𝓛𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓕𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓚

♡̷̷̷ 𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 🐆🤎 Rafe Cameron x Wife!reader

♡̷̷̷ 𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 🐆🤎 When your perfect little rich girl life gets interrupted by a missing planner, rafe cameron is the only person who can handle your meltdown.

♡̷̷̷ 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓈 🐆🤎 fluff, husband!rafe, wife!reader, established relationship(married), kook princess!reader, spoiled!reader, bratty!reader, soft!rafe cameron

♡̷̷̷ 𝒜𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓈 𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒 🐆🤎 I got the idea for this from a scene in The Housemaid that i couldn’t stop thinking about!

The Cameron estate is alive before the sun has fully settled overhead. Workers weave in and out of the sprawling house with practiced efficiency, decorators carrying armfuls of candles and linens while delivery trucks line the long driveway. Every corner buzzes with movement, every second accounted for.

“A little more to the left.” You lift a hand, motioning toward the round table as one of the decorators carefully nudges it across the stone patio, stealing nervous glances in your direction after every shove.

“No, that’s too far. Center it to the right.” With a sigh, you cross your arms over your chest.

The decorator hurries to the opposite side, bracing a hip against the table before pushing it back. She gives it a little too much force.

SCREEEECH. The legs drag across the patio with a harsh scrape. You wince instantly, fingers flying to your ears.

“I’ll do it,” you mumble. Walking over, you grip the edge of the table yourself. You shove it a few inches, stop, pull it back, step away to inspect it, then repeat the process until it’s sitting exactly where you envisioned.

Perfect. You turn toward the decorator, holding both hands out toward the table. “Now do that to all my tables.”

She nods quickly, relief washing over her face as she scurries to the next one.

The back door slides open. “Mrs. Cameron.”

You glance over your shoulder as your housemaid steps outside, clipboard tucked against her chest. Turning on your heel, you meet her halfway while decorators continue hustling around you.

“The flower arrangements just arrived,” she says, falling into step beside you as you head inside. “And the caterers called. The kitchen’s running a couple hours behind.”

A slow, tired sigh leaves your lips. “I need you to get on that.” You don’t slow your pace as you weave between workers carrying stacks of plates and crystal glasses.

“Call them back and let them know I expect everything here at the time we agreed on. If not, they can forget about working another Cameron event. If they can’t meet the schedule they promised, I’ll find someone who can.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Your housemaid gives you a quick nod before turning on her heels.

Without another glance, you continue toward the front foyer.

The massive front doors stand open, revealing a delivery truck parked in the circular drive. A man carries floral arrangements one by one through the entrance, carefully placing each centerpiece along the marble floor.

Your brows knit together. “What are these?”

The delivery driver pauses, setting down the final arrangement before looking at you.

Your gaze bounces between the bouquets and the paperwork in his hands. “I asked for white garden roses.” Silence. “These aren’t white garden roses.”

The driver offers an apologetic smile. “These are the flowers listed on the delivery form, ma’am.”

“No.” You shake your head immediately, palms raised. “No, no, no. I asked for white garden roses.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says helplessly. “These are what was requested.”

A disbelieving scoff slips from your lips. You spin on your heel, marching straight toward the kitchen, already reaching for your phone.

Halfway there, movement through the wall of windows catches your attention. Your feet stop cold. Outside, decorators smooth tablecloths across every reception table.

Your eyes widen. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Without another thought, you shove the back door open so hard it slams against the wall. “Tell me those aren’t my linens.”

Every decorator freezes and conversations die instantly.

You storm across the patio, grabbing one of the tablecloths and yanking it clean off the table.

Holding the fabric up between your fingers, you thrust it toward the nearest decorator. “Does this look ivory to you?”

The poor woman swallows hard, her eyes darting between you and everyone else standing frozen around the patio. “…No, ma’am.”

“No, it doesn’t!” you exclaim, giving the linen a frustrated shake. “This is white!” Your voice echoes across the backyard. “Why are my tables covered in white linen?”

Not a single person answers. They simply stare, waiting for the storm to pass.

You throw the ivory sheet to the side, the fabric crumpling onto the patio as your eyes sweep over the decorators standing frozen around you. “Who signed off on this?”

The decorator nearest to you nervously interlocks her hands in front of herself, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure, Mrs. Cameron. These were just delivered.”

You press the heel of your hand against your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut for half a second before turning away. Without another word, you storm back toward the house.

“Mrs. Cameron.” Another decorator, the one overseeing the interior setup, hurries after you with a clipboard clutched against her chest.

