#sugar daddy rafe ᦏ���᪔

[cameronsbabydoll]

reader crying to rafe when her friend is mean to her and he comforts her and secretly loves that their friendship is falling apart bc he has her all to himself now

Rafe knew the second he walked into the penthouse that something was wrong.

You were curled up on the couch, knees to your chest, face buried in your arms. The soft sound of sniffling reached his ears, and his jaw clenched.

His first instinct was anger—who the fuck made you cry? But he schooled his expression as he approached, crouching down beside you. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice all smooth concern. “What happened?”

You lifted your head, watery-eyed and pouty, and it nearly made him grin. You looked so sweet like this—so fragile, so his.

“She was so mean, Rafe,” you hiccuped, rubbing at your wet cheeks. “She said I’m too needy, that I always talk about you, and—and that I’m—” You trailed off, voice cracking.

Rafe’s jaw ticked. He had always thought that friend of yours was a brat. Too nosy, too opinionated. A bad influence. She was needy. She was the one trying to keep you from him.

He exhaled through his nose and sat on the couch, pulling you right into his lap without hesitation. His arms wrapped tight around you, big hands smoothing over your back as you buried your face in his chest.

“She’s a jealous bitch,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Probably wishes she had what you have.”

You let out a little whimper, and fuck, Rafe’s grip on you tightened. You were so soft like this. So reliant on him.

“I just don’t get it,” you whispered. “I thought we were friends.”

“You don’t need her,” Rafe murmured, stroking your hair. “You have me. Don’t I take care of you?”

You nodded weakly, clutching onto his shirt, and Rafe had to bite back his smirk.

That’s right, baby. Let her go. Let it all fall apart. Because now? You were all his.

[cameronsbabydoll]

imagine !reader wanting to go to the movies to see some new animated disney movie that came out, only for rafe to tease her and say smth like “i can’t be seen at some kid movie, i’m a powerful business man”, just for her to come back from the beach the next day with the house decorated as a personal movie theater and rafe in the kitchen making popcorn after he bought !readers fav sour candies

Rafe had been so smug about it the day before.

When you begged him to take you to see the new animated Disney movie, all bright-eyed and excited, he just gave you that condescending little smirk, shaking his head. “Baby, I can’t be seen at some kid’s movie. I’m a powerful businessman.” His voice was laced with amusement, teasing you like you were asking him to sit at the kids’ table during a corporate dinner.

You pouted, dramatically crossing your arms. “Fine. I’ll just go by myself.”

Rafe had only chuckled, kissed your forehead, and sent you off with a playful pat on your ass. You didn’t even think twice about it.

But the next day—oh, the next day.

You stepped into the penthouse to find it completely transformed. The living room was pitch dark, blackout curtains drawn, with a makeshift movie theater setup. The TV was queued up with the very same Disney movie you’d gone to see, and plush blankets and pillows were thrown all over the couch. There was even a little ticket stub on the coffee table, hand-written in Rafe’s lazy scrawl: For my VIP princess only.

And then there was Rafe.

In the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, standing over the stove with a serious expression, carefully shaking a pot of fresh popcorn. You could see bags of your favorite sour candies lined up on the counter, along with one of those absurdly large soda cups that only theaters carried.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor. “Rafe…”

He barely glanced up, still focused on the popcorn. “Changed my mind. Turns out, powerful businessmen can host private screenings.”

You bit your lip, warmth bubbling in your chest. “So, what? You suddenly had the urge to watch an animated princess movie?”

Rafe smirked, finally looking at you. “Nah. Just had the urge to see my girl happy.”

[cameronsbabydoll]

with reader being in her early 20s, how do u think rafe would feel if she was thinking about college? assuming shes not in college rn. like she randomly is like !!! it would be nice to have a degree… maybe even a masters… !!!!! and shes like always busy looking at applications and curriculum and stuff and not paying attention to him as much anymore

Oh, Rafe would hate this even more than the job idea.

At first, he’d just brush it off—like, yeah, okay, baby, go ahead and daydream about being a little college girl, that’s cute. But when he realizes you’re serious, that you’re actually looking at applications, planning your future, without consulting him first? That’s when his grip tightens.

"Why the fuck do you need a degree?" His voice would be calm, but there’d be this edge to it, this barely contained irritation. "What, you wanna be some businesswoman? A little scholar? You think that’s gonna make you happy?"

He’d be so condescending about it, like the idea of you sitting in classrooms, taking notes, working toward something that isn’t him is just ridiculous. And the fact that you’re so invested, always staring at your laptop instead of giving him attention? Oh, that would piss him off.

"You don’t even look at me anymore," he’d complain, pulling your laptop out of your hands, tossing it onto the bed like it’s nothing. "All this for some stupid piece of paper?"

But underneath all the arrogance, there’s fear. Because college means freedom. New people, new ideas, a life that doesn’t revolve around him. And that? That’s unacceptable.

He’d start planting doubts in your head, making you second-guess yourself.

"You really think you’re gonna like it? You think you’re built for that? Stressing over deadlines, dealing with professors who don’t give a shit about you?" He’d shake his head, running a hand down your back, voice dropping into something smoother, silkier, dangerous. "You have everything you need right here, baby. I take care of you. Why do you wanna make your life harder?"

And if you kept pushing? If you actually started filling out applications? He’d escalate. Maybe he’d “accidentally” misplace your laptop charger. Maybe he’d plan a last-minute trip to “celebrate” you before you get too busy with school, keeping you too distracted to finish the applications. Maybe he’d just fuck you stupid every time you tried to study, so by the time you remembered what you were supposed to do, it’d already be too late.

And if, somehow, you still made it to enrollment?

Well. Let’s just say Rafe wouldn’t be above buying the whole damn school just to make sure his pretty little girl never forgets exactly who she belongs to.

[cameronsbabydoll]

rafe in his suit having like. black coffee or like the most boring brown dead cereal or toast or something before leaving for work and readers on the couch cross legged still in her pjs eating froot loops and drinking the most obnoxiously bright fruit juice known to man while watching her show 😛

Rafe sat at the kitchen counter, dressed in his perfectly tailored suit, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his expensive watch. He had a black coffee in one hand, the other idly flipping through some paperwork for a meeting he had later. His breakfast—a single piece of dry toast and the most lifeless-looking cereal you’d ever seen—sat untouched. It was the kind of meal that screamed no-nonsense businessman with zero joy in his life.

Meanwhile, you were curled up on the couch in your floral nightgown, cross-legged, fully immersed in your own world. A big bowl of Froot Loops rested in your lap, the milk already dyed an artificial rainbow. Every time you took a bite, you washed it down with a glass of fruit juice so bright it looked borderline toxic—like something that could double as car coolant.

Rafe took a slow sip of his coffee, watching you from the kitchen. His gaze flicked from your show (some mindless, overly colorful series with voices way too loud for this early in the morning) to your absurdly childish breakfast.

“You can’t seriously eat that baby,” he finally said, voice low and unimpressed.

You didn’t even look away from the screen as you pout. “Why not?”

“Because it’s pure sugar.” His tone was downright condescending, like he was lecturing a toddler.

“Sooo….?” You took another exaggeratedly loud bite, crunching obnoxiously before gulping down your juice.

Rafe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re gonna crash in, like, thirty minutes, and I’ll be at work and you’ll be spamming my phone with silly little bunny memes texting about how you’re crashing out.”

You turned to him with a dramatic gasp. “Oh no, Rafe! What ever will I do? Will I have to—gasp—take a nap? Or even have to bother you?”

He just shook his head, adjusting his tie like he was reevaluating every life choice that led him to this moment.

As he finally stood, grabbing his briefcase, he walked over to you, bending down to press a firm kiss against the top of your head. “You’re lucky you’re cute babygirl,” he muttered against your hair.

“And you’re lucky I don’t make you eat Froot Loops with me,” you shot back, grinning up at him.

Rafe just sighed, heading for the door. “Try not to get a sugar high and burn the place down while I’m gone.”

“No promises!” You called after him, stuffing another spoonful of cereal into your mouth as the door shut behind him.

[cameronsbabydoll]

reader totally gives rafe the biggest lung crushing hug before he leaves for work every morning andddd in the process wrinkles his suit. which. before they got together it was always perfectly ironed but now he shows up to work with his blazer slightly scuffed around the midriff where she literally compressed his organs

So, every morning, he’d be getting ready for work—perfectly crisp suit, hair done just so, ready to tackle the day. And then, you would come in, all bright-eyed and bubbly, practically sprinting to him the second he’s putting on his blazer. And there you’d go, wrapping your arms around him, squeezing him so tight it’s like you want to squeeze the day’s stress right out of him.

Rafe would be taken aback at first, his arms stiff and his eyes wide. But he’s so soft for you, so he’d let it happen, even if you’re crushing the air out of his lungs. He’d feel the pressure on his chest, his breath almost caught as you hug him, and his heart would skip just a little bit because, well, you do this every day now.

But oh—the suit...

He’d pull back slowly, exhaling in a soft, annoyed sigh as he looks down at the crease in his blazer. “Damn it, baby,” he’d mutter, half-smiling, half-grumbling. His fingers would tug at the fabric around the middle, where it’s just slightly wrinkled, the midriff area where you practically compressed his organs. He’d press it down, but it’s never the same. It’s never perfect anymore. He’d glance at the mirror, frustrated, knowing he’s going to have to deal with that all day.

Still, he’d give you a half-assed pout. “You wrecked my suit again.” His tone would be low, just enough for you to catch the mix of mock frustration and endearment. He’d pull you close, one hand gently gripping your wrist. “You know I can’t show up looking like this.”

You’d giggle, brushing a hand over his chest as if it’ll help smooth the wrinkles away. “I’m sorry! But you look even better now. Just a little rumpled... kinda like you just woke up from a really good sleep,” you’d tease, giving him a playful wink. “Don’t worry, you’ll still look hot as hell.”

