<h4>Chapter 35: The Taste of Betrayal</h4>


    <strong>FLASHBACK </strong>


    In the vast, echoing silence of the Vexley estate’s grandest bedroom, nine-year-old Rafael twisted beneath the tangled, sweat-soaked sheets. The room, with all its antique splendor and velvet drapery, felt less like home and more like a forgotten stage—too big, too cold, too quiet.


    His dreams had been sharp and brutal: the screech of tires, the metallic crunch of impact, his mother’s voice rising—then snapping—into silence. He jolted awake, breath hitching, chest heaving. But the world he woke to didn’t feel right.


    It wasn’t just night.


    It was void.


    A thick, sightless ckness that wrapped around him like tar, swallowing every corner of light. No shapes. No shadows. Just a suffocating absence. One month since the ident, and still—no color, no dawn, no escape.


    "Mommy?" His voice wavered, a broken whisper in the vast dark. It barely rose above the stillness. "Mommy, where are you?"


    Nothing answered. Not even the creak of furniture.


    "Daddy?" he tried again, louder this time. "Daddy, I’m scared!"


    Still, silence. Cruel and heavy, pressing against his ribs. It sat on his chest like a stone, pulling him deeper into the mattress.


    With a trembling breath, Rafael curled into himself. Tiny fingers clenched the sheets. His knees tucked up. His throat tightened. And then—he cried.


    It wasn’t the quiet sobs of a child holding back. These were open, raw, helpless sobs that filled the hollow corners of the room. His voice cracked with every call that went unanswered. Tears soaked into his pillow, hot and constant. His cries echoed off the carved ceilings and grand oil paintings that couldn’t care less. The darkness didn’t flinch.


    Minutes blurred into hours. His tiny frame shook until he had no strength left to cry.


    Then—


    In silence, a creak sound filled the room. The soft groan of old hinges filtered into his ears.


    "Rafael?"


    Footsteps came next. Fast, familiar. The faint scent of tobo and worn wool drifted in likefort on air. A warm presence sank into the bed beside him. Strong arms wrapped around his small body.


    "Oh, my sweet boy... what’s wrong?"


    It was his Grandfather. His voice was rough—hoarse from sleep, butyered with tenderness that made Rafael sob harder. He buried his face into the man’s chest, clutching fistfuls of his cardigan like they were thest solid thing in the world.


    "I can’t see," Rafael whispered, voice muffled, trembling. "It’s so dark. Mommy didn’te... Daddy didn’te..."


    "Why didn’t theye?"


    The old man went still. For a second, just one heartbeat-long pause, everything in him tensed. Then he breathed in, slow and heavy, and pulled Rafael tighter.


    "Oh, my boy," he murmured, running a hand gently through the child’s curls. "I’m here now. I’ve got you."


    His voice shook. He tried to make it sound strong, to sound sure, but something deeper slipped through—something cracked and aching.


    Rafael didn’t catch it. Couldn’t. He was too small, too broken by the ckness to hear the sorrow hiding in his grandfather’s breath.


    But the old man’s eyes shimmered, ssy under the weight of what he couldn’t say.


    And as he held the boy tighter, rocking him gently in the dark, he whispered a promise he wished could be enough.


    "You’re not alone, Rafael. Not while I’m still breathing."


    But even that vow sat heavy in the air—because sometimes, even the strongest love couldn’t chase away a darkness like this.


    Not when it came from within.


    Morning came, pouring sunlight through the towering windows of the Vexley estate like liquid gold—but it brought no warmth. Not to the cold marble floors, not to the cavernous halls, and certainly not to the boy sitting motionless on the edge of his bed.


    Rafael’s small fingers traced the grooves of the carved bedpost, memorized from years of habit. Though his eyes could no longer show him the world, his mind drew a map of the room: the soft, thick rug beneath his bare feet... the rustle of the heavy drapes when a breeze slipped in through the cracks... the scent of polished wood andvender from the maid’s morning routine.


    But something else intruded on the silence.


    Raised voices.


    Sharp. Angry. Cracking through the stillness like thunder splitting a cloudless sky.


    "You left her, Charles!" That was Grandfather—his voice volcanic with rage, every syble scorching. "You left your wife for that woman, and now she’s gone—gone because of your cowardice!"


    Rafael stiffened. The words sliced through him, sudden and terrifying. He slid off the bed, feet sinking into the rug, and crept toward the hallway, the way a shadow might move—silent, uncertain.


    The study door was cracked open. He pressed his back against the cold wall, his breath barely daring to exist.


