Virginia to name something people lie about on a first date, and she’s halfway through deciding the answer is income when someone knocks on the door.

Three hard hits with the flat of a hand, close enough together to sound impatient before she’s even moved. She closes her eyes. There are only about four people who come here without texting first, and none of them improve her afternoon.

“Barry,” a voice calls from outside.

Her eyes open again.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She knows the voice. Everyone on the Cut knows the voice, probably, though most people know it louder. Thrown across bonfires, barking at Pogues, going sharp and ugly when someone tells him no. She knows it lower, too, dragged through the thin walls while Barry talks to him outside about money and amounts and whether he’s good for it this time.

Rafe knocks again. “Yo.”

She stays exactly where she is for another second, mostly out of principle, then swings her legs off the couch and stands. The vinyl peels away from her skin with a small tacky sound. Lovely. Dignified. Exactly how a girl dreams of greeting the prettiest unstable boy on the island.

By the time she gets to the door, he’s already opening it.

“Jesus, do you mind?” she says, one hand still on the latch as he steps halfway inside.

Rafe stops with one foot on the little metal stair and the other over the threshold, his shoulders almost filling the doorway. He looks too clean for the caravan. Not clean in the literal sense, there’s dust on his shoes and a faint dampness at the collar of his polo from the heat, but the shirt is expensive and pale and sitting close across his chest, and his hair is pushed back from his forehead with enough product to survive the humidity.

His eyes find her face. Then dip, quick and automatic, over the shirt hanging loose to the tops of her thighs and her bare legs beneath it. Then come back up.

She leans one shoulder against the frame and gives him a flat look. “Oh. You.”

Rafe’s mouth tightens like he’s been insulted by her existing before he was prepared for it. He breathes out through his nose and glances past her into the caravan, already searching. “Where’s your brother?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

She considers him. The slightly glassy edge in his eyes. The way his fingers keep moving against the seam of his shorts, tapping once, stopping, tapping again. He looks put together if you don’t know what to look for, which is probably why Kooks still let him into their houses and hand him drinks instead of quietly hiding the silverware.

“Somewhere you’re not,” she says. “Go away.”

Rafe looks back at her. His head tips slightly, the beginning of that disbelieving expression he gets when someone without a trust fund speaks to him like they’re equals. “You got anything?”

She almost laughs, because he says it like she’s a vending machine Barry forgot to switch off before leaving. “Not for you.”

His jaw shifts.

She folds her arms over her chest, and his eyes flick down again before he can stop them. It’s only a second. Barely anything. Still, warmth moves unpleasantly up the back of her neck, immediate and betraying, and she angles her body deeper into the doorway so the dimness inside can do her a favour.

“Barry said I can’t sell to you anymore,” she adds. “So.” She gives him a tiny smile, all false sympathy. “Bye-bye.”

For a moment, neither of them moves. The television keeps chattering behind her. Someone wins eight hundred dollars and a washer-dryer set. Outside, the air sits thick and white over the dirt lot, hot enough that the trees have gone still around it.

Rafe lifts his hand and drags his thumb over the outside of his eyebrow, slow, pressing harder near the end. It’s an old movement, maybe. Or a nervous one. With him, it’s difficult to tell where habit ends and the need to crawl out of his own skin begins.

“Mhm,” he says.

She waits.

He drops his hand. “I need coke.”

There’s no real performance around it this time. No smirk. No rich-boy laziness stretched over the request to make it seem recreational and harmless. Only the words, flat and rough and sitting between them with their shoes on the furniture.

She looks at him properly then, despite herself.

His pupils are a little too wide. There’s a faint redness beneath his eyes, not enough to make him look tired so much as sharpened badly at the edges. His tongue presses once against the inside of his cheek, leaving a small hard line there before he lets it go. He isn’t shaking. Rafe Cameron would probably bite his own hand off before letting anyone watch him shake, but something under his skin is moving too fast.

Her stomach tightens in a way she dislikes because it isn’t quite pity and it isn’t only fear. It’s awareness. Of how close he is. Of the narrow doorway holding both of them in the same little strip of shade. Of the clean salt smell caught under his cologne and the irritated heat coming off him. Of the fact that his mouth is prettier when he’s angry, which is an appalling design flaw in both him and her.

She lifts her chin. “Hm.”

His eyes narrow.

“Not getting any.”