And Rafe? He’d hate it, but secretly love it too. Every time you squeeze him tight and mess up his clothes, he gets a weird satisfaction out of it. It’s like a mark that he’s yours. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud. Instead, he’d lean in, kiss the top of your head with a soft but teasing tone, “You’re lucky I love you, princess. Otherwise, I’d be pissed.”

And if you kept doing it? You could be damn sure that he'd purposefully leave a little wrinkle in his suit the next time, just to be able to blame you for it.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS — “boy talk” so sorta talk of some of the country club men objectifying the reader, rafe is a bit of a pretentious jerk.

The country club is a world of its own—pristine, untouchable, dripping in old money and quiet corruption. You don’t belong here, not really. The drink in your hand is too sweet, too colorful, too much of a contrast against the neat glasses of bourbon and scotch being passed around by the men nearby.

But you sip it anyway, letting the cold bite of fruit and sugar settle on your tongue, unaware of the way their eyes have settled on you.

You don’t hear the first comment.

“Fresh meat,” one of them mutters under his breath, whiskey swirling in his glass.

“Looks too young,” another chuckles, eyes flicking to the hem of your plaid skirt, the soft skin of your thighs exposed beneath it. “Wouldn’t last a night with any of us.”

They’re talking about you like you aren’t even real. Like you’re something to be had.

Rafe hears them, though. He wasn’t paying much attention to their conversation before, but now? Now he can’t take his eyes off you.

You don’t even notice.

That annoys him.

You’re too soft, too sweet—too oblivious to the men watching you like a meal they’re waiting to pick apart.

“You thinking about making a move?” One of them smirks, elbowing Rafe. “Bet she’d go home with anyone who flashed a little cash.”

Something in him snaps.

Before he can think twice about it, he’s standing, abandoning his drink, and heading straight toward you.

You don’t see him coming. Not at first.

You’re still stirring your drink, gaze distant, lost in thought. That’s what makes you look even younger—that unguarded softness, the way you don’t seem to realize what kind of place you’re in, the kind of men that lurk here.

You only notice him when his shadow falls over your table.

“Shouldn’t be sitting here alone.”

You blink up, startled. The man standing in front of you is tall, broad-shouldered, dressed like money but not as polished as the rest of the men in the club. His blue eyes are sharp, cutting right through you, but there’s something distant about them. Assessing. Deciding.

It takes you a second to respond. “I—I’m not alone. My friend just went to—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts in smoothly, like your words don’t mean anything. Like you’ve already lost the choice in the matter.

He reaches down, plucks the drink from your hands, and examines it like it’s something ridiculous. “This is what you’re drinking?” His lips twitch, a ghost of a smirk. “Kid’s drink.”

Your cheeks burn. “It’s good.”

“Bet it is.” Rafe lifts the glass, tilting it just enough to let the pink liquid swirl near the rim. He watches it for a second before setting it back down. Something possessive coils in his chest.

You shift under his gaze, confused. There’s a tension in the air now, something charged—you don’t know why he’s standing here, why he’s looking at you like that, but you can feel the weight of it settling into your chest.

“Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a business card, crisp and expensive, the raised print practically gleaming. He sets it down in front of you.

Your brows pull together. “What’s this?”

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets his knuckles skim the edge of the table, gaze flicking over you one last time, before taking a half step back.

“Call me,” he says simply. “If you’re gonna be in places like this, might as well be with me.”

And then he’s gone, heading back to his table like nothing just happened.

When he sits, the men are already smirking.

“Didn’t take you for the sugar daddy type,” one of them taunts, amused.

Rafe doesn’t answer. He just takes a slow sip of bourbon, watching you turn the card over in your hands.

—

Your friend slides back into the seat across from you, eyes wide as she takes in the look on your face.

"Where the hell did you go?" you ask, still feeling the ghost of his presence, the heat of his gaze.

"Bathroom," she says quickly, glancing at the card in your hands. "But what is that?"

You blink down at it, turning it over between your fingers. The name on it doesn’t mean much to you, but the weight of it does.

"I think he just… gave me his number," you murmur.

Your friend lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. "He just gave it to you?"

You nod, still dazed. "Yeah, and he told me to call him."

"Oh my God." She claps a hand over her mouth, muffling her excitement. "Do you know who he is?"

You shake your head.

"Rafe Cameron," she breathes, like the name should mean something to you.

It doesn’t. Not yet.

—

Later that night, you’re curled up in your bed, canopy draped in soft white fabric, the dim glow of your bedside lamp casting shadows on the walls. The whole night still lingers in your mind—the way Rafe had looked at you, the smooth, detached way he had spoken.

The business card sits on your nightstand.

You reach for it, running your fingers over the raised print, his name standing stark against the matte finish. It feels heavy. Like it means something.

You should just go to sleep. You should wait until tomorrow, or not call at all.

But instead, your fingers tremble slightly as you pick up your phone.

You stare at the number for a moment before pressing call.

It only rings once.

Then—his voice. Low, smooth, unreadable.

“You’re up late.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t know what to say, but before you can even think of a response, Rafe speaks again.

“You always do what you’re told this easily?”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “I—I just—”

A soft chuckle, dark and satisfied.

“Good girl.”

Silence stretches for a second, and then—

“Be ready tomorrow night,” Rafe says, like it’s already decided. “I’ll send a car.”

You blink. “Wait—what? For what?”

A pause. Then, smooth as ever—

“Dinner.”

Your heart flutters, excitement bubbling in your chest. “Like… a date?”

Rafe laughs, but it’s not warm—it’s amused. Detached.

“Sure, princess. A date.”

Before you can ask anything else, the line goes dead.

You stare at your phone, your stomach twisting with nerves, excitement, something else you can’t quite name.

You don’t realize it yet.

But you’re already playing his game.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — TEXTS BETWEEN THEM

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER FIVE

WARNINGS — a lot of angst!!!! rafe is a jerk and doesn’t defend the reader.

You’d been so excited.

Rafe had invited you to dinner at the country club—his world—and for once, it felt like he wasn’t keeping you hidden away. Like maybe you were important enough to be seen by the people who mattered to him.

So you spent hours getting ready, slipping into a delicate dress that made you feel elegant, dabbing perfume onto your wrists, even picking out a pair of heels that made your feet ache just standing in them. You wanted to fit in. You wanted to be good enough.

But from the moment you stepped inside, you realized how wrong you’d been.

The same group of men from before were already seated, laughing over drinks, their conversations dipping into easy arrogance. And when their eyes landed on you, their smirks turned sharp.

"Didn’t think we’d be seeing this one again," one of them mused, swirling his whiskey. "Guess she made the cut."

"For now," another chuckled, his gaze trailing over you in a way that made your stomach turn. "Can’t imagine she’s much for conversation, though. How’s she holding up, Rafe?"

Rafe barely reacted, just pulled out your chair like he hadn’t just heard them pick you apart.

"She’s fine," he said smoothly, placing a firm hand on your back as you sat down.

You forced a small smile, trying not to shrink under their scrutiny. But it only got worse.

"So, what’s she drinking tonight?" one of the men asked, flipping the menu lazily. "Let me guess—something pink and fruity?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but Rafe didn’t even give you the chance.

"She’ll have a glass of chardonnay," he said, not even glancing at you.

You hesitated. Chardonnay? You didn’t like chardonnay. But when you looked at Rafe, he just rested his hand on your thigh under the table, squeezing lightly.

A silent play along.

So you did.

"And for dinner?" the waiter asked.

You scanned the menu, searching for something safe—something you knew you’d like—but before you could say anything, Rafe spoke up again.

"She’ll have the filet, medium-rare," he said, sipping his drink.

You blinked.

You didn’t mind steak, but—medium-rare? You always ordered it well-done.

The waiter nodded, scribbling it down.

And Rafe?

Rafe didn’t even notice the way your fingers curled in your lap, the way you swallowed down your unease.

Because this was what he did, wasn’t it? This was the kind of control that used to make you feel safe. Like he knew what was best for you. Like he took care of you.

But tonight?

Tonight, it just felt wrong.

And then the teasing started.

"You know," one of them mused, "I was telling my wife about your girl the other day. Said she reminded me of my niece—collects those little dolls, what are they called?"

"Sonny Angels?" someone else supplied, smirking.

Your stomach twisted.

"That’s it," the first man laughed, shaking his head. "And those—what are they? Little animal things?"

"Calico Critters," another chuckled. "Real cute. Bet she’s got a pink princess bedroom too, huh?"

Rafe laughed.

Not a full laugh, not outright agreement—but a chuckle. A small, quiet one, like he thought it was funny too.

Your face burned.

"I mean, Jesus, Rafe," another one teased, nudging his glass toward you. "Where’d you even find this one? Babysitting gig?"

Rafe smirked. "Something like that."

Your stomach dropped.

He was joking. Just playing along. That’s what you told yourself, but—God, did it sting.

And then, as if you weren’t even there, they kept going.

"You got her drinking real cocktails yet, or is she still on the Shirley Temples?"

"Give her some credit," Rafe drawled, lifting his bourbon to his lips. "She’s learning."

Your throat felt tight.

Rafe had always teased you about your little collections, your girlish habits—but it had never felt like this. Never in front of them.

You barely tasted your drink. Barely touched your food.

And when you excused yourself to the bathroom, your hands were shaking.

You just needed a minute. A moment to breathe, to compose yourself. But as you reached the powder room, your steps halted.

The voices inside were sharp.

"God, did you see her?" one of the women scoffed. "She looks very young."

"It’s embarrassing," another said, her tone clipped. "Rafe used to have taste. Now he’s parading around some little girl with doll collections and—what did my husband say? Calico Critters?"

Laughter. Cruel, dismissive.

