Chapter 133
Meanwhile, yesterday, after that fateful phone call with Eliana at the pastry shop—where her voice had trembled with a mix of desperation and quiet resolve—Rafael Vexley found himself unraveling. The words she had spoken echoed in his mind like a relentless storm: her pleas for him to listen, her insistence that there was more to the story than the damning evidence he clung to. And then James, his ever-loyal secretary, had scolded him with uncharacteristic fire, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.
“You don’t know that, Rafael. You’re just assuming. Letting your hatred for Mirabel cloud everything. God, it’s like you’re drowning in it. I came here today to listen to Eliana’s side of the story, to dig out the hidden truth. Whether you admit it or not, you’re lost without her. I’ve seen you these past weeks—snapping at everyone, buried in work like it’s a shield. And from what I’ve seen of Eliana? She’s miserable too. Pale, eyes red from crying, barely holding it together. But you refuse to see it. And when I finally try to bridge the gap, you ruin it all with that damn phone call p>
Rafael sat in his opulent office, the sleek glass desk before him cluttered with untouched reports and flickering screens displaying stock tickers that meant nothing to him in that moment. The city skyline stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering facade of power and isolation. But his thoughts were a whirlwind, pulling him under. ’What if James is right?’ he pondered, his steel eyes narrowing as he stared at the phone in his hand. ’What if I’ve judged her unfairly? Could I have been wrong p>
The doubt gnawed at him, a sharp ache in his chest that no amount of ruthless calculation could suppress. He tried to focus on the merger documents for his pharmaceutical empire, but the words blurred into meaningless ink. His athletic frame, usually so commanding in his crisp designer suit, slumped slightly in the wheelchair. The scar from the car crash— the one that had supposedly left him paralyzed—tingled faintly, a reminder of the web of deceit he had woven to expose the greed devouring his life. But now, that web felt like chains around his own heart.
“Damn it,” Rafael muttered to himself, his voice a low growl that echoed in the empty room. He wheeled his chair back—maintaining the pretense of paralysis even here, alone—and pushed away from the desk. “I can’t do this. Not today.” He glanced at the clock; it was barely midday. Calling it quits early was unlike him, the billionaire recluse who thrived on control. But the office felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken regrets. He grabbed his coat and rolled toward the private elevator, ignoring the curious glances from his staff as he departed.
The drive home was a blur, his chauffeur, Marc, navigating the bustling streets while Rafael stared out the tinted window, his mind replaying every moment with Eliana. Her slender form in those modest, worn-out clothes that somehow accentuated her natural elegance; the way her full pink lips curved into a hopeful smile even when life battered her. ’She’s too trusting,’ he thought, a pang of protectiveness mixing with his suspicion. ’That’s her flaw. And mine is pushing everyone away.’ By the time he arrived at the sprawling Vexley mansion, the emptiness hit him like a fast train.
The house staff bustled about, their footsteps echoing in the grand halls lined with priceless art and crystal chandeliers. Maids dusted surfaces with mechanical precision, butchers prepared meals in the vast kitchen, and gardeners tended the manicured lawns outside. Yet, to Rafael, they were ghosts—faceless figures with no real connection to him. He felt like a fish trapped in a sea of sharks, every shadow hiding a potential bite. Paranoia had become his constant companion since the crash, since discovering his family’s betrayal. The only person who had ever pierced that veil apart from Eliana was Clara, the head maid who had been like a sister to him, taken in by his late mother Eleanor when Clara was just seven. She had grown up in this house, treated with a warmth not afforded to others, her youthful appearance—looking no older than 25 despite being 37—always a source of lighthearted teasing.
But now, even that bond was shattered. Learning that Clara and Eliana were both Mirabel’s daughters had twisted something deep inside him. Rafael had kidnapped Clara in a desperate bid to unearth the truth from her—the reason why Mirabel had planted them in his life? Clara’s tear-streaked face flashed in his memory, her voice pleading, “Mr Vexley, I swear, I don’t know anything! Mirabel… my mother? That’s impossible! Please, believe me p>
He hadn’t. Not fully. He’d released her, but with a cold warning: “Stay away from me, Clara. Don’t come near my house again.” Now, without her—or Eliana—the mansion was a hollow shell, its opulence mocking his loneliness.