He licks at the inside of his mouth, gaze dragging briefly past her shoulder again as if Barry might materialise near the kitchenette out of sheer male solidarity. “When’s he comin’ back?”

She shrugs. “Later.”

“When?”

“Rafe.”

“What?”

“He’s not selling any to you either.”

His nostrils flare once. He looks toward the floor, tongue pressing into his cheek again, then back at her with something colder gathering behind his eyes. The room before anger, when all the furniture is still upright but everyone sensible has started checking where the exits are.

She knows enough about him not to enjoy pushing too hard when he looks like this. She also knows enough about him to understand that looking afraid would make the whole thing worse.

So she keeps her face bored and taps two fingers against the edge of the door. “Bye, Rafe.”

His gaze sits on hers. Long enough that the caravan seems to shrink around the space between them. Long enough that she becomes horribly aware of the thin cotton at her chest, the damp little pieces of hair stuck near her temple, the fact that she’s barefoot and he’s looking at her like he’s deciding whether she’s genuinely a problem or only pretending to be one.

Then his eyes drop to her mouth. It happens so quickly she could almost convince herself it didn’t. Almost.

Her lips part before she means them to. Enough that his gaze catches the movement, and something in his expression changes by a fraction. His jaw loosens. The hard little line between his brows disappears, replaced by something quieter and no less dangerous.

It feels suddenly obscene that the game show is still playing behind her.

Rafe glances past her again, but this time she has the strange, hot thought that he’s not looking for Barry at all. His eyes drag over the dark little living space, the couch with the blanket kicked into one corner, her glass on the floor, the window unit rattling uselessly. The shape of where she’d been lying alone before he arrived.

Then he looks back at her.

She folds her arms tighter. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

His mouth gives the smallest twitch, like he’s amused she thinks she gets to accuse him of things while standing there dressed like that.

“Wasn’t,” he says.

“Right.”

“Mhm.”

“Do you need help finding the door?”

Rafe looks over his shoulder at the open air behind him, then back at her. “Think I got it.”

“Good.”

He still doesn’t move for another second, and she hates that her body notices. The stupid alertness low in her stomach. The way the heat behind her knees has nothing to do with the weather now. Rafe has always been good-looking in a way that feels personally hostile, all expensive angles and blue eyes and the kind of mouth that looks like it knows how to apologise without ever having done it properly.

She has a tiny crush. Tiny. Microscopic, really. Barely medically detectable. And completely irrelevant, considering he’s currently trying to buy drugs from her brother and looking at her like she’s inconvenienced him by having boundaries.

Rafe finally steps back onto the dirt. Sunlight catches across his hair, turning the gelled brown almost gold in places. He squints at her from the bottom step, one hand sliding into his pocket.

“Uh-huh,” he says. “See ya around.”

“Threatening.”

His mouth tilts. “Wasn’t a threat.”

“That makes it worse.”

This time he does smile. Small and crooked and gone almost as soon as it appears, but real enough to put a bright, stupid little pull beneath her ribs before she can stamp it out. Then he turns and walks toward the bike.

She closes the door harder than necessary and drops the latch into place, standing there with one palm still pressed flat against the thin wood. Outside, she hears the scrape of his shoe against gravel, the metallic click and choke of the dirt bike turning over, then the engine catching loud enough to shake faintly through the caravan floor.

It idles for a moment. She tells herself she isn’t listening to see whether he leaves.

The engine revs. Tires spit gravel. The sound pulls away down the road, harsh and fading, until the cicadas move back into the space he leaves behind and the television becomes audible again.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realised had climbed so high into her chest. Then she turns, crosses back to the couch, and drops onto it with all the careful composure of someone who has absolutely not just stood barefoot in a doorway thinking about Rafe Cameron’s mouth while denying him cocaine.

The woman from Virginia has made it to the bonus round.

“Income,” she tells the television, reaching for her lemonade. Her hand is only slightly unsteady when she lifts it. “The answer is income.”

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Charlotte stepped back, though her stance was firm as she took a deep breath, her chest heaving, “Listen, Rafe. I didn’t mean for this to happen; it just… naturally did, and it makes sense. I've known him my whole life, and I know it’s cutting it close, but it feels right.” There weren’t many things that didn’t make sense to Rafe, but hearing his fiancée speak was one of the few that he could add to that list. “You deserve someone who’d marry you without keeping secrets from you. I’m honestly doing you a favour.”