"I give it a month. She’ll be gone by summer."

Your vision blurred.

Heat rushed up your throat, hot and suffocating, but you forced yourself to breathe.

They didn’t matter. They didn’t know you.

But Rafe—Rafe had let this happen.

He had laughed.

The night was ruined.

And when Rafe drove you home, his hand resting lazily on the gear shift, he didn’t even notice how quiet you were.

Didn’t notice how stiffly you sat, how you avoided his touch, how your lip was caught between your teeth to keep from trembling.

"Something wrong?" he asked at one point, but it was offhanded, distracted. Like he already assumed the answer was no.

And you?

You just shook your head.

Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop yourself from crying.

—

It wasn’t until later, curled up in bed, your phone pressed to your ear, that the dam finally broke.

"He just let them say those things about me," you whispered, voice raw, hands clutching your blanket. "They were making fun of me, and he just—" Your breath hitched. "He laughed."

Your best friend didn’t even hesitate. "Are you fucking kidding?"

"And then—then I went to the bathroom, and these women—these wives of his friends—they were talking about me like I was some stupid little girl who wasn’t going to last, and—"

"Babe," your friend cut in, voice sharp with anger.

"He’s a dick. An absolute dick. He’s never deserved you, but this? No. He doesn’t get to treat you like this."

And so, without even meaning to, you started pulling away.

And Rafe?

Rafe noticed.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — TEXTS BETWEEN THEM

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER TWO

WARNINGS: rafe is quite condescending and they have a heavy kiss session

The room smells faintly of vanilla and citrus from the candles you lit earlier, setting the perfect mood for the night ahead. Soft music plays in the background, a mellow ballad keeping you calm, though your nerves are still buzzing. You sit cross-legged on the floor in front of your mirror, watching your best friend hover over you with that teasing grin plastered on her face.

"Okay, I think you're almost ready," your best friend chirps, holding up the dress you’ve picked out—a floral sundress with delicate roses in shades of pink and cream, the fabric light and airy. The dress wraps around your waist, showing off your figure without being too revealing. You slip it on, the soft material feeling like a second skin.

"You look so cute!" your friend exclaims, spinning you around to get the full effect. "Totally, like, date material, but still... you know, cute and innocent."

You glance at yourself in the mirror, biting your lip. There’s no harm in looking adorable, right? The dress is perfect—a little flirty, a little sweet. Nothing too mature. Just right for a night where you aren’t sure what’s going to happen.

You paired the dress with a cream cardigan you’ve had since forever, the knitted material soft around your shoulders. It’s cozy but also adds that sense of comfort you need tonight. Your feet are encased in kitten heels, simple and sweet, just like you. The whole outfit screams cute, girly vibes, but also a little more grown-up than what you’d wear on a normal day.

Your best friend snatches up your sparkly pink lip gloss from the vanity and begins applying it to your lips. The glossy finish is a perfect match for the subtle blush on your cheeks. You can’t help but smile as she moves, so excited for you, and yet you still feel that flutter of nerves at the pit of your stomach.

"You’re really nervous, huh?" your best friend teases as she finishes, playfully tapping her brush against your cheek. "You’re going to be fine. Just remember—don’t overthink it."

You nervously fiddle with your bag, flipping it open to check everything inside. Your fingers brush past your mints, just in case your breath doesn’t quite pass the test. Then, you reach for something a little more comforting—your Sonny Angel doll. You give the small plastic figure a quick squeeze before pulling him out of your bag. He’s dressed in his little bear outfit, his face painted with that same sweet smile that always makes you feel better.

You glance up at your best friend, who raises an eyebrow at the doll in your hand.

"Really?" she says, stifling a laugh. "You still carry this thing around?"

You shrug, giving a shy smile. "I mean, I like it. He’s cute, and... he calms me down."

Your friend shakes her head with a grin, shaking her head as she adjusts the straps on your cardigan. "You’re such a little girl sometimes, you know that? But I love you for it."

She grins at you, crossing her arms. "Okay, let’s do one last check. Lip gloss, mints, and your little naked doll…. Good to go?"

You laugh softly, though a little red in the face from her teasing. "I think so."

"Okay, go!" she says, practically shoving you toward the door. "Rafe's going to be so obsessed with you, you don’t even know."

—

The sharp scent of cologne clings to the air in Rafe’s office. His city-view is wide and impressive, the golden lights of the skyline glimmering against the window. But he’s barely looking at it. His eyes are locked on the papers in front of him, but his mind is elsewhere.

He’s already made the decision—he’s not going into this with any expectation. It’s just another night, another woman. But there’s something about her that’s... different.

The phone buzzes again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He picks it up, reads a message from his business partner: "You still on for dinner with the sweet thing? Keep us posted, we wanna hear all about it."

Rafe smirks to himself. He doesn’t need to respond. They both know exactly how this will play out. But he doesn’t mind the attention. His ego loves it.

He’s already dressed—dark, tailored suit that fits like a glove, the kind that’s expensive, refined. His shirt is crisp and perfectly pressed, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his wristwatch. It’s sharp. It’s exactly how he wants to look.

He runs a hand through his hair before grabbing his wallet from the desk. He checks the inside for the Amex, and as his fingers slide over it, he brushes past the condom tucked neatly behind it. He doesn’t need to think about it. It’s just... there, ready.

His fingers linger on it for just a second longer than necessary before he grabs it, sliding it into his inside pocket, and then turns toward the door.

As he steps out, he checks his reflection one last time. He’s calm, composed, and ready to take control of the evening. He always is.

—

The restaurant is dimly lit, quiet, with the soft clink of silverware against fine china creating an almost too-perfect backdrop. The atmosphere feels rich, yet you're hyper-aware of how out of place you feel. You haven’t been to many places like this before, let alone sat across from someone like Rafe, who’s so clearly at home in such an environment. He slides into the seat with ease, as though the world around him is just another extension of his life. You, on the other hand, feel small, uncertain, and very much out of your depth.

Rafe looks at the menu briefly, but before you can even take a good look at yours, he’s already making the order. His voice is calm, confident, the kind of voice that brooks no argument.

"I’ll have the filet mignon, medium rare," he says, casually glancing up at the waiter, who doesn’t even seem phased by how quickly the decision is made. "Mashed potatoes on the side. A glass of red wine."

Rafe doesn’t wait for the waiter to acknowledge him before turning to you.

"You’ll have the chicken," he states flatly, as if your opinion on the matter doesn’t even matter. "Mashed potatoes. No vegetables."

You blink, surprised by the finality of it. "Oh... but—" you start to protest, but he’s already dismissing you with a glance.

His eyes are still on you, studying, silently waiting for you to say something, but his lips quirk into a teasing, almost smug smile. "Don’t worry, it’s just chicken. It's safe for you."

You flush, feeling your stomach churn with nerves. You want to argue, but you can’t seem to find the words. You weren’t expecting this, to be told exactly what to eat. The waiter leaves with your orders, and Rafe leans back in his seat, resting one elbow casually on the back of his chair.

The silence between you feels heavy. You feel the need to fill it with something, anything. You glance down at your hands, then at your drink—your vodka tonic, which you don’t really want but somehow feel pressured into having.

Rafe's eyes are now on you, and for a moment, you can’t look away. His gaze isn’t warm or comforting; it's evaluating, assessing, like he's trying to understand you, but not in a gentle way.

"So, tell me," he begins, his voice calm but dripping with amusement, "what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

You blink, trying to figure out what he means, but you can’t quite catch his tone. "Um... what do you mean?" you ask, voice a little unsure.

He lets out a soft laugh, more at the confusion in your voice than anything. "I mean," he continues, leaning forward just slightly, his tone lowering, "You’re all... wide-eyed, innocent, like you’ve never seen a place like this before."

You feel your cheeks heat, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "I... I haven’t really. I don’t go to places like this much."

Rafe’s gaze sharpens, and there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He leans back again, studying you carefully as if he finds this all rather entertaining.

"Yeah, I can tell," he mutters, almost to himself. "You look a little out of your element." He pauses, letting his words settle between you before continuing, almost too casually, "It’s okay though. Some people just don’t know how to handle this kind of place. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get used to it."

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the unease that crawls up your spine. The way he speaks, like he’s letting you in on some kind of secret, feels patronizing but also... almost kind. But it's the kind of "kind" that comes with a smirk, a little too condescending for comfort.

You try to keep the conversation going, despite feeling small under his gaze. "So, um... have you been here a lot?" You ask, wanting to make some kind of connection, even if it's just small talk. But the moment the words leave your mouth, you instantly wish you could take them back.

Rafe looks up at you from his phone, those dark eyes narrowing just slightly. His lips curl into a smirk as he observes you, his gaze flicking over your face before resting on your hands. “Cute," he mutters, almost absent-mindedly, like he's admiring a puppy doing tricks. "But don’t worry about the small talk. You’re better off just letting me do the talking.”

Your stomach churns, and you can feel your palms growing sweaty. You don’t know how to respond to him.

Before you can open your mouth again, he cuts in, amusement still dancing in his eyes. "You really don’t have to try so hard to make conversation, sweetheart. It’s cute, but I’ve got it covered." He leans in slightly, his voice lower now, almost mockingly tender. "Just sit there, look pretty, and enjoy the ride. Let me take care of everything else."

You shrink a little under his gaze, feeling your cheeks flush even deeper. It’s not harsh, exactly, but it’s so condescending that you’re not sure if you should laugh or cry. Instead, you stay quiet, fiddling with the edge of your napkin, feeling utterly out of place.

After a moment, Rafe’s eyes flick back to you. He tilts his head, as if considering something. Then, he leans forward again, that smirk never leaving his face.

“You’re funny,” he says, his voice soft but sharp. "You think you have to keep up with me, don’t you? Don’t worry about it. I can handle everything for you."