“Not right now.” You don’t even look at her. You simply hold a hand up as you brush past.

Inside, the kitchen is just as chaotic. Staff members weave around one another carrying trays, florists trim stems at the island, and boxes of candles and place cards cover every inch of counter space.

Your eyes dart around the room. Where is it? You shove aside a stack of seating cards. Nothing. You lift a pile of folders. Nothing. Candles. Ribbons. Guest favors. Nothing.

Nothing is going right. Nothing is going the way it’s supposed to. Nothing is going as perfectly as it needs to.

“Mrs. Cameron,” the decorator tries again, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Get out.” You throw a hand toward the doorway without looking up, yanking a drawer open. “Everyone out of my kitchen!”

For a second no one moves. Some stare at you with wide, startled eyes. Others barely react at all, watching with blank expressions like this is just another Tuesday spent cleaning up after Rafe Cameron’s spoiled wife.

“Now!” Your arms fly out before slapping back against your thighs.

The room erupts into motion. Decorators quickly gather what they can, avoiding eye contact as they hurry toward the exits.

You continue ripping drawers open one after another, rummaging through utensils, notepads, chargers, and loose papers before slamming each one shut hard enough to rattle the cabinets.

Your housekeeper approaches carefully, almost as though she’s trying not to startle a wounded animal. “Mrs. Cameron…”

“Where’s my planner?” You whirl around to face her, both palms planted firmly against the cold marble countertop.

The housekeeper glances around the kitchen before meeting your eyes. “I…” she begins quietly. “I thought I put it in here.”

“You thought?” Your voice jumps an octave. “You thought?”

The remaining staff suddenly become fascinated with literally anything but you.

“I have a charity gala in six hours,” you say, your voice trembling with frustration. “Every speech, every donor list, every seating assignment is in that planner.”

With one violent sweep of your arm, everything on the island crashes to the floor. Candles. Folders. Decorations. Clipboards. Pens scatter across the tile with a deafening clatter.

You spin around, yanking open the cabinets above the stove. Perfectly stacked dishes and nothing else. You slam it shut.

“I can go check—”

The housekeeper barely gets the words out before you kick the cabinet beneath the stove closed. “Oh my God, does nobody in this house know how to…”

“Baby.” Rafe’s voice cuts clean through the room causing the kitchen to fall silent.

You shove two drawers shut with another loud slam. Rafe strolls inside like he hasn’t just walked into the eye of a hurricane.

A crisp white button up hugs his frame, the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. A pair of sunglasses hook lazily into the front of his shirt.

He doesn’t acknowledge anyone else. Doesn’t even spare them a glance. His eyes stay on you as he crosses the kitchen. “What’re we yellin’ about?”

“It’s gone.” You point a sharp, accusing finger toward your housekeeper. “She lost my planner for the gala tonight!”

The housekeeper’s eyes drift toward the floor. She looks seconds away from crying. “I… I can go check the study.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you rush around to the other side of the island, frantically digging through the pile of papers you’d knocked over moments ago, as if looking one more time will somehow make it magically appear.

“It’s not here,” you whisper. Your breathing begins to quicken. “It’s not here.”

You grab the nearest candle and slam it against the countertop. The glass shatters instantly. The sharp crack echoes through the silent kitchen.

“Everything’s ruined!” Your voice breaks. You sink to your knees before anyone can react, your hands covering your face as sobs tear from your chest.

Tears stream between your fingers, dripping onto the marble floor. For a moment, no one moves.

Then Rafe tosses his keys onto the island with a dull clink. He circles around the broken glass without a second thought and crouches in front of you.

Carefully, he reaches for your wrists, easing your hands away from your face. Your eyes are red, mascara beginning to smudge beneath them.

Without saying a word, he slides one hand to the back of your head and gently pulls you against him. The second your forehead meets his chest, the sob you’ve been holding back finally escapes. Your shoulders shake violently against him.

“Hey…” Rafe murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of your head. One hand rubs slow circles across your back. “Look at me.”

He leans back just enough to cup your face in both hands, brushing damp strands of hair away from your cheeks where they’ve stuck to your skin.

You can’t. Instead, you turn your head, pressing your face into the warmth of his palm as another sob racks through your body.

Rafe’s expression softens completely. “It’s okay,” he whispers.

He pulls you back into his chest, wrapping both arms around you as though he could shield you from every disaster waiting outside those kitchen walls “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

You hiccup through another sob, one hand reaching out to grip Rafe’s bicep like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. “My planner’s gone.”

“Mhm.” Rafe hums softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You bury your face deeper into his shirt, your tears soaking through the crisp white fabric. “I have the gala tonight.”

