<h4>Chapter 34: Free Fall</h4>


    The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the sleek ck Bentley as it pulled into the circr drive,ing to a stop with the elegance of something practiced a thousand times. The Vexley mansion stood before them—massive and unyielding, its stone facade catching the golden hues of thete afternoon sun like a castle pulled straight from some forgotten century. It didn’t just loom—it dared you to question who lived inside.


    Rafael Vexley sat poised in the back seat, his broad shoulders square and still, a picture of unshakable control. He didn’t move until James, ever dutiful, swung the door open. Then, with effortless precision, Rafael shifted forward, guiding his sleek carbon-fiber wheelchair down the built-in ramp. Despite the chair, there was nothing frail about his movements. If anything, they were smoother than most men on two legs—quiet, deliberate,manding.


    The faint whir of the wheels melded with the background hum of cicadas and the soft rustle of wind through the high hedges. James walked beside him, alert, his hands never far from the chair. He didn’t say much—he never did—but even he shifted a little when Rafael paused to study the entrance. Behind his dark sunsses, Rafael’s gaze was unreadable, but it carried weight. The kind that made people nervous for reasons they couldn’t exin.


    At the top of the stairs, the heavy oak doors opened without a knock. ra stood framed in the doorway, dressed in her usual spotless uniform, not a pleat out of ce. The Vexley family pin glinted at her cor like a badge of honor, silver catching the chandelier’s subtle glow as it lit up the foyer behind her.


    Her posture was straight-backed,posed. But the moment she saw Rafael, her face softened. It always did. A warm smile broke across her features, chasing away the sharpness of the mansion’s grandeur.


    "Mr. Vexley," she said with a gracious nod, her voice calm and melodic. "Wee home. I trust your day was... productive?"


    Rafael’s lips twitched into something that hovered on the edge of amusement—half a smile, half a warning. "Productive enough, ra."


    There was something different in his tone—still crisp, still cold at the edges, but with a thread of warmth quietly stitched into it. Like something had shifted. Like someone had softened him.


    He adjusted his sunsses and tilted his head just slightly, eyes locked on her though she couldn’t see them. "Where’s Eliana?"


    At the mention of the name, ra’s smile faltered—not in displeasure, but in concern. Her hands instinctively smoothed down the front of her apron, a tiny tell he noticed but didn’t mention.


    "She’s in the guest room you asked for, sir," ra replied. "The one beside yours. She’s resting now. Poor thing looked absolutely worn out when she arrived—barely standing, if I’m honest. And with that sling on her arm..."


    She hesitated, brow pinching as her voice softened. "She didn’t say much. Just thanked me and went straight to bed. I think the trip took a toll."


    Rafael was quiet for a long second. A stillness settled over him, deep and unreadable. Then, without a word, he nodded once.


    ra nced at James, then back at Rafael, as if debating whether to say more. But she knew him well. Whatever questions she had, she tucked them away like she always did.


    "I’ll have a light dinner sent to her room," she offered. "Something warm and easy. And tea. She looked like she neededfort more than food."


    Rafael’s jaw locked tight, the sharp line of tension etched beneath his chiseled cheekbone twitching ever so slightly. It was subtle—but unmistakable. The kind of tell only someone who’d spent years learning to appear unshaken would still have.


    "Good," he said, voice low and rough like gravel under pressure. "That’s... good." The words didn’t carry relief, not really. More like control—like a man trying to convince himself of something. Or bury something that didn’t want to stay buried.


    Beside him, James stood motionless, his face carved in stone—stoic and unreadable as always. But Rafael turned to him anyway, not with gratitude, not with warmth—just withmand.


    "James," he said evenly, "you’re dismissed. For now."


    James’s brow lifted just slightly. A flicker of curiosity passed between them, quiet and restrained—but then, just as quickly, it was gone. He gave a sharp, respectful nod. "Of course, sir."


    Without another word, James pivoted and strode down the corridor, the steady thud of his boots fading into the mansion’s silence. He didn’t need to be told twice. Whatever this moment was, it belonged to Rafael alone.


    Now alone, Rafael sat still for a heartbeat, hands resting on the wheels of his chair. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and pushed forward, the quiet hum of his movement filling the vast marble corridor like a whisper of intent.


    He didn’t need to think about where he was going.


    Every turn, every door, every subtle shift in temperature in the hallway was branded into his memory. The long hall curved like a spine toward the north wing—toward the guest room he’d personally selected. The one directly beside his own.


    The one where Eliana was.


    He stopped in front of the door—a tall, imposing thing of dark polished wood with intricate carvings that caught the low light. His heart, always so damned controlled, gave a quiet, unwanted thud against his ribs. It annoyed him. But it also... intrigued him.


    He raised a fist and knocked.


    Once.


    Twice.


    Nothing.


    The silence pressed in around him, more noticeable now. Too noticeable.


    His brow furrowed. She hadn’t stirred. No shuffling. No reply. No muttered e in" through the door.


    A flicker of unease slid into his chest, unwee and unfamiliar. He wasn’t used to concern sneaking up on him, let alone for someone who had only just stepped into his world. And yet, here it was—wing quietly at hisposure.


    Rafael reached for the handle, his fingers brushing the cool brass. The metal felt colder than usual. Maybe it was just him.


    He turned it.


    Softly.


    Thetch gave with a gentle click, and the door creaked open—slow and smooth, like the house itself was holding its breath.


    He lingered in the doorway, taking in the room.