You open your mouth, about to say something, but then you catch the look in his eyes. There’s a fleeting moment of softness in them, but it’s quickly replaced by that predatory smirk. It makes you pause, unsure of where you stand with him.

Finally, the food arrives, and the waiter places your plate in front of you. The steam rises from the chicken, the mashed potatoes look fluffy and creamy, but you can’t quite bring yourself to dig in. The weight of the conversation still hangs between you.

Rafe, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered by anything at all. He picks up his steak and takes a bite, barely acknowledging the waiter as he finishes setting the table. His focus is entirely on you now, watching you with that same calculating look.

"So," he says, with just the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. "You going to eat, or just sit there and stare at your food?"

You blink, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Oh, uh, right," you murmur, picking up your fork. You take a small bite, but it feels almost awkward. Everything feels awkward now.

You can’t help but notice the way he keeps glancing at you—like he’s waiting for something. Almost as if he’s studying every movement you make.

You try to break the silence, wanting to change the uncomfortable dynamic. "So, do you come here often with... other people?" you ask, your voice shaking slightly, unsure of what to say.

He gives a nonchalant shrug, "I don’t make a habit of bringing people here. But sometimes," he pauses and looks at you, his expression softening just a touch. "Sometimes, it’s nice to enjoy something a little different."

You don’t know what to make of that. Does that mean he’s enjoying the dinner with you, or is this just another one of his casual remarks?

The meal finishes uneventfully, the silence between you two still carrying that undercurrent of something you can’t quite grasp. Rafe had barely spoken since ordering for you, his quiet but commanding presence hanging heavy over everything. You finish your chicken, still uncomfortable with the way he watches you so closely. He eats his steak slowly, savoring each bite, the way he moves so deliberately making your stomach twist with nerves.

Once the waiter arrives with the bill, Rafe doesn't hesitate. He pulls out his sleek black card, signing without a second glance. You sit there, nervously playing with your napkin, avoiding his gaze. There's a slight sting of guilt bubbling up—he’s paying for everything, as usual, and it feels wrong, like you’re not doing enough to contribute. But you know better than to argue.

When the waiter leaves, the silence is thick, almost suffocating. But Rafe doesn't let it last too long. He stands, pulling your cream cardigan from the back of your chair and draping it over your shoulders with a calm, practiced motion. His fingers brush your skin just a little too long, and it sends a shiver through you, though you don’t say anything.

“You ready to go, sweetheart?” His voice is low, almost teasing, as if he’s enjoying watching you squirm a little.

You nod, standing up and following him out of the restaurant, your nerves still buzzing. The cold air hits you immediately when you step outside, and you pull the coat tighter around yourself, looking up at the night sky. Rafe walks ahead of you, his tall figure cutting through the darkness.

He reaches his car first, and you can’t help but glance at it. The car is old, but expensive-looking in a way that almost makes it feel more imposing than the flashy cars you've seen around. He opens the door for you, his hand lingering on the handle as he looks at you, waiting for you to climb in.

“Don’t just stand there, get in,” he says with a quiet chuckle, watching you like he's waiting for you to make a mistake.

You nod quickly and slip into the passenger seat, your heart pounding in your chest. He closes the door behind you, and before you can settle into the seat, Rafe slides into the driver's side with a fluid movement. His presence fills the car, and it feels suddenly small and enclosed.

He starts the engine, the low hum of the car adding to the tension in the air. He doesn’t speak right away, but his hand slides to your thigh, resting there possessively. The warmth of his hand seeps through your clothes, and your heart races faster. You don’t know what to say. The silence in the car is comfortable, but there's something heavier lurking beneath it.

Rafe drives smoothly through the streets, his hand staying on your thigh as you sit there, both tense and confused. You’re not sure how to act around him anymore. His touch feels different, more intimate than before. The way his hand rests on your thigh, fingers slightly digging in, makes you wonder if it’s just a casual gesture—or something more.

The car pulls up to your house sooner than you expect, the quiet of the evening almost too much after the heat of the drive. Rafe doesn’t immediately make a move to get out, and neither do you.

He looks over at you, his gaze lingering on your flushed face, his fingers still tracing small patterns on your leg. "Thanks for dinner," you say quietly, unsure of what else to say. "I feel bad that I didn’t pay, it was really expensive..."

Rafe chuckles, his lips curling into that familiar smirk. "It’s not about the money," he says, leaning back in his seat, stretching his legs. You watch him, unsure of where this is headed. "But if you really feel bad," he begins, pausing to let the words sink in, "there is a way you could pay me back."

You blink, slightly confused by the way he’s looking at you, almost like he's waiting for you to catch on. "Oh... uh, how?" you ask, your voice almost a whisper.

His smirk widens, and you see a flicker of something darker in his eyes. Without missing a beat, he says, "You could kiss me."

You hesitate. The request seems innocent enough, but his eyes are telling a different story—there's a challenge in them, something playful but also demanding. You feel your face heat up, unsure of how to respond. You look away for a second, trying to find the courage to do something that feels so bold.

You lean in quickly, pressing a soft, innocent kiss to his lips, but as soon as you do, Rafe’s hand snaps to your waist, pulling you closer. He doesn’t let go, his grip tightening around you as he shifts you onto his lap, the movement so swift you don’t even have time to react.

You gasp, eyes wide, as you end up sitting in his lap, facing him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing over your skin as he kisses you again—this time, deep and possessive. His lips are demanding, the kiss far from the soft peck you gave him moments ago. His tongue traces the line of your lips, and you can’t help but respond, your body flushing with heat, your mind a blur.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his breath heavy. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your entire body feeling like it's on fire. You look at him, eyes wide, unsure of what just happened but craving more.

"Sleep well, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice low and almost affectionate in a way that makes your heart race even faster. "I’ll call you soon."

You nod, trying to calm your racing thoughts. The kiss, the way he’s touched you—it was all too much too quickly, and yet you don’t know how to feel about it. He leans back, his hand leaving your waist, and you slowly get out of the car, your legs unsteady.

As you stand there, watching him drive away, you can't shake the feeling that something has shifted between the two of you. It’s like you’ve stepped into a new world, one where you’re not sure where you stand with Rafe, but you can’t deny that you're intrigued, caught up in everything he just showed you.

—

You walk slowly up to your room, the evening’s events swirling in your head, each moment with Rafe replaying over and over. The kiss—his hand on your waist, pulling you into him so easily, so naturally—it all feels like it happened in a haze, like you were a part of something far bigger than you could understand.

When you step into your bedroom, the familiar surroundings feel foreign tonight. You place your purse down on the dresser, the sound of the soft leather hitting the wood somehow grounding you for just a moment. The soft glow of the lamp beside your bed casts a warm light over everything, but it doesn’t take away the unease crawling up your spine.

You reach for your pajamas, a loose t-shirt and shorts, and begin to strip out of your clothes, your fingers slow and hesitant. You try to shake off the feeling of Rafe’s touch lingering on your skin, but it's impossible. You pull your hair up into a messy bun, the simple act of preparing for bed almost feeling like a way to disconnect from everything that happened tonight—though deep down, you know it won't be that easy.

As you move about the room, you find yourself glancing toward your purse on the dresser. A slight curiosity bubbles up. You hadn't noticed it before, but now you remember the business card. Rafe’s card. The same card he slipped into your hand with that arrogant smirk after your encounter at the country club.

You walk over to your purse, open it carefully, and pull out the card. Your fingers trace the smooth surface, the silver text gleaming faintly in the light. The weight of it in your hand feels strangely significant. Something about it feels... important.

You sit on the edge of the bed, your legs tucked beneath you as you look at the card once more, the call of his name printed across it. You try to fight the curiosity, but you can’t. There’s something about him—about the way he looks at you, touches you, and the way his words hang in the air between you. It’s all so new, and so overwhelming. But you want more. You want to understand what this is. What he wants.

You glance toward the nightstand and, after a moment's hesitation, slip the business card under your pillow, tucking it carefully between the soft cotton and the cool fabric of the pillowcase. It’s an almost unconscious gesture, but somehow, it feels like you’ve crossed a line.

You lay down, turning off the lamp and pulling the blanket up to your chin. The room is quiet, but your thoughts are anything but. Rafe’s voice echoes in your mind, his touch still sending heat through your skin. You close your eyes, the memory of the kiss lingering on your lips, and as sleep slowly claims you, you find yourself wondering if you’ll see him again soon... or if he’ll simply be another fleeting moment, another part of the unfamiliar world he’s dragged you into.

But for now, you try to quiet the thoughts. Your last thought before sleep takes over is the same one that’s been buzzing in your mind all night.

I’ll see him again soon...

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER THREE

WARNINGS — again nothing much, kissing and teasing from rafe

Your best friend sits cross-legged on your bed, watching you with an amused expression as you ramble on about the night before.

"And then," you say, pausing dramatically, "he ordered for me."

Your friend raises a brow. "Like, without asking?"

"Without asking." You flop onto the bed beside her. "It was kind of—"

"Sexy?"

You purse your lips, staring at the ceiling. "Maybe."

She snorts. "You like being bossed around."

"I do not!"

"Mmm-hmm.”

You huff, rolling onto your stomach, kicking your feet behind you. "It was just... different. He’s different."

Your friend tilts her head. "Different how?"

You chew on your lip. "He’s just so... sure of himself. Like, he knows exactly what he wants, and he doesn’t second-guess anything. It’s kinda intimidating."

She smirks. "And you like that."

You groan, burying your face in a pillow. "Maybe."

Before she can tease you further, your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen, your stomach flipping when you see his name.

Rafe: Be ready at 7.

Your friend peers over your shoulder. "Oh my god, again?"

You nod, feeling breathless. "Again."

—

Rafe lounges back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass as the men around him talk. They’re older, richer, the kind of men who always have cigars in their hands and too much money in their pockets.

