Chapter 242
Eliana sat perched on the edge of the bed, her swollen feet resting in Rafael’s lap like precious cargo. The position felt far more intimate than she was prepared for, and the emotions swirling inside her were anything but cooperative. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, its golden glow painting lazy shadows across the ornate wallpaper of the London townhouse. The air was warm and familiar, still holding traces of the soup he’d made earlier—ginger, herbs, comfort—woven together with the faint perfume of the roses on the nightstand. It smelled like care. That alone unsettled her.
Rafael’s hands—those infamously steady hands that signed billion-pound deals without blinking—were now devoted entirely to her aching feet. His thumbs worked slow, deliberate circles into her arches, firm enough to chase away the soreness but gentle enough to make her breath hitch. Relief rippled up her legs, dangerously close to melting her resolve. This tenderness felt unfair. Disarming. And deeply confusing coming from a man who once treated emotions like hostile takeovers.
“Rafael she murmured, her voice wobbling despite her best efforts. Her honey eyes followed the movement of his fingers, the way they pressed and eased, as if he could knead away more than just physical pain. “You don’t have to do this. Honestly. I’m fine p>
He glanced up at her then, and the look in his steel eyes nearly undid her. There was no calculated sharpness there, no polished indifference—just something raw and earnest, like a man standing in unfamiliar territory without armor. “But I want to,” he said quietly. His lips curved into a small, crooked smile, almost shy, which felt wildly inappropriate on a face that had graced business magazines for years. “You’ve been carrying a lot, Eliana. And before you say it—yes, I mean the baby, your family, and yes, I also mean me.” He exhaled softly. “Let me take care of you like I should have done before. I owe you that. At the very least, I owe you functional feet p>
Despite herself, her lips twitched.
She shifted, suddenly too aware of how close he was, how the warmth of his body seemed to reach for hers. Her black hair slipped over her shoulder like a shield she hadn’t consciously raised. Pregnancy hormones were traitors; every careful touch sent heat pooling low in her belly, made her ache for the safety she used to find so easily in him. She could almost feel it—the solid comfort of his chest, the steady beat of his heart under her cheek, the brush of his dark, wavy hair against her forehead if she leaned just a little closer.
Her heart responded instinctively, betraying her with a soft, foolish flutter. Love, old and stubborn, stirred where she’d sworn it was buried.
And then the memories came rushing back—sharp, cold, relentless—crashing through the fragile warmth like a wave she couldn’t quite outrun.
She could still remember it, feel it, that sharp sting of betrayal—his voice plunging straight into her heart like a wooden stake, each word laced with suspicion and accusation. He’d thrown her aside as if she were a discarded toy, not even willing to listen to her side of the story, his eyes clouded by a mistrust she hadn’t earned. She’d felt small, worthless, and worst of all, she’d started questioning her own worth, until Henry Jackson appeared like a lifeline thrown into the storm.
Henry’s steady presence, his warm eyes that always seemed to understand, had been her anchor. He’d held her hand through the sleepless nights, wiped away her tears, and offered a roof when she had nowhere else to go. And then there was Rafael. The same man who’d turned his back on her, only to crawl back when it suited him, after the damage was done. After she’d been left to piece herself together, alone.
What if it happened again? What if some misunderstanding, some shadow from his past, made him turn on her once more? The thought terrified her. If she let herself fall into this affection, opened her heart wide again, the pain would be unbearable—worse than before, especially now with the baby depending on her. But if she kept her distance, built a wall around her emotions, she could protect herself. No more suffering in silence. No more naivety in love.
“Rafael, stop,” she said more firmly, pulling her feet back slightly, though his hands followed with gentle persistence. Her voice cracked with the effort to sound resolute. “This… this isn’t necessary. I appreciate the soup, the apology, but I don’t need you pampering me like this. We can talk in the morning. You should go back to your room p>
He paused for a moment, his thumbs hovering over her skin, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he tilted his head, that sarcastic edge creeping back just a touch—not overbearing, but playful, like he was trying to coax a smile from her. “Go back to my room? And leave you here alone with these poor, aching feet? Eliana, even I know that’s not chivalrous. Besides,” he added with a wink that was equal parts charming and infuriating, “I’ve got magic hands. James said so when he watched me knead the dough for the bread you devoured earlier p>
She couldn’t help the tiny huff of laughter that escaped her lips, despite herself. Damn him for being funny when she needed to stay mad. “Rafael, I’m serious. “Rafael, I’m serious,” she said, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “This is… confusing. I forgave you for tonight, but that doesn’t mean everything’s fixed. We have a lot to work through p>
His expression softened, the teasing edge fading, but his hands never stopped. The massage resumed—gentle, almost reverent—each stroke careful, unhurried, as if he were asking permission without saying a word. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t trying to corner her into forgiveness. If anything, he seemed content just being there, letting his hands speak where words had failed.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I’m not pretending everything’s magically fine.” A faint curve touched his lips. “But right now? Let me do this. No expectations. No emotional fine print. Think of it as… community service. Court-ordered humility, maybe. Or therapy for my severely bruised ego—dealer’s choice p>
Eliana bit her lip, warmth blooming across her brown skin under the weight of his gaze. The air between them thickened, humming with something unspoken and dangerously familiar. She should pull away. She knew that. Retreat into the safety she’d built brick by brick. But her body, traitorous thing, leaned into the sensation—the hormones, the exhaustion, the love she’d tried to bury flickering back to life like stubborn embers refusing to die.
To be continued p>