    Muted sunlight filtered in through sheer curtains, bathing everything in gold. A small teacup sat untouched on the side table, steam long faded. One of the armchairs near the window had a nket draped over it like someone had wrapped themselves in it briefly, then tossed it aside.


    But Rafael saw only one thing.


    Eliana.


    Shey curled beneath soft linen sheets, her form small, almost delicate, as if the bed itself had been holding her gently all this time. Her long, curly ck hair spilled across the pillow like a cascade of midnight ink, framing the smooth angles of her face. Her skin glowed in the filtered light, warm and alive. Her eyes—usually sharp, defiant—were hidden now, peacefully closed. Lips slightly parted, she breathed in a rhythm that slowed the world itself.


    Even the awkward sling draped across her chest couldn’t diminish the picture she made. If anything, it made her seem even more human. Breakable. Real.


    Rafael rolled closer, wheels silent against the thick carpet. He stopped just beside the bed, drawn to her in a way that made no logical sense, yet felt entirely inevitable. His breath caught. For someone who’d learned to steel himself against emotion, this—this—felt like free fall.


    His eyes traced her every detail—the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the faint flush in her cheeks, the way hershes cast shadows like tiny whispers on her skin. There was strength in her, yes. He’d seen it. But there was softness, too. A quiet kind of grace that rattled something deep inside him. A man like Rafael Vexley didn’t feel easily, didn’t care without consequence.


    And yet, here she was.


    For almost half an hour, he didn’t move.


    He simply watched her, the way a soldier watches a sunrise after too many nights at war—tentative, grateful, disarmed. Everything outside of that room—the empire, the board meetings, the bitter power ys, even Caleb—disappeared into static.


    There was only Eliana.


    And the unfamiliar warmth bleeding into his chest like a wound he didn’t know how to tend.


    He muttered under his breath, barely audible. "Get a grip, Rafi."


    The words sounded foreign, like they belonged to someone else. Someone younger. Softer.


    With a rough breath, he rolled back. His fingers hovered over the door handle onest time. Then he turned, slipping silently out of the room and shutting the door behind him with care.


    The scent of lemon zest and roasted herbs weed him into the dining room, where ra waited as if she’d timed his return to the second. She stood beside the table, a tray of food arranged with her signature precision: seared salmon with a lemon-herb ze, crisp roasted asparagus, and a perfectly chilled ss of white wine. The table was set for one—elegant, untouched, waiting.


    "You must be starving, sir," ra said gently, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Can’t have you running yourself into the ground."


    Rafael gave a weary half-smile as he rolled to the table. "You’re too good to me, ra."


    She smirked, brushing a loose strand of back-streaked hair behind her ear. "Someone has to keep you alive, Mr. Vexley."


    Before Rafael could lift his fork, the door burst open.


    Not gently.


    Not politely.


    With ir.


    Caleb Vexley swaggered into the room like a storm with a stylist. His designer sneakers squeaked against the marble floor, and his expensive jacket hung off one shoulder like he’d just walked off a runway shoot. His golden blond hair was tousled in a way that had taken a stylist an hour to perfect, but the glint in his eyes was anything but pretty.


    "Rafael," he drawled, dragging the name out with venom-coated boredom, "why do you always have to be so difficult?"


    Rafael didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Just set his fork down slowly, with the precision of a man who had mastered the art of patience—and violence.


    "Excuse me?" he said, voice like ice.


    Caleb leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, expression smug. "You heard me. You act like this empire was handcrafted for you alone. Grandfather didn’t build this empire just for you, Rafael."


    Rafael’s eyes narrowed behind his sses. He took a beat—then another. And then: "Caleb," he said coolly, "get out of my wing. Now. Or I swear to you, I will have you physically removed from this house—permanently."


    Caleb’s smile faltered, just for a moment.


    But then it returned—tighter, meaner. "You think this ends with you sitting in that chair ying king of the castle? You’re just the ceholder. One way or another, I will get what’s mine. Grandfather’s legacy isn’t your personal inheritance."


    Rafael leaned forward slowly, his voice dropping to a growl. "As a matter of fact it is. Try me, Caleb. Try your mother’s games. Try thewyers. Try whatever cowardly backdoor you’re slithering through. But I promise you—you won’t like what you find on the other side."


    For one electric second, the room crackled with silent rage.


    Caleb’s jaw clenched, his fists balled at his sides—but he said nothing more. He turned, stormed out, and mmed the door behind him.


    The silence left in his wake was deafening.


    Rafael stared down at his te, untouched. The scent of lemon and salmon, once appetizing, now soured in his throat. He pushed it away with a sharp clink of porcin on wood.


    "ra," he said tly, not looking up, "I’m done here."


    She didn’t ask questions. She never did. But the worry in her eyes was in.


    "Shall I clear it, sir?"


    He gave a quiet nod and turned toward the corridor.


    Back in his private quarters, the polished surface of calm shattered.


    The room was stripped of decoration, all clean lines and cool shadows. Dark wood paneling, a sleek desk, a worn leather chair by the window—functional, intentional. But even the silence here offered no peace.


    He gripped the arms of his wheelchair—and stood.


    Strong. Steady. Not broken. Never broken.


    With a sharp breath, he yanked the dark sses from his face and hurled them across the room. They struck the wall with a violent crash, exploding into glittering shards. ss scattered across the floor like fractured stars.


    He didn’t stop to watch them fall.


    He paced.


    Every breath jagged. Every step thunder beneath the quiet.


    Memories crashed through him—uninvited, unwanted. Faces. Voices. Warnings. Promises broken.


    He clenched his fists.


    Not here. Not now. Not again.


    <i>To be continued...</i>