"You took that little thing out last night, huh?" One of them smirks, adjusting his cufflinks. "How was she?"

Rafe huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "Sweet."

"Sweet?" Another one chuckles. "That what you’re into now?"

Rafe smirks. "Something like that."

"What was she wearing?" someone asks.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, tilting his head as he recalls the night before. "Little dress. Bow in her hair. Carried around some tiny naked doll."

The men pause. "A what?"

Rafe smirks. "A Sonny Angel. Had the thing in her purse like it was a lucky charm."

Laughter rumbles around the table. "Christ, man. You sure she’s not in high school?"

His smirk fades. "Watch it."

The air shifts slightly, the men exchanging glances. One of them raises his hands in mock surrender. "Relax. Just surprised, that’s all. She seems... young."

Rafe leans back, a smirk tugging at his lips. "She is."

A knowing chuckle circles the table. "And you’re taking her out again?"

"Yeah." He taps his fingers against his glass. "Tonight."

"Careful with that one, Cameron," one of them muses. "Looks like she’d follow you anywhere."

Rafe just smirks.

—

You stare at your reflection, smoothing your dress for what feels like the hundredth time. Your best friend sits on your bed, watching you with a knowing look.

"You’re nervous," she teases.

"I’m not nervous." You are.

She hums. "Are you gonna bring him something?"

You blink. "Bring him something?"

"Yeah. Like a gift."

You frown. "Why would I do that?"

She shrugs. "I don’t know. You just seem like the type."

You huff, turning back to your dresser, eyes scanning over your things. Your gaze lands on a small Calico Critter, one of your favorites.

Without thinking too much about it, you grab it and slip it into your purse.

Your friend raises a brow. "Oh my god. Are you actually bringing him a toy?"

You flush. "Shut up."

Before she can respond, a knock at the door makes you jump.

"That him?" she whispers.

You nod, smoothing your dress one last time before grabbing your bag and hurrying downstairs.

Rafe waits at the door, leaning against the frame, looking as effortlessly put together as ever. He glances over you, his lips twitching. "You’re cute when you rush."

Your cheeks heat. "I wasn’t rushing."

"Sure." He steps back, motioning toward his car. "Come on."

You let him lead you outside, the cool night air sending a small shiver up your spine. He notices, his hand finding your waist as he guides you to the passenger side. He opens the door for you, waiting until you’re settled before shutting it behind you.

The drive is smooth, quiet. Rafe’s hand finds your thigh again, his thumb brushing absent circles against your skin.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"You’ll see."

—

Rafe barely gives you a chance to take in the lavish atmosphere before he pulls out your chair, motioning for you to sit.

As soon as the waiter arrives, you open your mouth to order—but Rafe beats you to it.

"She’ll have the filet, medium rare," he says smoothly. "And a glass of red."

The waiter turns to you. "Is that alright, ma’am?"

You hesitate, glancing at Rafe, who gives you a pointed look.

"She’s good," he answers for you.

The waiter nods, disappearing. You cross your arms. "You didn’t even ask me what I wanted."

"You ever had the filet here?"

"No, but—"

"Then trust me."

You purse your lips, but when the food arrives, you have to admit—it’s good.

Dinner is filled with the usual teasing—him smirking at your reactions, you pouting when he calls you predictable.

"You have a bow in your hair," he says at one point, amused.

"So?"

"So..." He leans in slightly. "You just prove my point every time you open your mouth."

By the time the bill comes, you’re warm from the wine and the heat of his gaze. He pays without looking at the check, and as you leave, his hand settles low on your waist.

He opens the car door for you again, and as soon as he’s inside, his hand returns to your thigh.

The drive home is quiet, the tension thick.

When he pulls up to your house, he shifts, looking at you. "You had fun?"

You nod. "Yeah. Thank you for dinner."

"You wanna pay me back?"

Your brows furrow. "Um—yes?"

He leans back, smirking. "Kiss me, then."

Your face burns. "Rafe—"

"What? Too much for you, sweetheart?"

You square your shoulders and lean in, pressing a soft peck to his lips.

But before you can pull away, his hand snakes around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. His mouth crashes back onto yours, this time deeper, firmer. His fingers press into your sides, keeping you close as he tilts his head, swallowing the small sound that escapes you. His grip tightens in your hair, tugging you slightly as he deepens the kiss, before slowly pulling away.

You’re left breathless, lips tingling, eyes wide.

Rafe watches you, his gaze dark, hungry, but with that familiar smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. He runs a thumb across your cheek. "You’re not gonna leave me hanging, are you?"

You blink, still reeling from the intensity. "I—"

"Relax," he murmurs. "Go on. Give me my payment."

He sits back slightly, his hand resting on your thigh as you fumble through your bag. You pull out the small Calico Critter, feeling your cheeks warm as you offer it to him.

"You really brought me this?" he asks, his voice low and amused.

You nod, shifting nervously. "I thought it was cute."

He looks at the tiny figure for a moment, before turning back to you with a wicked grin. "Are you gonna name him for us?"

Your heart skips a beat at the way he says "us." You swallow, not sure whether to laugh or blush, but you manage a small smile. "Maybe... I’ll think of something."

His fingers brush yours as he takes the Calico Critter, his grip lingering for a moment before he tugs gently at the bow in your hair, taking it off as if it’s a keepsake, his lips curling into a satisfied grin.

"This too," he murmurs, before tucking the bow in his pocket. "It’s mine now."

You watch him, mouth dry, wondering just how much of you he plans to take. The possessiveness in his eyes makes your pulse race, and even though you want to protest, you don’t. Not tonight.

Rafe leans back into his seat, content, as if the night’s events are already forgotten. "You should head inside, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

You nod, heart still hammering in your chest. "Thanks for tonight," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Sleep well," he replies, his eyes flicking over to you one last time before he starts the engine. "I’ll call you soon."

You watch as he drives off, wondering what comes next, and if you'll ever be able to stay unaffected by the way he makes you feel.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER SIX

WARNINGS — again lots of angst, crying, rafe is unsympathetic and a jerk, he invalidates the readers feelings and sorta manipulates them, he also sorta treats them like a child with a tantrum, NOT IN AN AGE PLAY WAY but in a patronizing manner and power dynamic way..

You’ve been avoiding him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. The more you think about it, the more it feels like he only notices when it’s convenient for him. And now, as his name lights up on your phone again, you feel that familiar sense of dread creep up your spine. Your finger hovers over the screen, the sound of his ringtone ringing through the silence of your apartment.

You can’t bring yourself to answer. Instead, you let it ring until it stops.

It’s easier that way. Easier than facing him. Easier than pretending everything’s fine.

You try to keep busy, flipping through old books on your shelf, but you can’t concentrate. The ache in your chest grows, and you feel small. So small. You wish you could just shut it all out, block him out, but he doesn’t give you the option. He won’t leave you alone.

Your phone buzzes again. Then again. Then another call. You stare at it for a moment, your eyes blurring. The world feels heavy, suffocating.

You can’t think, you can’t breathe.

You can’t stand this.

Finally, you answer, your voice soft but tight. "Hey."

"Hey," he replies, his tone casual, like everything’s normal. “Where are you?”

You want to scream, to demand he see what he’s doing to you. But you don’t. You can’t. “Just here. At home.” You sound so small. Pathetic.

There’s a pause. Then, “Come over. Let’s do something. You need a distraction.”

Distraction? That’s all you are to him? A distraction?

But you swallow it, let it sit like a bitter taste in your throat. “I think I’ll stay in tonight.”

A chuckle escapes his lips, and you hate how it makes your chest tighten even more. “You’re gonna hide out, huh? It’s not like you to stay home. Come on, stop being so dramatic.”

The words sting, but you can’t bring yourself to fight it. You’re too tired to fight it anymore. “I’m fine,” you say, but you don’t feel fine. You can’t remember the last time you did.

“Don’t pull this shit with me,” he mutters, voice suddenly colder. “We’re not doing this again. Just let me come over.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Instead, you hang up. You can’t do this.

When he shows up, it’s worse than you imagined. The doorbell rings, and your stomach churns. He’s here, wearing that sleek suit, the one that makes him look like he’s too far out of your league to even dream about. He steps in, the sharpness of his suit cutting through the air like a blade.

And there you are, in your pastel pajamas, feeling like a child.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks you up and down, his gaze flicking over the soft cotton of your top, the little bows at your shoulders. His lips twitch for a second, like he’s trying to hold back a smirk. But he doesn’t.

“A little young for this look, huh?” His words are sharp, but there's something about the way he says it, as if he's not just talking about the pajamas. As if he’s looking at you with a mixture of amusement and something darker. Something that makes your stomach flip.

You want to cry. You feel like you're already disappearing into the walls. He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t understand you.

“I like them,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. It feels like you have to fight to get the words out.

“Sure you do,” he says dismissively. But you can see it now—the faint mockery in his eyes. “How old are you again? Sixteen? Seventeen?” He lets out a low chuckle like it’s some sort of joke.

Your stomach drops, and you look down, trying to hide the embarrassment. Your skin burns, and the words stick in your throat. It’s like he’s belittling you, like none of this matters to him.

You try to move past it, but it’s already too late. He’s already in the living room, strolling through your space like it’s not even yours—his eyes wandering over the Sonny Angels and Calico Critters you’ve collected.

“Really?” he says, his voice cold. “This is what you’ve been doing? Playing with dolls?”

You flinch at the word. The sting hits harder than you expected. He doesn’t know what those things mean to you, to yourlife. To your childhood.

But he’s still standing there, judging, as if your little collection is something to be ashamed of.

“It’s just... stuff I like,” you whisper, wishing the floor would swallow you up.

