Rafe scoffs, but I nearly shit myself. "Boss-ette? That's a new one, Nico. I dare you to call Adela that, later."
Nico laughs.
"Anyway, Emma, it's fine," Rafe says with an amused smirk. "We'll be happy to have you. I need revenge on that piece of shit anyway. And this is a perfect excuse."
The limo pulls up without a sound right on time. Micah and Heather stand on either side of me, their shoulders tight. When I told them that we’d be staying with Rafe, Heather’s mouth fell open, and Micah just smiled. He’s certainly ready to do this.
The driver steps out first. His dark hair is tied into a low, messy bun, shoulder-length strands framing his face. He looks up at us and offers a small, controlled smile. “Good evening,” he says. His voice is smooth and friendly. “I’m Kieran.”
I swallow.
Micah nods once. Heather’s eyes narrow, assessing him.
Kieran opens the door and gestures inside. “Please,” he says.
I steady a breath before being the first to slide into the back of the car, Heather and Micah following.
“I am just...I can’t believe this is my fucking life,” Heather murmurs as Kieran begins driving.
I notice that he kept the divider down. He seems friendly enough.
“I haven’t seen anything in the news about Jude,” Micah whispers, scrolling through his phone. “He must be hiding from the public eye.”
I blow out a breath, thinking of Adriana’s Instagram post of a shirtless Jude in Moscow. I decide against mentioning it becauseI don’t feel like adding any more discomfort to my stomach. Micah's probably already seen it, anyway. He follows her. I honestly just need to stop being a stalker. But it’s my last bit of connection with him. Sort of.
It isn’t a very long ride before Kieran pulls to a stop on a lovely street on the outskirts of the city. There are trees lining the entire street, with gorgeous properties tucked away. We step out, the cold fall air brushing through my hair.
The townhouse stands behind a wrought iron gate, tall and elegant in the evening light. The creamy stone facade looks like it was plucked straight from a Parisian dream. Black-trimmed windows line each floor, and ivy curls against the entryway. The gate opens with a small creak, and we walk up the path.
“It is unlocked,” Kieran says casually. “Mr. Vaughan is expecting you.”
I nod, my hand squeezing the handle before swinging the door open. Inside, the place is furnished in tones of matte black, soft beige, and textured cream. The polished wood floors creak softly under my boots. Each room flows into the next, decorated but not cluttered. Everything is arranged with intention.
And then I see Rafe and Nico standing in the living room, holding glasses filled with amber liquid. Rafe is in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the hint of muscle and tattoo. Nico is leaning against the wall, eyes dark, and a grin on his lips. Kieran closes the door behind us and follows without a word.
I go to open my mouth to greet them, but we’re joined by a woman with long black hair and wispy bangs that soften her sharpness. Her dress is tight, black, and perfect. She moves with astonishing confidence, her blue eyes sweeping over us with curiosity.
Rafe’s gaze shifts to her, and the smile that forms on his face is one that women everywhere dream of. “This is Emma,” he sayssmoothly. “And her friends, Micah and Heather, if I remember correctly.”
The woman’s eyes flick to me. “Hello,” she says, reaching out with a delicate hand. “I’m Adela Sinclair-Vaughan. It is a pleasure to have you here.” Her handshake is firm.
I smile politely.
“You can relax your shoulders.” Rafe’s voice is soft. “You’re safe here,” he says.
“First, before we get into discussions,” Adela says, glancing over her shoulder at us. “Let us show you to your room.”
The guest room is upstairs and at the end of the hall. When the door opens, Heather lets out a soft, involuntaryoh my god.
It's massive. A California king bed dominates the center, dressed in crisp white linens and layered with soft charcoal and cream throws. The headboard is upholstered, elegant, and understated in a way thatscreamsmoney. A pull-out sofa sits near the window, plush and clearly never used. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in evening light that spills across the hardwood floors.
There’s a chandelier overhead that’s probably worth more than my car.
Heather slowly turns in a circle, eyes wide. “This is…holy shit.”
I nod, unable to find words.
Micah, on the other hand, barely reacts. He scans the room with an even expression. No awe or shock like us, just acknowledgment, like he’s seen a hundred places like this before.