“Doing me a favour?” Rafe barked out a bitter laugh, shaking his head at how incredulously confident Charlotte was in the situation. “Nah, nah, nah. Tell me how any of this is meant to benefit me. How are we going to tell everyone?” 

“I don’t know, Rafe,” She turned, her manicured nails sliding off the engagement ring on her finger before placing it on the counter of the island. It didn’t feel real, seeing the ring that Rafe had given out of a place of love be discarded so easily, sitting solemnly on the marble top and mocking Rafe that he’d been played. Charlotte slipped her weekender bag on her shoulder, nonchalantly letting out, “I’ll have someone pick up my things. Goodbye, Rafe.” 

The hair that prickled under Rafe’s palm felt more like a bed of nails as he rubbed his head, trying to make sense of how his Saturday afternoon went from nothing to everything in a matter of five minutes. He watched her blonde hair swaying from one end to another as she walked towards the car of a man she'd apparently been choosing long before she'd admitted it out loud. 

Suddenly, everything that was in sight was all the more overwhelming for Rafe, the smell of the citrus candles she’d placed around the house still hanging in the air. The decor she had chosen with such taste hung across from a portrait from their engagement shoot, as he was dragged from one store to another while he blindly handed over his credit card. 

Reminders of her were practically plastered in every space a wall could have in a house as big as his, and it all had to come down. Rafe grabbed the familiar black trash bag, the polyethylene gliding smoothly in his touch as he opened it, tossing every little thing he could into the plastic without a care for if it broke. By the time he'd finished clearing out the main floor, his chest was rising and falling heavily, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to the back of his neck despite the cool air conditioning that hummed throughout the house. Once the main floor was stripped bare, he headed for his bedroom, tearing fabrics from the hangers into their impending doom in the bag. 

He tied off the last trash bag with a brutal, snapping shot that echoed in the silence of the bedroom, the adrenaline now wearing off, leaving a cold, hollow cavity in his chest. With every picture frame that shattered and every piece of her life that disappeared into the bag, the reality of it all seemed to settle heavier in his chest, a sickening realization washing over him that she hadn't just chosen someone else—she'd looked at everything he'd spent years building and decided it still wasn't enough.

Ward and his constant disappointment were another problem that he’d have to deal with soon, Ward having spent the past year telling anyone who'd listen that Rafe was finally settling down. The knowledge that he’d be met with the same condescending words that it was his fault, hurled at him, as Rafe would stare towards the ground in a blank stare. 

As he lay in bed that night, he looked at that picture on his phone, the one where he’d stood with Charlotte, him, and you on the day of his engagement party. Charlotte was leaning in much too close toward her childhood friend, who’d done the same, while you and Rafe just stood at the ends, smiling towards a camera without the knowledge of what would happen. 

You.

Rafe knew he had to tell you, even if it meant having to go to the fucker’s house. He'd seen Charlotte's location sitting at her parents' house, the little blue dot still visible thanks to the fact that she'd forgotten to stop sharing it with him. If they were still there, he knew they hadn't found a way to come clean to you yet.

Another amber-hued sunrise, streaked with remnants of baby blue and rose, flooded your eyes as you sat on the patio seats in your backyard. It’d been four days since Ethan was supposed to come back from his trip, yet here you were, staring at the screen where your last text to him was still left unread. You tried hard not to let your mind spiral from all the possibilities that could have happened, the morning wind contributing to the shiver that went down your spine as you thought of if there was a plane crash you hadn’t heard of yet, making you pull your sweater’s arms closer to you. 

It was almost impossible to imagine what life would be like for you without Ethan in the picture, having been with him for so long. Your love story was akin to a romance straight from the books: two teens who’d fallen deep in love in the midst of high school and soon enough, found themselves following each other through every step of life, whether it be going to the same university, applying for jobs in the same company, and now happily engaged to each other while living in a house was fit for you both. His scent from the sweater draped over your figure, interlaced with the slight scent of salt from the waterfront nearby, wrapped you in comfort that he’d come home soon, but there was an unsettling feeling knotting in your stomach that wouldn’t go away. 

Your train of thought abruptly came to a stop when you heard banging on the door, your name being called in the distance, dread filling you as your eyes widened. Just as you reached your patio door, you saw Rafe’s figure come out from the side, his eyes that seemed like he’d been awake for almost a month looking at you with a look of pity and regret as he softly called out your name. 