When he sits down on your couch, you follow numbly, trying to keep it together. Trying to keep your breathing steady, but it feels impossible. You wish you could explain to him how much this hurts. How much everything he says hurts.

But you don’t. You sit next to him. His presence next to you is suffocating.

He glances at you, his voice cutting through the silence. “You want to do something tonight? Or just stay here and act like a... well, I don’t know. A little girl?”

You recoil, the words stinging even more.

You’ve never felt so small in your entire life.

You blink back the tears. You can’t let them fall.

You won’t let him see you like this. Not now.

But it’s too much.

And without even realizing what you’re doing, you stand up, stepping away from the couch.

Your legs shake under you, and the tears are already threatening to fall. You can’t stop it.

“I’m going to bed,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper.

The door clicks shut behind you. You sink onto the edge of your bed, hands shaking, breath shallow. The tears come now, uncontrollable. You curl up, pressing your face into the pillow as you sob quietly, the feeling of smallness washing over you like a tidal wave.

You hear footsteps outside, his voice calling your name, but you can’t respond. You just can’t.

The room feels cold and empty now that Rafe’s walked away, his presence still hanging in the air like a weight you can’t shake. You press your face into the pillow harder, trying to muffle the sound of your sobs. You don't want him to hear. You don't want him to see you like this.

But then you hear footsteps again—closer this time. You barely register the sound before you feel a sharp tug on your arm.

“Get up,” Rafe’s voice is sharp, commanding, but there's a strange undercurrent of something softer, almost like pity. “I’m not dealing with this childish bullshit. You’re not running away from me.”

Your chest tightens, and before you can protest, he’s pulling you to your feet, roughly yanking you into his arms. His grip is too firm, too demanding, but you don't have the strength to fight him.

“You’re making this worse,” he mutters as he pushes you against his chest, settling down onto the bed with you in his lap. It’s the same damn position as before, but now it feels different. Now it feels wrong.

You try to pull away, but he’s not letting go. His hands are heavy on your waist, holding you close, like he's trying to make you feel better, but the only thing you feel is small.

“Stop fighting me,” he says, his voice a low growl. “You don’t need to cry like this. You’re overreacting.”

You can feel the frustration building in you, but the tears keep coming, a steady stream of helpless sobs that won’t stop. You squirm against him, the feeling of his expensive shirt against your cheek only making you feel more out of place.

“I’m not—” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling. “I’m not overreacting, Rafe. You—” But he cuts you off, shushing you with a rough hand brushing over your hair.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and condescending as he strokes your head. It’s meant to be comforting, but it only frustrates you more, like he’s treating you like a child. “It’s not that serious. You don’t need to be so dramatic.”

You feel your chest tighten as the words hit you like a slap. Dramatic? You want to scream at him, to tell him everything that's been building up inside, but the words get stuck in your throat.

“I’m not—” You start again, voice shaking with a mixture of anger and heartbreak, but he shushes you again. His hand presses more firmly against your head, gently but with an unsettling dominance that makes your stomach twist.

“Shh, I’m trying to help. You need to calm down.” His words are flat, not caring about your reasons, only wanting to control the situation. “You’re making this worse.”

You freeze, your heart aching with the realization that he’s still not listening. You close your eyes, letting the sobs take over, feeling like a small child whose feelings don’t matter. His hands on you feel less like comfort and more like control, holding you in a space where you can’t escape, where you can’t even express what’s wrong.

Finally, you cry out between ragged breaths. “I just… I can’t do this anymore. I don’t know who you want me to be, Rafe!” The words spill out before you can stop them, a desperate plea for him to understand.

But instead of responding, he presses his hand over your mouth. “Shh, you don’t need to say anything right now.” His voice is low, almost patronizing, like he’s trying to calm you down with empty reassurances.

“Rafe, please...” you try again, but your voice is broken, your chest aching with the words you can’t say, the explanation that never comes out right.

But Rafe doesn’t let you finish. He pulls away from you, his hands brushing over your arms in a way that almost feels like he’s trying to soothe you, but it doesn’t feel like comfort—not anymore. His gaze is colder now, like he’s just done with the whole situation.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he says, his voice detached, like your tears are nothing but an obstacle he needs to move past. “We’ll get through this tantrum of yours.”

You stand slowly, your legs shaky, and follow him to the bed. His presence behind you feels heavy, watching you, judging you, and for the first time, you resent it. You feel small under his gaze, and that bitter sting in your chest refuses to go away.

He pulls back the blankets, his movements mechanical, almost dismissive. It’s clear now: he’s not trying to understand. He just wants you to stop crying.

He grabs your old jelly cat from the corner of the room and hands it to you like it’s supposed to fix everything. “Here,” he says, his voice blunt.

You stare at the stuffed animal for a moment, the softness of it reminding you of a time when things didn’t feel so tangled up. But now, all it does is make you feel even smaller.

“I don’t want it,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I’m not going to sleep with a stuffed animals.”

“Just take it,” he says sharply, his tone colder now, like he's had enough. “You’re not doing this to me, so just take it.”

You hesitate for a moment before reluctantly taking the jelly cat. It feels like an obligation, like a thing he’s handing you to silence the storm inside of you. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make anything better.

And then he grabs the Sonny Angel figure from the shelf, the little plastic doll with its weirdly adorable face. You glance at it, feeling the tightness in your throat as you look at him.

“And this?” you say quietly, holding it up. “I don’t want it, Rafe.”

His eyes narrow at you, the slightest flicker of irritation in them. “Just take it. Go to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning once you’re done with this tantrum.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. You flinch at the sound of his voice calling it a tantrum—like everything you’ve felt, all the hurt, all the frustration, was just a childish outburst.

You look at him, the indifference in his eyes making your heart break just a little more. You want to scream at him, to tell him how wrong everything feels—how wrong he feels—but you can’t. You can’t find the words.

You sit down on the bed, clutching both the jelly cat and the Sonny Angel, the tiny plastic figure feeling so out of place in your hands, so out of place in your world.

“You’re just...” You try to speak, but the words won’t come. You bite your lip, feeling more and more childish as your emotions unravel.

Rafe, standing by the door now, crosses his arms and stares at you with that unreadable expression. He doesn’t try to come closer. Doesn’t even try to comfort you. His voice comes out flat, almost bored. “I’ll be here, sweetheart. You can stop crying anytime.”

He turns and walks out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone in the silence.

You hold the stuffed jelly cat against your chest, its plastic eyes staring back at you as your tears fall freely again. There’s no escaping it now—the loneliness, the emptiness that’s become your new reality.

The weight of everything Rafe hasn’t said, everything he’s not willing to understand, crushes you as you cry yourself to sleep, the plastic figure and stuffed animal the only things you have left to hold onto. They feel more like reminders than comfort, marking the distance between the person you used to be and the one you’ve become in his world.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER FOUR

WARNINGS — smut, clit rubbing, lack of after care, unprotected sex, possessiveness - mdni 18+

The ride back to Rafe’s penthouse after another date is silent, but it’s a different kind of silence than before. There’s an electricity in the air between you, something unspoken, a connection that seems to pulse with every mile of road you drive down. You’re not sure if it’s the way he looks at you—those sharp eyes that seem to undress you without ever touching—or the way his fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly, like he’s holding onto something that’s just barely slipping through his grasp.

When you reach his place, you’re barely out of the car before Rafe is guiding you inside. His hand is firm at the small of your back, and there’s a sudden urgency in his movements, an intensity that’s different from before. It’s almost like he can’t get you inside fast enough, as if something is pulling him toward you and he can’t resist it.

The second the door shuts behind you, you’re pressed against the cool wall of the foyer, Rafe’s lips crashing down on yours with a hunger you hadn’t expected. The kiss is bruising, desperate, as if he’s trying to consume you, like he can’t get enough. His hands move over you with a possessiveness that makes your heart race—one hand tangling in your hair, the other gripping your hip, his touch leaving a trail of heat wherever he lays it.

Rafe’s hands are everywhere, leaving no part of you untouched. His lips are hot and demanding as they move over your neck, your collarbone, before they finally settle on your lips in a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs. His fingers, long and sure, slip beneath the fabric of your dress, sliding it up your body with a purposeful slowness that makes your skin burn with anticipation.

The way he looks at you, the hunger in his eyes, sends a shiver down your spine. “You’re mine tonight,” he growls, his voice rough with desire, and you don’t even have a chance to respond before his mouth is on yours again, fiercer this time, as if he can’t wait any longer.

You try to reach for him, but his grip on your wrists is firm, holding them above your head as he presses you into the soft, cool sheets of his bed.

The suddenness of the restraint makes your breath catch in your throat, but there’s no fear—just a thrill. You’re not sure where this is coming from, but you find that you like it, the way he’s in control, the way he keeps you exactly where he wants you.

Rafe pulls back just enough to look down at you, his eyes scanning your body with a possessive hunger. His fingers move to the buttons of your dress, but instead of removing it fully, he tears it open, exposing you to him in an instant. “So fucking beautiful,” he mutters, his hands rough as they roam over your skin.

He doesn’t waste time. With a single, sharp tug, he’s pulling your legs apart, his body between them. You’re so wet for him already, the heat between your thighs unbearable, and when his fingers trail down your body, slipping past the waistband of your panties, you can’t help but moan.

“Rafe,” you gasp, your voice breaking as his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing slow circles that make your hips arch toward him. He watches you carefully, his face cold, almost detached, but there’s something in his eyes—something dark and full of desire—that makes your stomach tighten with need.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low and rough. His thumb speeds up, and you can’t hold back the soft moans that fall from your lips. “I can feel how fucking soaked you are, baby.”

You nod, too lost in the sensation to do anything else. Your body is his, and it’s like you don’t even care anymore. Everything that’s happened between you—his distance, his coldness—it all disappears in moments like this, when it’s just you and him, tangled together in lust.

