The sterile hum of the hospital room droned on like a cold, unfeeling anthem, interrupted only by the rhythmic beeping of monitors struggling to keep pace with Eliana's fragile pulse. Harsh fluorescent light washed the walls in a muted glow, but nothing softened the heaviness in the air.
Rafael Vexley sat anchored beside her bed, his wheelchair pulled so close his knees nearly touched the mattress. His steel eyes—dulled behind the cloudy contacts he wore to maintain his anonymity—never strayed from her face. The world knew him as a man carved from stone, a billionaire recluse who controlled empires with the subtle flick of a signature. Yet here, beside the woman who had melted every layer of armor he'd built, that control felt pitifully small. It slipped from him like sand pouring through open fingers.