“Mhm.” He doesn’t interrupt or rush you. He simply lets you get every frantic thought out of your head.

“And nobody knows where it is.” The words tumble out between shaky breaths, each one pulling another tear down your cheeks as the weight of it all crashes over you. Months of planning. Every speech. Every seating chart. Every donor. Gone.

Rafe slides a hand beneath your chin, gently tipping your face up until your watery eyes meet his. “Take a deep breath, okay?”

You gasp through another sob, your free hand coming up to wrap around his wrist.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “Breathe… breathe…” His thumb slowly wipes beneath your eyes, collecting each tear before brushing another loose strand of hair away from your face. “That’s it.”

You force yourself to listen, dragging in one shaky breath after another until the sobs begin to loosen their grip on your chest.

“There you go.” His hands settle on either side of your face for another moment before sliding down to rest on your waist. “I’m gonna pick you up.”

Without protest, you loop your arms around his neck.

Rafe hooks an arm beneath your legs and lifts you effortlessly into his arms before standing to his full height. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist as you rest your forehead against his shoulder.

He carefully steps around the broken glass scattered across the kitchen floor before making his way to the opposite side of the island.

With surprising gentleness for a man his size, he sits you on the cool marble countertop, settling himself between your knees. You sniffle, wiping beneath your eyes with the heel of your hand.

Rafe brushes the rest of your hair away from your face. The second your eyes finally meet his, he smiles. “You done scarin’ everybody?”

You narrow your eyes immediately, pulling your face out of his hands. “This is serious, Rafe.”

His smile fades into something softer. “I didn’t say it wasn’t, baby.”

“I need my planner.” You dramatically wipe at your nose.

Rafe smooths both hands over the top of your head, flattening the flyaways you’d earned from twenty minutes of panicking. “I’ll buy you ten more planners.”

You throw your head back with a groan. “I don’t want ten more planners.” You look back at him. “I want my planner.”

A laugh escapes him. “My spoiled girl.”

You try to glare, you really do. But it lasts all of three seconds before his thumbs begin absentmindedly rubbing slow circles over your thighs. “We’ll find it.”

You sigh dramatically, letting your forehead fall against his chest. “I hate when things don’t go according to plan.”

“I know.” One hand slides to the back of your head, lightly scratching against your scalp the way he knows you love.

“It’s ruining my whole day.”

“I know.” He presses another kiss against your temple before his hand trails slowly down the length of your back.

“I’m so stressed right now.” You mutter completely incoherent into his shirt. Rafe catches every word anyway.

“I know.” He smiles to himself before gently pulling away. “Come here.”

He lifts you back off the counter, setting you carefully onto your feet. “I’ll go look.” He cups your cheek with one hand. “But if I find it exactly where you left it…”

“You won’t,” you interrupt, already shaking your head.

Rafe chuckles. “You wanna bet?”

“No.” You shake your head again. “No.”

He laughs under his breath, kisses your forehead one last time, and disappears toward the study.

The house slowly begins breathing again. Decorators creep back into the kitchen. Someone quietly starts sweeping up the broken glass.

Seven minutes later, the front door shuts. “Found it!” Rafe’s voice echoes through the foyer.

You slowly close your eyes before even turning around. “Where?”

Rafe strolls into the kitchen, holding the familiar leather planner in one hand and casually swinging it back and forth. “Your Mercedes.”

Silence. He stops in front of you. “In the passenger seat.”

You lower your head into your hand, refusing to meet his eyes. Rafe can’t help but laugh.

He places the planner on the counter in front of you. “You wanna keep yellin’?”

You slowly shake your head. “No.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Rafe reaches over, tucking a strand of hair neatly behind your ear so he can finally see your face. “Maria looked like she was gonna quit.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the planner closer before flipping it open to make sure everything is still inside. “She wasn’t going to quit.”

“Go apologize.” He lightly taps the underside of your chin with the knuckle of his pointer finger.

“Rafe…” You give him a pointed look.

He raises an eyebrow. “Baby.” There isn’t an ounce of anger in his voice, just quiet expectation. Leaning his elbow against the island, he waits.

You stare at him for a long moment before letting out the most dramatic sigh you can manage. “You’re annoying,” you mumble.

You shut the planner with a huff, slide off the barstool, and start toward the hallway. You don’t bother hiding the tiny smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as you go to find Maria.

𐙚 ˚₊‧꒰ა Welcome to my little corner of the internet!

if y’all wanna check me out on Wattpad, I do have some books posted over there!