In the opulent study of his Kensington home, Rafael Vexley paced with the restless fury of an angry lion. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, broken only by the warm, trembling glow of the crystal chandelier overhead. Each step he took was sharp, controlled, yet reckless beneath the surface—like a man holding himself together with fraying thread.
Eliana's voice still clung to him. Raw. Broken. Frantic.
He had replayed her every word a dozen times already, each repetition carving deeper into him. The threat Mirabel had spat at her—a threat from his own stepmother—burned like acid in his veins. His jaw tightened, his hands curling at his sides as though he could still feel the phone pressed to his ear.
The worst part? He wasn't blind anymore. He wasn't weak. He wasn't bedridden.
And yet he had to pretend he was all those things.