“Rafe! What are you doing here so early?” You opened the door, inviting him in as you made your way to the kitchen. “The bachelorette party must’ve been going super well since they still haven’t come back yet.” 

You’d noticed that he was hesitating to step into the house, the internal battle in his head as he tried to contemplate if it was worth stepping into the house of someone who’d gotten what was his, and inadvertently broken your heart without you even knowing it. Rafe knew he was going to be breaking a home that’d taken years to build. “Hey, are you okay?” 

“I, uh-” Rafe heavily sighed. Seeing you look so vulnerable and unsuspecting of what was to come next almost made him feel guilty for what he’d come to do. Almost. “Listen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your fiancé isn't running late because the bachelorette party got extended. He’s not coming back to you at all.”

You froze, your hand hovering over the kitchen counter. “W-what? Rafe, what are you talking about?”

Rafe rubbed a hand over his jaw, already regretting this as the anger towards the two began to fester in his heart again. “Charlotte called off the wedding a few days ago,” Rafe said, his voice dropping into a sharp, venomous cadence as he finally stepped fully into the house. He couldn't stop his eyes from scanning the room, noting the domestic little life you had set up with the guy who had just ruined his. “Turns out they had this life-changing revelation that they actually love each other or some bullshit, and now they’re currently holed up at her parents' place pretending they’re some star-crossed lovers.”

He let out a harsh, mocking laugh, his jaw clenching. “So yeah. They’re together right now. The wedding’s off, and you and I just got completely fucked over by the same two people.”

Your face drained of colour. “That's not funny. Don’t fucking play with me right now.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, if this were a joke, I'd have stayed home.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“No, Ethan would never-” The words hit you like a physical force, leaving you breathless as the room seemed to tilt. Before your brain could even begin to process the sheer gravity of what Rafe was telling you, the heavy thud of the front door opening echoed through the hallway, making you both turn your heads towards the commotion of the sound as your name was called out. 

“Hey, baby? I’m home! Sorry, I’m so late; the trip became longer than we’d expected-” Ethan’s voice cut off the second he rounded the corner into the kitchen, his weekender bag slipping right out of his hand and hitting the floor with a dull thud. Then Ethan's eyes landed on Rafe, and it was as if someone had literally drained the colour from his face as he paled. It wasn’t much help that you could see small splotches of purple peeking out from under the collar of his shirt, nor the sickening smell of sweet, lingering perfume that clung to him; notes of vanilla and coffee so deeply embedded in the fabric that it felt as though she'd walked into the room with him.

You didn't even look at Rafe, though you knew that his cold glare was enough to frighten your fiancé. Your gaze locked onto Ethan, your voice barely a whisper but laced with a sudden, terrifying panic while your lips trembled. “Tell me he’s lying.” 

Ethan swallowed hard, his eyes glossy as he looked at you. “I don’t know-” 

“No!” You interjected, your voice raised at a level you hadn’t heard from yourself since that night. “Tell me he’s wrong. That you went on that bachelorette trip with Charlotte and did nothing else. That you didn’t confess your feelings for her. That you didn’t fuck her behind my back while calling to tell me ‘I love you’. That you-” 

You didn't even realize you were crying until the tears hanging from your jaw began to drip onto your feet, the sobs tearing from your chest before you could stop them. “Why, E, why? What could have possibly been missing from our relationship that was so easy to let us go?” 

“It wasn’t you; it’s just that Charlotte and I have known each other since we were babies. And during the trip, I realized that I don’t know how I would feel if I had to watch her get married and live the rest of her life with some guy who wasn’t me.” He moved closer to you, trying to reach out to console you, though you pulled away. “I guess Char just realized that, too, and it felt like we made sense. I promise it had nothing to do with us, baby, I swear.” 

Rafe scoffed, “So it took you right until our fucking wedding to realize that you wanted to be with her all this time? I don’t buy it.” 

“You don’t buy it?” Ethan snapped, pivoting toward Rafe as a desperate, defensive anger flushed his cheeks red. “This has nothing to do with you, Cameron! Get the hell out of my house!”

