Chapter 142
The once-majestic calm of the Vexley mansion shattered into chaos. The glittering chandeliers above still glowed with their usual opulence, but beneath them, panic reigned. Mirabel Vexley lay sprawled across the polished marble floor, her silk gown blooming around her like the fragile wings of a fallen bird. A string of pearls had slipped from her trembling fingers, scattering in every direction—tiny, gleaming echoes of her last desperate grasp for control.
Her face, once a portrait of unshakable poise and power, was now ghostly pale, lips parted as if caught mid-protest. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest—so taken for granted—was gone, replaced by an awful, suffocating stillness.
Celina and Caleb knelt beside her, their designer perfection unraveling by the second. The masks they wore so effortlessly in the world outside cracked under the strain of sheer terror. Celina’s hands shook as she pressed them against Mirabel’s shoulder, her voice breaking through the thick air, raw and trembling. Caleb’s words came out louder, harsher—a frantic plea swallowed by the echoing emptiness of the marble halls.
“Mom! Mom, wake up!” Celina shrieked, her manicured hands fluttering uselessly over Mirabel’s form, tears smudging her perfectly applied mascara into dark rivulets down her cheeks. She shook her mother’s shoulders gently at first, then more frantically, her high-pitched voice breaking. “This isn’t funny! Come on, you’re scaring us p>
Caleb, his face drained of color, knelt beside her, his designer shirt rumpled for the first time in what felt like forever. “Celina, stop shaking her like that! Mom, can you hear us? Say something!” His voice cracked, the entitled bravado gone, replaced by the vulnerability of a boy who had never faced real crisis. He glanced up at Rafael, who remained seated in his high-backed wheelchair, his steel-grey eyes narrowed in suspicion, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.
Rafael leaned back, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his dark hair tousled from the intensity of the confrontation. He let out a low, mocking laugh that echoed off the walls, shattering the siblings’ hysteria like it was nothing serious. “Oh, please. Spare me the theatrics, Mirabel. You’ve always been a master of the dramatic exit. Fainting? Really? That’s your play now? After all the lies and schemes, you think I’ll fall for this shameless performance?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, cold and calculating, his athletic frame radiating unyielding command even as doubt flickered briefly in his mind. But he pushed it away—he had to. Vulnerability had no place in his world.
Celina whipped her head toward him, her eyes blazing with fury amid the tears. “How can you just sit there laughing? She’s your stepmother! Do something p>
“Yeah, man, this isn’t a joke!” Caleb added, his voice rising in pitch, sweat beading on his forehead. “She’s not moving! Rafael, call someone p>
Rafael’s laugh faded into a smirk, but he made no move, his piercing gaze fixed on Mirabel’s prone figure. “Why should I? She’s probably counting the seconds until I rush over, all concerned, so she can spring her next trap. No, let her ’wake up’ on her own. I’m done being manipulated p>
The room hung in tense silence for what felt like an eternity, broken only by the siblings’ ragged breaths and muffled sobs. Minutes ticked by—two, three, five—and Mirabel remained unnaturally still, her elegant form lifeless against the cold floor. No twitch, no flutter of eyelids, no rise and fall of her chest. Rafael’s smirk began to falter, a crease forming between his brows. This… this was too convincing. Even for her.
At the doorway, James stood like a silent sentinel—tall, composed, every inch the picture of restraint. His wire-rimmed glasses caught the light from the chandelier, glinting with the same precision as his neatly pressed suit. For a long moment, he remained still, his expression unreadable as chaos unfolded before him.
But then something in his gaze shifted. The calm professionalism that had carried him through every Vexley disaster wavered as his sharp eyes locked onto Mirabel’s motionless form. His breath hitched—barely perceptible, but real.
Without a word, James moved. The transition from stillness to motion was swift, deliberate—like a soldier breaking rank. His polished shoes struck the marble with a rhythmic precision, echoing through the cavernous room as he crossed the floor. The scent of cologne and panic hung heavy in the air, but James’s focus never faltered.
“Mr. Vexley, this doesn’t look right,” James said urgently, his voice steady but laced with concern as he knelt beside Mirabel. He gently turned her head, checking her pulse at her neck with practiced efficiency. His face paled. “She’s not breathing. Caleb—call an ambulance now! Tell them it’s a possible cardiac arrest p>
Caleb fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. “Oh God, oh God… 911? Yes, hello? My mom—she’s collapsed! She’s not breathing! Vexley Mansion, hurry p>
Celina gasped, backing away slightly as James rifled through Mirabel’s designer purse, spilling out lipsticks and keys until he found what he needed—nothing specific, but he positioned himself anyway. “Move aside,” he commanded calmly, though his heart pounded. He tilted Mirabel’s head back, pinched her nose, and began CPR—two breaths, thirty compressions, his movements rhythmic and forceful, sweat forming on his brow. “Come on, Mrs. Vexley, stay with us,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a rare crack in his professional armor.
Rafael gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, his knuckles whitening as he leaned forward, still keeping the pretense of his blindness and paralysis intact. His head turned slightly, as if trying to catch every sound, every tremor in the air. “James… is this—real?” he asked, his voice cracking with something raw and unsteady.
The room answered with chaos. The steady rhythm of James’s compressions—thud, thud, thud—echoed off the marble like a desperate heartbeat. Celina’s soft, broken sobs tangled with Caleb’s frantic voice as he relayed instructions to the dispatcher.
Rafael looked at the scene before him, and weirdly felt it—the fear, the urgency, the sharp scent of panic that filled the air. It wasn’t like him to care, especially because of who Mirabel was, but strangely he felt bad.
Minutes stretched into agony until the wail of sirens pierced the air outside. Paramedics burst through the doors, a whirlwind of blue uniforms and medical gear, taking over from James with efficient precision. They hooked Mirabel up to monitors, their voices overlapping in clipped professionalism.
“She’s in V-fib—defibrillator, clear p>
A shock jolted her body, arching it slightly off the floor. Celina screamed, clutching Caleb, who held her tightly, his face buried in her hair.
“Got a pulse! Weak, but there. Let’s move—suspected heart attack p>
As they loaded Mirabel onto the stretcher, one paramedic turned to the group. “Family? She’s had a cardiac event—likely a heart attack triggered by stress. We’ll know more at the hospital p>
Rafael stood frozen, the weight of realization crashing over him like a tidal wave. She hadn’t been faking. The shock on her face, the trembling—it had all been genuine. She truly hadn’t known about Eliana and Clara. His accusations, his relentless revelations, had pushed her over the edge. Guilt twisted in his gut, sharp and unrelenting, as the ambulance doors slammed shut and sped away, lights flashing.