    "Don’t you dare lecture me, Father," came the cutting voice of his father—Charles Vexley. Calm. Cold. Ice against fire. "Eleanor’s death was an ident. I didn’t cause it."


    There was a pause, then a bitterugh—dry and dangerous.


    "An ident?" Grandfather’s voice dripped with disgust. "You broke her long before the crash. You were parading around with Mirabel while Eleanor—your wife—was wasting away from heartbreak. And now, you’re doing the same to your son? He’s blind, Charles! Blind and alone, and you’ve left him to drown in the dark!"


    Rafael flinched. The words struck like fists.


    Blind.


    Alone.


    Abandoned.


    He clutched his chest, his breathing shallow. A sound almost escaped him, but he covered his mouth with trembling fingers.


    Dead?


    Mommy was... dead?


    The word shattered something inside him. A cold pain exploded in his chest.


    No. That couldn’t be. She had toe back. She promised.


    "I’m giving him a new mother," his father said—too casually, like it was a solution you could gift-wrap. "Mirabel will—"


    "Mirabel?" Grandfather exploded. "That leech? That vulture? That snake in rags? She wouldn’t even spit on that boy if he were on fire—unless you paid her to!"


    "I’m done exining myself to you."


    "You’re not fit to raise a son!"


    The voices faded, tangled in fury and mmed doors, but Rafael didn’t wait to hear the rest. He stumbled away, barely noticing the turn of the hall, the soft brush of curtains against his arms.


    The world spun sideways beneath his feet. The ground no longer felt steady.


    Dead.


    Mommy was dead.


    Daddy didn’t want him.


    He reached his room, copsed onto the floor beside the bed, and curled into himself like the night before—but this time it wasn’t just fear that gripped him.


    It was grief.


    Heavy. Consuming.


    And the darkness wasn’t just in his eyes anymore.


    It was in everything.


    It was everywhere.


    <strong>*******</strong>


    Three months after that devastating argument, the Vexley estate hosted a wedding.


    Not a joyful one. Not one filled withughter or light.


    Charles Vexley married Mirabel beneath a canopy of crystal chandeliers and polished smiles, while Rafael stood off to the side—small, silent, blind. He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak. He simply listened to the apuse and the vows that meant nothing to him, while the ghost of his mother drifted further from memory.


    Time slipped by. Days bled into months, months into years—and every one of them darker than thest.


    Grandfather was the only light that pierced the void. The only one who stayed. He read to Rafael in his gruff, calming voice. Taught him how to navigate without sight—by sound, by touch, by instinct. He taught him how to survive.


    But even Grandfather couldn’t stop time. His body was failing, stretched thin by business, age, and the burden of protecting a child no one else wanted.


    Nannies rotated in and out like clockwork. Their hands were careful but cold, their voices always too loud or too fake. Rafael learned early how to perform—how to smile, how to say "thank you" without meaning it. He learned how to tuck his pain behind his teeth and swallow the ache like medicine.


    But every night, when the lights went out, the darkness pressed against him like it wanted to consume what little was left.


    At eleven, Mirabel’s voice became a constant venom in the house. She slithered into every room with her cloying perfume and sharp words wrapped in sweetness.


    "He’s an embarrassment, Charles," Rafael heard her say one evening.


    He was hidden behind the slightly open dining room door, holding his breath as her words floated like poison smoke.


    "A blind boy stumbling around like a lost dog? What will people think? He’s not our future—he’s a liability. He needs to go. Somewhere far. Somewhere he won’t ruin everything."


    Silence followed. Then his father’s voice finally came—t and emotionless.


    "You’re right, my love. A boarding school. Somewhere... specialized."


    Rafael didn’t move. Didn’t cry. But his heart copsed in on itself like ash.


    Weekster, he was gone.


    The school smelled of sweat, old books, and cruelty. Rafael’s cane was stolen on his second day. Boys shoved him in the halls, whispered "Blind freak" behind his back—sometimes to his face. He said nothing. He learned to walk bruised and silent, swallowing the humiliation like ss.


    But then, like a phantom wrapped in twilight, Grandfather began to visit.


    Never announced. Never caught.


    Just a warm hand on Rafael’s shoulder at dusk, and the rumble of his voice: "You’re stronger than they know, my boy. And I’ll always protect you. Always."


    At thirteen, Rafael returned home. Grandfather had fought tooth and nail to bring him back, ignoring Mirabel’s venomous protests and Charles’s indifference.


    But the Vexley estate was no longer a home—it was a battlefield dressed in silk and chandeliers.