“Yeah?” Rafe’s voice dropped, a terrifyingly quiet rumble that sounded like a predator cornering its prey. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them until he was towering over Ethan. The air in the kitchen grew heavy, suffocating under the weight of Rafe’s volatile energy. “You think you’re a man just cause your name’s on the papers? You’re a coward, Ethan. You took my money to go sleep with my fiancée, and you ruined her life,” he gestured wildly toward you, his chest heaving under his designer shirt. “You’re a parasitic little piece of shit who couldn't keep it in his pants long enough to make it to the altar.”

“Rafe-”

“No, seriously,” Rafe cut him off, taking a step forward. “You spent years with her.” He jabbed a finger in your direction. “Years. And you couldn't break things off before screwing around with somebody else's fiancée?”

“Don't talk to me like you know anything about our relationship,” Ethan snapped, his voice rising as he lunged forward, shoving his hands square against Rafe’s chest. “Not my fault, your girl loves me more.” 

That was all the invitation Rafe needed. The manic heat that had been bubbling under Rafe's skin for days finally exploded. Before Ethan could even pull his hand back, Rafe’s fist connected with Ethan’s jaw with a sickening, wet crack, the only sound to be heard alongside your gasp, echoing through the kitchen. The force of the punch sent Ethan stumbling backward into the kitchen island, his hip colliding violently with the marble countertop. A decorative ceramic fruit bowl wobbled before crashing to the hardwood floor, shattering into a dozen sharp, white shards. 

“Rafe, stop!” you screamed, your voice cracking under the weight of the chaos.

But Rafe wasn't listening; the animalistic urge to destroy the thing that had humiliated him took over. He grabbed the front of Ethan’s shirt, the fury in him rising as he smelled Charlotte’s vanilla perfume on him, and slammed him against the refrigerator, raising his fist to strike again. Ethan groaned, his hands flying up to block his face, blood already trickling from the corner of his split lip.

“For fucks sake, I said stop!” Your voice rang out, louder and sharper than either of them had ever heard it. It pierced through the red mist in Rafe’s head. Rafe froze, his fist suspended in mid-air. He blinked, breathing heavily through his nose as he slowly turned his head to look at you. You were standing near the doorway, your hands trembling violently against your sides, tears streaming down your paled face. However, your eyes weren't weak anymore; but rather, it stunned him to see them filled with a raw, agonizing heartbreak that was all too familiar to him.

Rafe slowly lowered his fist, loosening his grip on Ethan’s collar, making Ethan slide down against the refrigerator, clutching his jaw and panting. You pointed a shaking finger directly at Ethan. “Get the fuck out.”

Ethan looked up, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes wide with a pathetic sort of shock. “Listen, sweetheart, just let me explain—”

“Don’t you dare call me that. I really don’t have the time for your shit today, Ethan,” you whispered, the venom in your voice making him flinch. Ethan opened his mouth to protest, but looking at the absolute finality in your eyes, he knew he had lost. He pushed himself up from the floor, avoiding Rafe’s lingering, lethal glare entirely. He grabbed his weekender bag from the floor, his head hanging low as he practically sprinted out the front door, the heavy click of the lock signalling the definitive end of the life you had spent years building.

The silence that followed was deafening, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of Rafe trying to catch his breath. He stood in the center of your ruined kitchen, looking around at the shattered ceramic pieces on the floor. The aggressive, manic armour he had arrived with seemed to deflate, leaving him looking suddenly awkward, a stark contrast to the violence he had just unleashed. He cleared his throat, flexing his reddened knuckles, refusing to look you directly in the eye.

“I, uh… I didn’t mean to break your bowl,” Rafe muttered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly hyper-aware of how intrusive he was in your grief. “I should probably go.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself as the cool morning breeze drifted in from the open patio door, making you both feel the cold loneliness of having their reality flipped in a matter of days. The golden sunlight was fully pouring through the windows now, illuminating the empty space where Ethan used to be every morning.

“Hey, Rafe?” you called out softly, stopping him just as he reached for the doorknob.

He stopped in his tracks, and looked up to see you directly looking at him for the first time since he’d arrived. There was still tension between the two of you; there had always been. You'd spent years knowing each other through Charlotte and Ethan, though, never quite becoming friends and never quite becoming strangers either.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice thick with more unshed tears, while your words still had a weight of awkwardness to them. “For letting me know.” 

Rafe’s throat was tight, his expression softening into something resembling genuine empathy—a rare look on a face usually twisted by anger or pride. He gave you a tight, solemn nod. “Yeah,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against his bruised knuckles. “Anytime.”

