A week had drifted by at the Vexley estate—not passed, not rushed. Drifted. The kind of slow, golden week that feels stolen from a different life.
Late summer wrapped the grounds in honeyed light. The gardens were unapologetically alive—roses blooming like they had something to prove, petals unfolding with the dramatic flair of secrets finally told. Bees hummed lazily between blossoms. The hedges stood tall and disciplined, lining gravel paths that crunched softly under careful footsteps. Somewhere in the distance, rain had kissed the earth earlier that morning, and the air still carried that rich, damp scent of soil and promise. It was the kind of atmosphere that made you believe in second chances—even if you'd once sworn they didn't exist.
Rafael Vexley walked those paths like a man reacquainting himself with his own body.