He pulls his hand away suddenly, leaving you gasping at the loss, and before you can say anything, he’s flipping you over onto your stomach, his hand pressed to your back to keep you still. You try to move, to adjust, but he’s firm, his body a solid presence behind you.

“No,” he orders, the command sharp, and you immediately freeze, a shiver running through you. His voice is dangerous, like a whip, and you can feel the tension in your muscles as he drags his fingertips along your spine.

“You’ll stay like this for me,” he murmurs, the tip of his finger just brushing against the waistband of your panties. His breath is hot on your neck, and you shiver again, biting your lip to stifle the whimper that threatens to escape. “You’ll let me have you however I want.”

Before you can respond, he pulls your panties down with one swift motion, leaving you bare before him. The vulnerability is intoxicating, and you feel your heartbeat in your throat as you lie there, waiting for him to do whatever he wants.

“You’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you?” Rafe asks, his voice thick with desire. His hand comes down on your ass with a sharp slap, and you gasp at the sting, the sharpness of it sending a wave of heat through your body. “Answer me.”

You nod quickly, your voice a breathless whisper. “Yes, Rafe. I’ll be good.”

Rafe chuckles darkly, clearly pleased with your response, and you feel his hands moving again, this time grasping your wrists and holding them behind your back. The sensation of being restrained, of being at his mercy, floods your mind with pleasure. You realize you’re wet all over again, the heat between your thighs almost unbearable.

He lines himself up with your entrance, and before you can fully process, he’s inside you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. Your body tenses, the stretch of him almost too much, but it’s exactly what you need. His grip on your wrists tightens as he pulls back and slams into you again, this time harder, faster. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, along with your desperate gasps and moans.

“You take me so fucking well,” Rafe growls, his voice rough with desire. His thrusts are relentless, each one harder than the last, making your body ache with pleasure. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips without a second thought. “Only yours.”

Rafe groans at your response, and you feel him quicken his pace, the pressure building between your legs. His hand moves to your clit again, rubbing it in tight, frantic circles, and the sensation sends you spiraling.

You can feel the tension in your core tightening, building, and when he thrusts into you one final time, hitting that perfect spot, you’re gone.

You scream his name, your body trembling as the release washes over you. Rafe follows close behind, groaning as he spills inside you, his body stiffening with the force of his orgasm.

When it’s over, he pulls out slowly, and you feel the emptiness of his absence immediately. He untangles your arms from where they were restrained behind your back, his hands gentle for the first time, as he runs his fingers down your sides.

“You did good,” he says quietly, the praise making your heart race in a way it shouldn’t. But you’re too lost in the aftershocks to care, too lost in the feeling of his body against yours, to think about anything else.

—

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the warmth. It’s not the warmth of his body next to you, but the space beside you, cold and empty. You blink against the sunlight that filters through the curtains, your head still fuzzy from sleep, and the absence next to you hits you harder than it should.

You sit up slowly, adjusting to the unfamiliar surroundings. Rafe’s penthouse is just as sleek and cold as you remember, a world that feels out of reach. You glance at the bed, noticing that you’re still in his shirt—the one that’s big on you, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips, the collar falling off one shoulder. The smell of him still lingers in the fabric, a reminder of what happened, but now that it’s over, the reality of it all comes crashing down.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cold against your feet. You don’t hear anything coming from the other room, but you know he’s here somewhere. The faint sounds of soft movement eventually lead you to the kitchen, where you find him standing at the counter, his back to you, focused on the papers scattered in front of him, a cup of coffee in his hand.

He doesn’t even turn when he speaks, his voice low and detached. “You can’t stay in bed all day,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I want you to come to a get-together at the country club later. My friends will be there.”

You freeze in place, the words hitting you like a slap. The country club. His friends. The world you barely understand but desperately want to be a part of.

You try to hide the feeling of unease that bubbles up in your chest. “Uh, okay,” you say, your voice unsure. You’re still trying to make sense of what happened last night, trying to reconcile the intimacy with the distance he’s already putting between you this morning. “But... why?”

Rafe finally looks at you, his eyes cold, calculating. “Because it’s what I want,” he says, his tone giving nothing away.

You swallow hard, nodding silently. You’re not sure what to expect anymore. All you know is that you’re trapped in this tangled mess of desire, confusion, and a growing ache for something more. And you have no idea if he’ll ever give it to you.

—

Later, when Rafe disappears into the shower, you take the opportunity to do something nice for him. You find yourself in the kitchen, making him breakfast, trying to distract yourself from the swirl of thoughts in your mind. The sizzling of bacon and the smell of eggs filling the air are oddly comforting.

When he emerges from the bathroom, fresh and dressed in a sleek suit, he raises an eyebrow at the breakfast you’ve prepared. “I didn’t think you’d actually do that,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You shrug, offering him a plate. “I thought you might like it.”

Rafe smirks, taking the plate from you. “Well, I guess I’ll let you stay around a little longer,” he teases, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of something darker, something more possessive.

You force a smile, unsure of how to take his words. But you don’t say anything. You’re learning not to expect too much from him.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER NINETEEN

WARNINGS — controlling behaviors, possessiveness, family problems, light smut mdni

You weren’t expecting a detour.

Rafe had told you you’d be meeting your family for dinner, but instead of heading straight there, the car turned onto a long, tree-lined driveway, leading to an estate tucked away from the city.

Your brows knit together as you glance at him. "Where are we?"

Rafe doesn’t answer immediately. He simply steps out of the car and comes around to open your door. There’s something unreadable in his expression as he takes your hand, guiding you up the front steps.

The house is massive—far bigger than your penthouse, though just as sleek and expensive. But when you step inside, it’s different. You expect something cold and unfamiliar, but instead, the space already feels… lived in.

Your favorite flowers sit in a vase on the marble countertop. A book you once mentioned offhandedly rests on the nightstand in the master bedroom. A closet full of designer dresses in your size hangs neatly beside rows of shoes and handbags.

"You like it?" Rafe’s voice is casual, but there’s an edge of expectation beneath it.

You swallow. "This is… ours?"

"It’s ours," he confirms. "We’re moving in after the wedding."

You open your mouth to protest—to at least discuss this—but then something catches your eye. A door, slightly ajar, at the end of the hall.

Something about it makes your stomach twist.

You step forward hesitantly, your fingers trembling as you push it open.

The room is immaculate. Soft pastels, delicate lace curtains, a bassinet already in place. A nursery.

Your breath catches in your throat.

"Rafe."

He hums behind you, his hands settling on your waist. "Go ahead. Take a look."

Your heart pounds as you step inside, the air suddenly too thick. It’s not just a house. It’s a future. One you never planned.

"Rafe, I—"

His grip tightens, his breath warm against your ear. "This is ours, angel. You knew this was coming."

You swallow hard, a strange weight settling in your chest. It’s not like you hadn’t thought about it before, but seeing it—physically standing in the life he’s building around you—makes it real in a way you weren’t prepared for.

"You’re mine," he murmurs, turning you in his arms. His gaze is steady, unwavering. "We’re done pretending otherwise."

You’re not sure whether it’s comfort or control, but either way, it sinks in.

Because maybe you never really had a choice at all.

—

The drive to your parents’ house is even quieter now.

You stare out the window, fingers clenched in your lap.

Rafe notices. He always does.

"You nervous, angel?" he asks.

You shake your head. "No."

A lie.

He hums, unconvinced.

When you arrive, your mother greets you with a polite kiss on the cheek. Your father barely looks up from his phone.

It’s your brother who makes the biggest show of it—grinning as he pulls you into a one-armed hug, ruffling your hair.

"Look who it is!" he teases. "Still the baby of the family, huh?"

You laugh lightly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

You tug Rafe’s hand. "Come on. I’ll show you my room before dinner."

Your childhood bedroom is smaller than you remember.

Pink sheets still hug the bed. Books still line the shelves.

"Didn’t change much, huh?" Rafe muses.

"Guess not."

You kneel by the dresser, rummaging through an old jewelry box. You don’t notice the way Rafe moves, fingers grazing along your desk—pausing on a small, worn book.

Your diary.

He flips it open.

It only takes a few seconds for him to understand.

The words are shaky, written in a child's uneven scrawl. They tell a story of loneliness, of always being second place.

Of feeling forgotten.

His jaw clenches.

Rafe has always known you were his. But seeing this—seeing how long you’ve felt unwanted—does something to him.

He tucks the diary back into place just as you turn around.

"Found it," you say, holding up a trinket.

Rafe nods, gaze unreadable. "We should head down."*

You don’t notice how he holds you just a little tighter than before.

As predicted dinner is tense.

Your parents are polite, but distant, treating you like a guest rather than their daughter. Your brother, on the other hand, can’t resist slipping in jabs—mostly harmless, but enough to make you squirm.

"You remember how she used to follow me and my friends around?" he chuckles. "Swore she was one of us."

You laugh lightly, even though the memory stings. You were always on the outside, trying to fit in, never quite enough.

Your mother smiles dismissively. "She always was a bit… naive."

That’s when Rafe puts down his fork.

It’s subtle, but it makes the whole table pause.

"She’s not naive," Rafe says, his voice even but firm. His arm drapes over the back of your chair, a casual but unmistakable show of possession. "She just grew up with people who never listened to her."

Silence.

Your father clears his throat. Your mother gives a nervous chuckle, brushing off his words, but your brother looks like he’s actually considering them.

Rafe picks up his fork again, like nothing happened. But beneath the table, his hand slides to your thigh, squeezing gently.

You don’t say anything, but something warm blooms in your chest.

For once, someone stood up for you.

After dinner, as everyone lingers in the living room, you take a slow breath before turning to Rafe.

"Can you wait in the car for a minute?"

His brows furrow slightly, but he nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead before stepping outside.

Your family looks at you expectantly.

