Chapter 175
Back in Time
A week earlier—
Rafael Vexley sat in the corner of his penthouse office like a man carved from shadow and glass. The city lights bled through floor-to-ceiling windows, throwing long, cruel reflections across the polished mahogany of his desk. He leaned forward, elbows braced, grey eyes pinning the encrypted reports on his laptop with the same cold precision he used on negotiations and boardroom predators. The screen’s blue light etched lines into his face; his shirt was black and impeccably fitted, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms crisscrossed with the pale, stubborn scars of the accident that had rewritten his life. He lifted a tumbler of scotch and let the burn wash down like a ritual—sharp, familiar, the kind of small cruelty he permitted himself when the rest of the world demanded restraint.
His hand kept time against the glass, a soft, impatient percussion as he skimmed the latest dispatches. His network was a living thing—discreet operatives shadowing the Vexley estate, listening at the edges of Mirabel’s glittering orbit, even fingers inside the maintenance crew for her private jet. He didn’t trust fate. He distrusted people more. Trust, in his language, was a currency he hoarded and spent only when it came with guarantees.
When he’d flown to London days earlier—an excuse dressed as a conference—he’d barked into a secure line with that voice that could soothe or command; today it carried the kind of sarcasm that barely concealed worry. “Eyes on Mirabel every second,” he’d said, slow and controlled. “She’s a viper in pearls—don’t let her slither p>
Brandon, Rafael’s new security head, gifted to him by Austin Miller, had stood framed by the city’s glow, shoulders squared, the sort of man Rafael relied on without needing to say so. “Understood, sir,” Brandon replied. “We’ve infiltrated her staff, planted bugs in her office, rotated our mole into her chauffeur’s schedule. You’ll get encrypted briefs every day p>
Rafael nodded, but the motion was small and ironclad. Orders and assurances were one thing; the thing that kept him awake right now was the cold seam of doubt that never quite healed. He closed his laptop, not because the work was done, but because some investigations needed time to settle—like sediment in a glass—before the truth could be poured clear. He set the scotch down, the clink of ice a brief punctuation to the silence, and watched the skyline as if the city might cough up its secrets for him.
And so the reports had begun to pour in—each one a breadcrumb in the dark, tracing Mirabel’s descent from curiosity into obsession.
Monday. The first update came before sunrise, a sharp ping that shattered the stillness of Rafael’s office.
Subject spent three hours in her study cross-referencing old photographs. Contacted a private investigation firm specializing in missing persons. Queries focus: “Eliana Bennett.” Locations searched—hospitals, schools.
Rafael had leaned back in his chair, the glow of the monitor painting cold light across his face. A bitter laugh escaped him, low and hollow.
“Of course she’s hunting,” he muttered, swirling his glass before taking a slow sip. The memory of Eliana’s smile—the way her honey-brown eyes shimmered with quiet defiance even when the world was cruel—flickered in his mind. He couldn’t let Mirabel poison that. Not her. Not again.
Tuesday. The tone shifted.
Overheard phone call to an Interpol contact. Subject requested discreet checks on immigration records for ’E. Bennett.’ Agitated. Canceled all social plans.
Rafael had been pacing his hospital suite, restless energy rolling off him like heat. His hand tightened around his phone as he typed, She’s getting desperate. Double the surveillance. He could almost see Mirabel now—impeccable, elegant, yet unraveling at the seams of her own scheming.
Wednesday. The reports turned personal.
Subject accessed family archives. Retrieved files on Frank Bennett. Witnessed emotional outburst—threw a vase. Hired additional investigators for overseas ground search.
Rafael smirked darkly as he read, his reply dripping with irony.
“Ah, the loving mother surfaces. Keep me posted, Brandon. If she even thinks of booking a flight here, I want to know before her pilot does p>
Thursday.
Subject conducted multiple searches on London campuses. Bribed admin staff for access to student rosters. Heard muttering during dinner—’fixing mistakes p>
Friday.
Conference call with Lydia. Discussed plans to ’retrieve what’s mine.’ Security detail around estate increased.
Saturday.
Deep dive into social media archives. Several failed leads. Health deteriorating—maid reports insomnia, loss of appetite, elevated stress.
Rafael had read that last one with grim satisfaction. Good, he’d thought. Let her choke on her own ghosts. But the unease lingered—a warning in the gut he’d learned never to ignore.
Then came Sunday night. The call that froze everything.
Brandon’s voice crackled through the encrypted line, calm but urgent.
“Sir, our mole in the travel agency just confirmed it. Mirabel’s booked a private jet to London. Wheels up at dawn. She’s found her—Eliana’s location’s been pinpointed to a specific university. She’s going after her p>
Rafael’s grip on the phone had tightened, his jaw clenching so hard it ached. “Damn it, James. She’s moving fast. Handle it. Send six of our best—casual dress, blend in. Track every move: her arrival, her meetings, everything. If she gets near Eliana, intervene. Discreetly, but decisively p>
“Copy that, sir. Team’s en route. They’ll shadow her from the airport onward—unseen ghosts.” James replied, his face serious and determined.
The men James sent were surgical in their efficiency. Oliver—thin, hawk-eyed, a master at folding into alleys and crowds—melted into London’s streets like smoke. Will was the muscle with a tinker’s mind, sleeves always hiding a handful of discreet tools. Liam read people the way others read headlines, tracing intentions in posture and gait. Kai moved like a shadow: quiet, sudden, dangerous at arm’s reach. Viktor handled the wheel as if born to it—calm, precise, unnervingly steady. And Jax kept the orchestra in sync, voice clipped into Rafael’s earpiece so static never had a chance.
They came in as tourists—trainers, hoodies, denim—nothing to mark them from the lunchtime tide crossing Oxford Street. By the time Mirabel’s jet kissed down, they were already in place: two blending into the terminal, two near her hotel under the pretense of sightseeing, and two drifting like loose teeth in the background, ready to snap into position.
That afternoon, while Rafael lay propped in his London hospital room, his phone buzzed and the world lurched. Eliana’s message bled across the screen: Rafael — Mirabel’s here. She cornered me at uni. I’m in her car. She says she needs to talk. I’m scared but… I don’t know.
For a man who wore composure like armor, the wordless hit was a crack. His hand went cold on the glass. “No,” he said aloud, a single syllable that carried moons of fury. His thumbs turned to hammers, firing off orders and desperate pleas at once. Eliana, don’t go. Get out. Now. Calls went unanswered; voicemail swallowed each ring.
He was on his feet before he realized it, pacing the small hospital room as if movement could rearrange fate. “James—now,” he barked into the secure line. “She’s with Mirabel. Track them. Find the car. Move the two nearest—discreetly. Don’t spook her, just follow. I want eyes on that vehicle every second p>
His voice was the same polished brand the world knew, but underneath it throbbed a raw, private panic that didn’t care about appearances.
James’s response was immediate: “On it, sir. Team’s mobilizing p>
To be continued p>