You both stood there for a moment, surrounded by shattered pieces of the lives you'd spent years building. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. 

With that, he stepped out into the crisp morning air, leaving you alone in the quiet wreckage of your home.

Seven weeks later…

You sighed as you inserted the key into the keyhole of the door, being welcomed by the soft amber lighting and quiet stillness of the new abode that still couldn’t be called home or yours just yet. After Rafe left, you'd spent the following week with anything but a dry face, packing your belongings into cardboard boxes as memories that were once vivid and lively became confined within their brown, paper walls, stacked neatly in the corner of your bedroom. Even if the house had belonged to the both of you, you knew Ethan's name was the one on the deed, leaving you with no choice but to let him and Charlotte continue their lives together in the very house where you'd once imagined raising your children.

“Hey, hey, hey, roomie,” your roommate cheerfully called out as she lay on the couch, her laptop littered with lines of code glowing in front of her. “You’re home! How was your day?”

“Hi, Sage. Work was okay,” you gave a meek smile, even though it was a dead giveaway of how you’d felt. Even though you’d found Sage’s listing for a new roommate online, you were thankful that she’d been accommodating and understanding enough to understand when you were feeling the need to be on your own.

“I’ll, just, uh-” You gestured your thumb towards your room, rounding into the hallway. 

“Wait!” 

You stopped in your tracks, turning around towards her. “Yeah?” 

Sage winced, which immediately made your stomach drop. “I know you need your space and you’re feeling down, but…” Sage hesitated, closing her laptop slightly so the blue light from her code didn't illuminate the sudden dread on her face. She reached onto the coffee table, picking up a thick, heavy, cream-coloured cardstock invitation with your name scribbled in handwriting you’d know from anywhere. It made your throat tighten. 

"Oh."

"Do you want me to throw it out?" Sage offered gently. “Or we could burn it? A lot more fun.” 

You stepped back into the living room, your fingers trembling as you took the envelope from her. The paper was expensive, textured, and embossed with elegant gold foil. You ripped it open, the sharp tear of paper echoing in the quiet apartment. Inside was a wedding invitation. Charlotte and Ethan invite you to celebrate their union. The date was the exact date of your wedding, your name easily swapped out for Charlotte’s.

The ground felt like a top, spinning you as you struggled to keep your composure without losing your mind. For almost two months, you’d struggled to pick up the pieces of yourself, trying to go on with your usual routine without someone who’d been part of that routine for so long. Even morning coffee felt odd to have when he wasn’t there to make sure your coffees were made precisely how he’d perfected it for you both all those years back. 

"No."

Sage was off the couch immediately. "What is it?"

"They invited me," you laughed weakly, tears immediately springing to your eyes. "They actually invited me."

"What the actual fuck?" Sage snatched the invitation from your hands. "Oh, that’s so fucking twisted. I’m so sorry, babe."

Before the tears could even sting the back of your eyes, a heavy, demanding knock rattled the front door, making you both freeze. 

"I'll get it." You wiped furiously at your eyes before heading towards the entrance and pulling the door open. Whatever tears were left in your system had been shocked as you found yourself looking at Rafe, his appearance looking no different than yours. A permanent frown was etched on his face, while red rimmed his eyes, making the blue in them stand out more. 

“Rafe?”

"I need to talk to you." His eyes immediately landed on the invitation clenched in your hand, making his fingernails dig deeper into his palm as he tried to keep himself calm. "You got one too?"

Your stomach dropped. "What do you mean ‘too’?"

"They sent me one." Rafe let out a humourless laugh, bafflement overcoming his senses. “Some audacity they have.” 

“Rafe, I’m really not in the mood—”

“Just listen to me,” Rafe interrupted, wrapping his hands around your wrist as he pulled you towards the hallway. As soon as you closed the door to your bedroom, Rafe was leaning his hands on your dresser, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Charlotte never changed the passwords to her email. I still have access to everything. They think they’re being slick, but I just saw the confirmation emails. They are taking the exact same honeymoon itinerary that we planned. The one I paid for.”

You stared at him, confused. “What?”

“I overheard it from Topper at the country club, they’re going to Italy and Greece,” Rafe said, a dark, vindictive smirk spreading across his lips. “It was supposed to be my wedding gift to her since her type A ass couldn’t stop perfecting her dream trip.”