Wheeling himself into the grand foyer, Rafael waved off a hovering butler. “Leave me,” he snapped, his tone sharper than intended. The man bowed and retreated, leaving Rafael to navigate the long corridor to his private wing. The wheels of his chair whispered against the polished floors, each turn amplifying the silence. In his room, he finally stopped. The pretense weighed on him; he stood up form his chair and walked towards the bed.
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, he pulled out his phone again, thumb hovering over Eliana’s contact. ’Should I call her? Listen to her side?’ His heart raced, a rare vulnerability cracking his cold facade. “What if she’s innocent?” he whispered aloud, as if testing the words. “What if I’ve lost her because of my damn paranoia p>
Just as he was about to press the call button, the phone vibrated violently in his hand. The caller ID flashed: “Security Team – Victor Detail.” Rafael’s jaw clenched. Victor, Mirabel’s brother, the man he’d hidden away to leverage against her schemes. He answered with a curt, “What p>
“Sir,” the voice on the other end stammered, laced with fear. “It’s about Victor, sir. He… he managed to escape. We don’t know how—he must have picked the lock or something. We’re searching the perimeter now p>
Rafael’s blood boiled, his piercing eyes flashing with fury. “Escaped? How the hell did that happen? I pay you idiots a fortune to keep one man locked up, and you let him slip away like a ghost? Do you have any idea what this means? If he gets to Mirabel, everything unravels p>
The man stuttered, “W-we’re sorry, Mr. Vexley. He was secure last we checked. Maybe he had help p>
“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” Rafael roared, his voice echoing off the walls. “Find him! Lock him up properly this time, or I’ll make sure you never work again. Competence, that’s all I ask for—apparently too much for you fools p>
“Y-yes, sir. We’ll find him. Right away p>
The call ended, and in a surge of rage, Rafael hurled the phone across the room. It smashed against the wall with a sickening crack, the screen shattering into a web of fractures. Black ink bled across the display, obscuring everything in a murky haze. “Damn it all!” he shouted, his fists clenching as he paced the room before collapsing back into the wheelchair.
The anger ebbed into a hollow exhaustion. He wheeled the chair to the bar in the corner, pouring himself a generous glass of scotch. The amber liquid burned down his throat, numbing the edges of his pain. Glass after glass followed, until the room spun and his thoughts dulled. Eliana… was his last coherent whisper before he got up and went back to bed. Sleep claimed him immediately, sprawled across the bed in his suit, the broken phone discarded on the floor.
Later that night, as moonlight filtered through the curtains, the phone buzzed insistently. It rang once, twice, thrice, then a text chimed. But the screen was a ruined mess—nothing visible, no way to command it to read aloud. Rafael stirred groggily, squinting at the device. “Who the hell he grumbled, but the effort was futile. He tossed it aside, making a mental note: ’Have James replace this tomorrow.’ Exhaustion pulled him back under, the calls going unanswered into the night.
The next morning dawned with a crisp clarity, the city’s noise crashing audibly from the balcony of his home. James, Rafael’s steadfast secretary, was already en route to the mansion, his gray Audi cutting through the morning traffic. He gripped the steering wheel, his mind on the previous day’s confrontation. “Stubborn fool,” he muttered to himself, thinking of Rafael. “If he doesn’t wise up about Eliana, he’ll regret it forever p>
His phone rang, vibrating in the cup holder. Glancing at the screen, he saw “Security Lead – CCTV” and answered via Bluetooth. “James here. What do you have p>
“Mr. James,” the voice replied, professional and urgent. “We’ve located the footage you requested—the day Miss Eliana Bennett came to the company looking for Mr. Vexley. It’s been recovered from the archives. I’ve just sent it to your email. High-res, timestamped, everything intact p>
James’s eyes lit up, a spark of hope igniting. “Excellent work. That’s exactly what we needed. Thank you—I’ll review it immediately p>
“No problem, sir. If you need anything else, just say the word p>
The call ended, and James accelerated slightly, the mansion’s gates looming in the distance. ’This could be the clue I’ve been searching for’, he thought, his heart pounding with anticipation.