    One night, when the house was still and shadows stretched long across the floor, young Rafael curled behind an oversized armchair in the living room. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—he’d only wandered in looking for his nanny, barefoot and sleepy-eyed. But what he heard rooted him to the spot.


    His father’s voice drifted through the half-open study door, low and secretive. Rafael didn’t need eyes to know that tone—it always meant something was being hidden.


    "The properties will go to Mirabel, Caleb, and Celina," Charles Vexley said, his voice clipped and confident. "They’re the future of this family."


    That was it. No hesitation. No pause. No Rafael.


    He wasn’t mentioned. Not once.


    The words mmed into Rafael like a punch. He curled tighter behind the chair, his tiny fingers digging into the carpet, tears sliding down his cheeks, unseen by the world—but felt like fire against his skin. The darkness felt cruel and suffocating. Cold arms of silence wrapped around him, and he feltpletely and truly invisible.


    Hourster, his grandfather found him in bed, face buried in a pillow soaked with tears. The old man sat beside him, his voice firm yet filled with worry.


    "What is it, Rafael? What’s wrong?"


    "They don’t want me," Rafael whispered, voice cracking. "I heard him, Grandpa. Dad’s giving everything to Mirabel and her children. I don’t matter. I’m not... I’m not one of them."


    There was a long pause. Then a deep inhale. The weight of Grandfather’s rage didn’te out in shouts, but in the way his jaw tightened and his eyes burned. Yet when he reached out, his touch was all warmth.


    "Listen to me," he said, his voice suddenly fierce and trembling with emotion. "You are everything. You are my grandson. My legacy. My blood. And I swear to you—I will protect you with everything I have."


    And he did.


    Not long after, Grandfather rewrote his will—tore the old one apart and made Rafael the sole heir to the Vexley fortune. The announcement sent shockwaves through the family like an earthquake splitting the foundations of a ss house.


    Overnight, Mirabel’s sharine smiles were pasted on like cheap makeup. She began offering Rafael sweets wrapped in shiny foil andpliments that tasted like vinegar. His father started making surprise visits to his room, his voice suddenly full of fatherly affection that Rafael had never heard before.


    "We’re a family now, son," Charles said one night, cing a hand on Rafael’s shoulder.


    But Rafael knew better. His father’s warmth wasn’t real—it was the heat of a me hiding the burn.


    Then came the tea. That made Rafael understand the extent of their hate for him.


    That night, a soft knock came through Rafael bedroom door. Mirabel’s voice purring into the room. " I made you tea. Just some chamomile, sweetheart. It’ll help you sleep."


    Rafael had taken one sip just to be polite. Just one sip.


    Barely five minutester, his throat burned. His chest seized. He copsed, gasping for air, the shadows twisting around him even in his pitch-ck sightlessness. The darkness didn’t swallow him this time—it shoved him into a deeper abyss.


    He woke up in the hospital two dayster, barely alive.


    Grandfather sat by his bed, stone-faced, hands trembling with fury.


    "Don’t ever eat or drink anything she gives you again, do you hear me Rafael?" he said, voice like steel beneath ice. "Unfortunately I’ve got no prove but Mirabel wants you dead, Rafael. Because now... you’re the heir."


    That was the night Rafael learned the taste of betrayal. It was bitter. Poisonous. He learned to listen not just with ears, but with instinct. To feel the tension in a voice, the change in the air when someone entered a room. To read the world without sight. To survive.


    By the time he turned twenty, Grandfather was gone—and Rafael inherited everything.


    The wealth. The empire. The legacy. And a mountain of enemies.


    Mirabel’s fury was volcanic. Her voice rose like sirens as she screamed at Charles, her carefully painted mask cracking.


    "You let this happen! He took everything from us!"


    Charles stood silent. Beaten. Small.


    Rafael, no longer the child hiding behind chairs, stood tall, unflinching. He had been shaped by pain, trained by silence, and sharpened by betrayal. Grandfather had taught him what power looked like—and how to wield it.


    Now, the memory slipped away like smoke in the wind.


    Rafael blinked, pulling himself back into the now—into the cold calm of his private quarters. His ssesy shattered on the floor. Silence reigned. No voices. No footsteps. Just the low hum of tension, always present.


    He rose to his feet, slow but sure. His once-blind eyes, now steel-grey and sharp as cut ss, scanned the room with steady focus.


    He wasn’t blind anymore. And he definitely wasn’t helpless.


    But the sting of betrayal?


    That never faded.