“Okay, so what am I supposed to do about that?” You countered, shrugging your blazer off as you approached your closet. He tapped the folder, the noise almost as loud as your heart thumping as Rafe replied, “I want you to come with me. We're going, and we’re going to follow them and make ‘em pay for the shit they pulled on us.”

You blinked, your brain struggling to process the sheer audacity of the words coming out of his mouth. “You want me to WHAT?” you hissed, your voice rising in pitch, not entirely caring if Sage could overhear your conversation with Rage. “You want to follow our ex-fiancés on their makeshift-honeymoon wannabe trip and sabotage everything they do?”

“Yes,” Rafe’s expression was serious as ever, not a flicker of sarcasm in his voice. He leaned closer, his voice dropping into that persuasive, lethal cadence. “Think about it. We show up at the same places they go to and boot them out, then take every opportunity to ruin their entire trip. C’mon, they wasted all of these years of our lives just to fuck each other behind our backs, you don’t want a little bit of payback?”

You looked from Rafe’s wild, determined eyes down to the gold-embossed invitation mocking you from the counter. For seven weeks, you had been sad. You had been mourning a ghost.

“No, Rafe, no. I know you’re hurt and grieving, but I can’t do that to him.” 

“He ruined your life!” Rafe waved the invitation in your view, the gold foil catching the light. “They both did, and now they’re getting married on what was supposed to be your wedding day!”

The words hit you like someone had driven a fist into your chest, the air in your lungs coming out in a slow exhale as you were reminded once again. Your wedding day. That was the date you’d spent a year circling on calendars, the date you’d meticulously picked out flowers for, the date you thought you’d finally become a wife. Hearing Rafe voice the cruel reality out loud made the room tilt slightly.

An intense, exhausting battle ignited in your mind, tearing you in two directions. Part of you—the part that still wore Ethan's oversized sweaters and kept checking an unread text thread—shrank back in horror. Revenge was anything but what you wanted; it was all the more toxic. Part of you knew that if you followed through with this, it would just be letting them keep their chokehold on your life, even when they both had moved on.

But then your eyes flicked back to the gold-foiled invitation resting on the counter.

They didn't care about ruining your life. Ethan hadn’t hesitated to destroy your future, while Charlotte hadn't blinked twice before taking everything Rafe had built for her. They were rewriting their betrayal as a romance, and they were using a dream vacation to celebrate it. A sudden, unfamiliar wave of hot, venomous anger surged through your veins, momentarily drowning out the suffocating sadness. The red-horned voice whispered in your ears that they deserved to have their paradise ruined, to look up and see the collateral damage of their choices staring them right in the face.

You closed your eyes, your breath hitching as you tried to steady the frantic beating of your heart. You were so tired of being the bigger person. You were so tired of crying.

"Rafe, stop," you whispered, pressing your palms against the cool marble of the kitchen island to keep your hands from shaking. You opened your eyes, looking at him with a mixture of exhaustion and raw vulnerability. "I... I can't give you an answer right now."

Rafe lowered the invitation, his chest still heaving slightly from his outburst. He stared at you, his jaw tight, clearly expecting you to either jump on board or reject him entirely.

"I need to think about it," you said softly, your voice barely carrying across the room. "Just... give me some time. Please."

The fierce, manic energy that had been radiating off Rafe for the last ten minutes suddenly seemed to dissipate. He looked at you—really looked at you—standing in a bedroom that wasn't really yours, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, clutching yourself as if you were trying to keep from falling apart. For a split second, the cold, calculating façade he often had on slipped from his face. A flash of profound pity and shared grief softened his eyes. He knew exactly what it felt like to look at the wreckage of a life you thought you'd secured, and for the first time, he didn't just see an ally for revenge but instead someone who was hurting just as badly as he was.

Rafe slowly let out a breath, tossing the manila folder onto the counter beside the invitation.

"Fine," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He stepped back toward the door, his eyes lingering on you for one last moment. "Think about it. The flight leaves in three weeks."

As Rafe stepped out, you looked at the folder again, then back to the wedding invitation that was mocking you with its presence. Suddenly, your room felt bigger than it had since you’d moved in, the heavy silence of the apartment settling around you like a calm before the storm. The soft, gold-embossed font blurred beneath the shadows creeping across the kitchen counter, leaving you alone in the quiet dark with a choice that could either heal your heart or burn your entire world to the ground.

dividers: @cursed-carmine @saradika-graphics