In the dim glow of Eliana's hospital room, where the sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint beep of monitors, Rafael Vexley sat frozen in his wheelchair, his steel eyes—pretending to be clouded—widening in disbelief. The words Eliana had just uttered hung in the air like a fragile promise, one that could shatter with the slightest breath. His heart, that once cold, guarded fortress, thrummed wildly against his ribs. Marriage. To her. Even if it was under the guise of a contract, it was the dream he'd buried deep within his cynical soul, now clawing its way to the surface.
"Eliana," Rafael said, his voice a low rumble, laced with astonishment and a hint of vulnerability he rarely allowed to slip. "Did I... did I hear you right? You're saying you'll marry me? This contract marriage—you're actually agreeing to it?"
