chloeleiden:
She resented him for using the name she had grown up with, her father’s chosen name, the name all of her old boyfriends had called her, now. It was supposed to be adoring, It was supposed to make her powerful, anonymous if Serena managed to find that someone else had her claws sunk into her husband. It made her weak. He made her weak. One night alone with him had weakened her resolve. And to think, she had fancied herself an assassin, dreaming of Angelina Jolie wrapping her arms around Jennifer Aniston’s husband on the set of the movie in which they were married, a viper with shining scales, so cruel and still so regal. Hollywood fairytales.
“You’re an idiot,” Chloé said, looking away from him, staring straight ahead into the looming trees. “You’re seriously fucking stupid if you think that you, Rafe Rowan, Rafe fucking Rowan, America’s fucking husband, father of the fucking year, the greatest carpenter since fucking Jesus, are a scumbag in any capacity.” She had told herself, for the new year, as her resolution, that she was giving up swearing, even though she wasn’t particularly egregious, she knew other words, and she had failed completely. She would have failed even if she had tried. Rafe made her swearing worse. Chloé softened, shoulders falling. “I didn’t mean to make you anxious. When I said ‘we need to talk’. You always understand me. Better than anyone else. I thought you would understand. I know that means nothing, but I’m sorry,”
She needed to look at him for her words to mean anything, to meet his eyes the way he met hers when he asked the question, but her gaze remained on his hand, not out of place laying where it did. “What if I don’t want to pretend?” she asked, placing her hand over his, the way she had inadvertently what felt like years ago, while they were working at the site, surrounded by their crew. His was still bigger. “I don’t want to pretend, Rafe.” She paused, so he would hear the irony in her words even if she wasn’t laughing, “What about me? Am I the stereotypical whore who cheats with a married man who’s her boss?”
Every word about his reputation that she said hurt because he knew that he’d be called the exact opposite if this went public. “You don’t understand, Lily. Please try to use some logic,” he explained rather condescendingly. Feeling himself getting frustrated, he took a deep breath. “All I’m saying is... millions of people watched me on television say ‘I do’ and promised Serena to be hers until death do us apart.”
Her words relaxed him yet he still felt on the edge. He just reacted to her apology with a small nod, unsure on how to communicate his response to that. Rafe was appreciative that she was so receptive of his tendencies. She’d understand his anxious moments and she’d get when he decided he didn’t feel like talking anymore mid-sentence. He felt like she understood him in a way that Serena couldn’t and it just added onto his physical attraction to her. “I don’t want to either. It would suck to pretend I don’t have feelings for you.” The words left his lips so casually, moving onto the next subject with a shake of his head. He had fallen for her and he had fallen hard. “You’re not a whore. If anything, I’m the fucking stereotype. Do you know how many men cheat? Do you know how many black men cheat? I’m going to get railed by the media. I know you’re concerned but I have a career.” He didn’t mean it to come off as aggressively as he did, immediately realizing what was offensive with what he just said.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he qualified almost immediately after, hand still resting on her thigh. “I don’t want to stop,” he admitted. “That’s the last thing I want. I want to keep seeing you. I want to keep talking to you. I want to keep lying next to you. I want to keep talking about life and our goals and our fears and... I want it all, Lily.”












