"Yes. There's a meeting. Representatives from several families, including yours." His voice remained even, but I caught the slight tension in his jaw, the careful way he watched for my reaction.
My heart quickened. "My family will be there? My father?"
"Not your father personally. Representatives." Rafe moved further into the room, his movements measured and deliberate. "I thought you should be present."
I stood, suddenly alert, suspicious. This was unexpected—a deviation from the careful routine we'd established, from the boundaries of my gilded cage. "Why? After all this time,why would you want me at a meeting with my family's representatives?"
He was quiet for a moment, considering his response. "Things are... evolving between our families. Tensions are high. Your presence may serve as a reminder of certain realities."
"You mean I'm still a bargaining chip," I translated, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice despite our evolving relationship. "A visual aid for your negotiations."
"That's not how I see it," he countered, his expression softening slightly. "But your presence carries weight, significance. It reminds everyone of the connections between our families, of the potential for both conflict and resolution."
I studied him, trying to read beyond the careful mask he wore when discussing business. There was something he wasn't saying—something beyond the diplomatic explanation he'd offered.
"Will I be able to speak to them?" I asked, already suspecting the answer. "My family's representatives?"
"No," he confirmed. "You'll be present in the house, but not in the meeting room. This is a delicate negotiation, Grace. Your direct involvement would complicate matters."
Of course. I was to be seen but not heard. A symbol rather than a participant. A reminder of Rafe's power rather than a person with my own voice, my own interests.
"When do we leave?" I asked, resignation settling over me like a familiar weight.
"In an hour. Wear something appropriate for a business setting." He hesitated, then added, "This isn't punishment, Grace. It's protection. The conversations that will happen today... they're not ones you should be part of."
Protection. The word hung between us, loaded with implications. Was he protecting me from the harsh realities ofhis business? From the representatives of my own family? Or from truths he still wasn't ready for me to hear?
"I'll be ready," I said, moving past him toward the door. His hand caught mine as I passed, stopping me.
"Grace," he said, his voice lower now, more intimate. "Whatever happens today, remember what I told you. You exist outside of this, beyond it. You're the one choice I've made purely for myself."
The words echoed those he'd spoken during our dinner days ago, when he'd shared the story of his mother's death, of his violent initiation into the family business. They should have comforted me. Instead, they sent a chill down my spine—a premonition, perhaps, that today would test that claim in ways neither of us was prepared for.
"I'll remember," I said, gently extracting my hand from his. "One hour."
The main Contiestate looked like something out of a billionaire’s fever dream. All clean stone and dark glass, perched on a private hillside that swallowed the skyline beneath it. It made the place I’d been held feel like a guesthouse.
Massive, but not gaudy. It was old money made sharp. Everything about it was intentional: the smooth limestone exterior that caught the light just right, the black steel trim, the perfectly aligned windows that stretched floor to ceiling but somehow revealed nothing. Even the ivy climbing one wing of the house felt curated. Not wild, but sculpted. Controlled.
The drive curved through manicured grounds that didn’t try too hard—nothing flashy, just trimmed hedges, a few old olive trees, and stone paths lined with subtle uplighting. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about signaling dominance without saying a word.
Three checkpoints. Armed guards who didn’t speak. Security cameras hidden so well I only noticed them because I was looking.
And then the mansion itself—broad and symmetrical, with tall black doors and no visible doorbell. Like it expected you to already know how to get inside.
It was stunning. Imposing. The kind of place you didn’t just live in…you ruled from.
And somehow, I knew: this was Rafe’s real world.
Not the beautiful prison I'd been kept in.
This.The throne.
Rafe remained silent during the drive, his attention focused on his phone, on messages and calls that seemed increasingly urgent as we approached our destination. The tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes, told me more than his words had—whatever meeting we were attending, it was significant. Potentially dangerous.
We were greeted at the entrance by Dante Conti himself. Rafe's older brother, the head of the family, a man I'd seen only once before, during that first meeting I'd overheard months ago. He was taller than Rafe, broader through the shoulders, with the same dark eyes but none of his brother's carefully controlled warmth. His gaze swept over me with clinical assessment before returning to Rafe.
"You're late," he said by way of greeting. "They're already here."