You hesitate for only a second before speaking. "I want you all at the wedding."

Your mother’s lips press together. "Sweetheart, of course we’ll be there—"

"But not if you’re going to treat me like a child." Your voice is steady, surprising even yourself. "I get it. I was always the little sister. The quiet one. The baby of the family. But that’s not who I am anymore."

Your father exhales, shifting in his seat. Your mother fidgets with her bracelet. Your brother watches you, expression unreadable.

"If you can’t accept that," you continue, "then don’t bother coming."

Silence stretches between you all. It’s terrifying, but liberating.

Your mother is the first to speak, softer this time. "We’ll be there."

You don’t wait for more. You just turn and walk out the door.

—

The car ride home is quiet at first. You stare out the window, letting the weight of the night settle in.

Then, you feel it—Rafe’s fingers tracing slow circles on your bare thigh.

"You did good back there," he murmurs.

Your breath catches. His hand slides higher.

"Rafe," you whisper.

"Shh, angel." His palm presses against your core through your dress, the heat of him seeping into you. "I like seeing you like that. Strong. Knowing what’s yours."

Your thighs clench, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it.

"You know what else is yours?" His voice is low, teasing, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, barely brushing where you need him most.

You bite your lip, your pulse thrumming. "What?"

Rafe tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Me."

And just like that, any tension from the night melts away—replaced by something else entirely.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — PLUSHIE INTRODUCTION

WARNINGS — none! just fluff

The penthouse is quiet, except for the low hum of the city outside and the occasional click of Rafe’s laptop keys. You’re curled up beside him on the couch, your legs tucked under you, a plushie nestled against your chest.

Rafe hasn’t been paying you much attention, too caught up in whatever business he’s handling, but every so often, you feel his eyes flick toward you. Eventually, you shift, hugging the plushie a little tighter as you scroll on your phone.

“You really sleep with all those?” Rafe’s voice breaks the silence, low and amused.

You glance up, blinking. His attention is fully on you now, the laptop abandoned. You follow his gaze to the small collection of plushies scattered across the couch—ones you must have subconsciously grabbed from the bedroom when you came to sit with him.

You nod slowly. “Yeah… why?”

Rafe smirks, reaching out to flick one of their little ears. “Didn’t expect this when I moved you in here, angel. You’re really sleeping in my bed with a whole army of stuffed animals?”

You pout, shifting slightly. “They help me sleep.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

You hug the plushie closer, running your fingers over the soft fabric. “They all have names, you know.”

That gets his attention. His smirk deepens as he shifts, resting an arm along the back of the couch. “No way. All of them?”

You nod, suddenly feeling shy. But Rafe is looking at you expectantly, so you hesitantly start pointing them out.

“This one is Benny,” you say, lifting a soft brown bear. “And that’s Cupcake—she’s my favorite.” You gesture to a pink bunny with floppy ears.

Rafe snorts. “Cupcake? That’s fitting.”

You ignore him and continue. “This one is Pudding, and that’s Mr. Wiggles.”

Rafe actually laughs at that one. “Mr. Wiggles?” He leans over, plucking the well-worn plush from your arms before you can stop him.

“Rafe—”

He holds it up between two fingers, inspecting it like it’s some strange artifact. “You’ve seriously been sleeping with this thing?”

Your face heats up as you reach for it, but he keeps it just out of reach, his smirk growing. “He’s been with me since I was little,” you explain, trying again to grab it.

Rafe hums, rolling the plushie between his fingers. He’s teasing you, but there’s something else in his expression too—like he’s piecing something together.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” he murmurs.

You huff. “Just give him back.”

But instead of handing Mr. Wiggles over, Rafe tugs you onto his lap, his grip firm as he presses the plushie against your chest. His other hand slides along your jaw, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But if Mr. Wiggles ever gets more attention than me, we’re gonna have a problem, angel.”

You clutch the plushie tightly, lips parting, but before you can say anything, Rafe is pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

It’s possessive. It’s a reminder.

You might have your plushies, but at the end of the day, he’s the one taking care of you now.

And he’s not about to let you forget it.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WARNINGS — controlling behaviors from rafe , he sorta dresses the reader up, rafe speaks for her.

Rafe had a way of making things seem effortless, like he wasn’t controlling the situation—just guiding it.

That’s how he framed the shopping trip. A fun little outing. A treat for you.

“You should have nicer things,” he murmured, fingers grazing your lower back as he led you into one of the most exclusive boutiques in the city.

“Let me take care of you.”

And you let him.

At first, you sifted through racks with quiet excitement, reaching for things that felt safe—soft sweaters, floral sundresses, playful skirts. Things you would’ve worn before.

But Rafe was never far behind, subtly steering you in another direction.

Sleek fabrics. Softer, more delicate tones. Dresses that fit like second skin. Clothes that weren’t just pretty but polished.

He only hummed in approval when you held up something he liked. But when your fingers brushed over something too youthful, too familiar, his response was instant.

“That’s not really you anymore, is it?”

You blinked, fingers tightening around the floral sundress in your hands.

“But I—”

Rafe plucked it from your grasp with a small, dismissive shake of his head.

“You’re not some teenager anymore, angel, you’re my girl.” His tone was light, but his gaze was firm.

By the time you walked out of the boutique, your arms were weighed down with glossy bags, each one carrying pieces of a girl Rafe wanted you to be.

At the last minute, he took your wrist and slipped something delicate around it—a thin gold bracelet with a small charm.

Not an engagement ring. But a claim all the same.

You turned your wrist, the charm catching the light, and looked at him.

He only smirked.

—

You had told your best friend about the move weeks ago.

She had been skeptical. Maybe even a little concerned.

But you assured her it was fine—that Rafe wanted you there. That he took care of everything.

Still, you hadn’t seen her since. And when she texted to check in, you had been vague, avoiding details.

So when you opened the door and saw her standing there, expression tight with something between curiosity and worry, you weren’t exactly surprised.

“Hey.” Her voice was softer than you expected.

“Figured it was time I saw the new place.”

Guilt curled low in your stomach, but you stepped aside, letting her in.

She walked in slowly, eyes sweeping over the penthouse. The clean lines, the muted, masculine tones, the expensive furniture that looked more suited for a showroom than an actual home.

“This place is insane,” she muttered, running a hand over the sleek marble countertop. Then, more pointedly, “Did you do any of the major decorations?”

You hesitated.

Because no, you hadn’t, you only placed cute little trinkets on his shelves, vintage vogue magazines you collected beside his rustic books.

Her brow furrowed slightly. “It’s nice,” she said carefully, “but… it doesn’t feel like you.”

Before you could respond, the sound of a door opening made you stiffen.

Rafe stepped into the room, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. His presence filled the space effortlessly—broad shoulders, sharp gaze, exuding quiet authority.

He didn’t look surprised to see your friend. But you didn’t miss the way his jaw ticked slightly, the way his eyes flicked over to you, assessing.

You barely had time to react before he was beside you, slipping an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. His touch was casual, possessive.

Your friend’s expression shifted—something guarded flickering in her gaze.

“Didn’t take you for the housewife type,” she joked lightly, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

Rafe chuckled, low and deep. He didn’t correct her. Didn’t deny it. Instead, his fingers stroked along your hip, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

“Guess she’s just full of surprises.”

Your friend’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Something passed between the two of you. A silent, unspoken question.

Are you sure about this?

You swallowed. And nodded.

Your friend hesitated, then exhaled softly, forcing a smile.

“Well, I should go,” she said, her tone too casual.

“But we should catch up soon.”

Rafe was already moving, guiding her toward the door with polite ease.

It wasn’t until she stepped out that you realized how heavy the air had become.

Your friend lingered for a second, looking at you one last time. Her lips parted slightly like she wanted to say something—needed to.

But then Rafe was there, his hand resting lightly on the door, waiting.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

And left.

The door closed with a quiet click.

Rafe locked it.

The sound felt louder than it should have.

When you turned, he was watching you. Amused.

“That was cute,” he murmured, stepping closer, his fingertips brushing your wrist. He toyed with the bracelet he had given you, rubbing the charm between his fingers.

“Let’s not make it a habit, yeah?”

—

Later, after dinner, after the city lights had dimmed and the penthouse was wrapped in quiet, you curled into Rafe’s side. His body was warm against yours, his fingers idly tracing the hem of your slip.

The tension from earlier had faded into something softer, but it still lingered beneath the surface—unspoken, waiting.

Rafe’s voice was a low murmur against your hair.

“I’ve got a trip coming up.”

You shifted slightly, tilting your head back to look at him. “Where?”

“London. Just for a few days.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “I’ve never been.”

Rafe hummed, fingers sliding higher, grazing over your ribs. “Then it’s about time, isn’t it?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go. It was just—London. A whole different country. A whole different world.

“I don’t even have a passport,” you admitted.

Rafe’s lips curved in that slow, knowing way. “You do now.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I had it taken care of,” he said, so casually, like he had simply ordered you a coffee. “Figured you’d need one eventually.”

The words settled over you, an unsettling mix of flattery and something else—something tighter.

“You just—got me one?”

His hand slid up to your jaw, tilting your chin so your eyes were locked on his. “I take care of my girl,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “And I don’t like being away from you.”

The implication was clear.

You wouldn’t be staying behind.

“You want me to come,” you said softly, though it wasn’t really a question.

Rafe’s gaze darkened, his grip firm but gentle. “I want you with me.”

Your stomach flipped. Because there was no denying how he made you feel—how safe, how wanted, how kept you were under his watch.

But there was something else, too.

A quiet understanding settling in your bones.

This was another step. Another thread tying you to him, weaving you deeper into his world.

Still, when his hand moved, fingers stroking along the gold bracelet on your wrist, you nodded.

Rafe’s lips brushed against your temple, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“Good girl.”

And just like that, London was decided.