<h4>Chapter 37: Lost</h4>


    Night cloaked Rafael Vexley’s estate like a shroud—still, suffocating, and heavy with unspoken tension. The mansion, grand and cold, seemed to hold its breath with him. In the dim expanse of his bedroom, Rafael sat hunched on the edge of his king-sized bed, shirt wrinkled, cor open, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he’d given up on pretending tonight.


    A half-empty bottle of whiskey dangled from his fingers, the ss glinting gold in the sliver of moonlight that dared creep through the drapes. The silence in the room was pierced only by the asional soft clink of melting ice, and the slow exhale of a man on the brink. His steel-grey eyes—cold, calcting, haunted—stared into the void, but what he was seeing wasn’t the room. It was the past. They kept reying infront of him.


    The crash. The betrayal. The blood-soaked silence that followed. His pulse ticked in his ears louder than the ticking clock on the wall.


    He took another sip—burning, but familiar. The ache in his chest red with every memory: the lies, the vultures circling with his own family’s name. The storm inside him roared louder than any thunderp outside. His dark, tousled hair hung over his eyes, his jaw tight with the effort of holding himself together. Tonight, he didn’t bother to pretend. Not for the walls. Not for himself.


    And in the room next door—quieter, softer, but just as weighed down—Eliana Bet stirred.


    She blinked against the warm amber glow of the bedsidemp, caught somewhere between a bad dream and a worse reality. The silk sheets twisted around her legs like vines, clinging to the sweat of restless sleep. Her right arm, suspended in a ck sling, throbbed—a dull echo of the chaos that had ripped through her just yesterday.


    She groaned softly, shifting her weight as the scent ofvender from her pillow did little to calm her frayed nerves. Her curly hair tumbled over her shoulders in a halo of sleep-tangled waves. Her sweater—her father’s, actually—hung loose on her frame, smelling faintly of him and dust. The kind offort you don’t talk about.


    The digital clock blinked: <strong>9:47 p.m.</strong>


    Toote. Too hungry. Too tired to care. Her stomach grumbled—a sharp reminder she hadn’t eaten since morning. Or was it yesterday? Time had stopped making sense since she met Rafael Vexley.


    She sighed and rubbed her eyes with her good hand, her fingers brushing away more than just sleep. Guilt. Grief. All of it.


    Then—a knock came at the door.


    Soft. Hesitant.


    But in the stillness, it cracked like thunder.


    "Miss Eliana?" ra, the housekeeper, poked her head through the door, her round face etched with concern. "Dinner’s been ready for a while. Shall I bring you a te?"


    Eliana offered a weak smile, her full pink lips curving just enough to hide the weariness in her heart. "Thank you, ra, but I’m... I’m too tired to get up. I’ll figure something outter."


    ra hesitated, her grey brows knitting together. "You sure, dear? You need to eat something. You’re looking thinner than a shadow."


    "I’ll be fine," Eliana said softly, her voice carrying that quiet strength she’d honed over months of hardship. "Really. I just need a little more rest."


    ra gave a hesitant nod, then quietly disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, leaving Eliana alone with the silence. Alone with the ache.


    But silence didn’t feed you.


    And neither did grief.


    Her stomach twisted again—an urgent, growling reminder that no matter how broken she felt, her body still needed something to keep it standing. She let out a low groan, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The marble floor kissed her bare feet with a chill that ran straight to her spine.


    She tugged her oversized sweater tighter around her frame and gave the cor a quick tug to hide the bruises only she could feel. The faded jeans she wore were frayed at the knees—more hers than anything else in this ce. Every movement was slow, careful, like she was trying not to disturb the ghosts trailing her.


    The mansion stretched before her like a living, breathing thing—elegant, massive, and cold as hell.


    Every hallway was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners like secrets. She moved through them like a whisper, her fingers grazing the marble walls to keep from drifting. The sling made everything awkward. Her bnce felt off. She was off.


    This house wasn’t made for the wounded. It was made to impress. And right now, Eliana just needed a sandwich.


    After a few wrong turns—one leading to a locked study, another to a staircase that seemed to descend into nowhere—she finally stumbled upon the kitchen. Or rather, the high-techir of some culinary god. Stainless steel everything, sleek marble counters, mood lighting glowing under the cabs like a soft electric halo. She paused, momentarily overwhelmed. This kitchen didn’t smell like home. It smelled like... money.


    Still, her stomach made the call.


    The industrial fridge loomed in front of her like a vault. She opened it and let out a breath of disbelief. Roasted chicken. Mashed potatoes. Sautéed green beans. Cold, but beautiful. Someone had been eating like royalty while she was trying to make sense of broken bones and worse memories.


    She chuckled under her breath as her stomach roared in triumph. "I had a fridge just like you, once upon a time." she murmured to it, "Nothingsts forever I guess."


    One-handed, she awkwardly stacked the containers on the counter. The microwave looked like it required a PhD in engineering, and her left hand fumbled across the buttons. Each jab made her wince—the sling on her right arm tugging at sore muscles and bruised pride. Still, she got it working. The soft whirr of the microwave was the first warmth she felt all day.


    As the scent of roasted garlic and herbs filled the air, for a second, just a second, it almost felt normal.


    She sat at the kitchen ind, te bnced on herp, fork clutched in her non-dominant hand like it was an unfamiliar weapon. The first attempt to cut into the chicken failed miserably—her fork slipping, elbow knocking into the counter, pain ring up her arm. She clenched her jaw.


    "Come on, Eliana," she muttered, trying again. "It’s just food. You’ve handled worse."


    But this? This was worse.


    Worse because it wasn’t a monster she could outrun. It was exhaustion. Pure and quiet and soul-deep. It was the way her body trembled not from fear, but from sheer effort. From the weight of having to try so hard for something so small.


    She finally got a piece of chicken into her mouth, chewed, swallowed—and then quit.


    The next bite slid off her fork and flopped pathetically onto her te. Her eyes burned.


    Not because of the food. But because she was tired. So damn tired.


    She pushed the te away. The metal fork clinked louder than it should’ve, echoing through the kitchen like a reminder of failure. Her honey-brown eyes shimmered, tears threatening but refusing to fall. No. Not for this. Not tonight.


    With a quiet, frustrated sigh, she stood—slow, deliberate—her breath shaky. The hunger was still there. So was the pain. But neither of them could outweigh the one thing she wanted most: to feel whole again.


    And tonight, she just didn’t have it in her.


    So she turned. And walked back into the house that wasn’t hers. Back toward the room that felt less like safety and more like a prison.


    But the mansion’s maze betrayed her. Exhausted and disoriented, Eliana wandered down a hallway she thought was familiar, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. She pushed open a heavy oak door, expecting the soft glow of her bedroommp. Instead, she stepped into darkness, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and something sharper—anger, perhaps, or pain. She didn’t notice the figure on the bed until it was toote.


    Rafael’s hand stilled, the whiskey ss hovering near his lips as he watched the door creak open. His sharp eyes, hidden behind the pretense of blindness, tracked Eliana’s silhouette as she moved with that quiet grace of hers, oblivious to his presence. She crossed the room, her steps hesitant but purposeful, and climbed onto the bed without a second thought, slipping under the covers as if it were her own. Rafael’s jaw tightened, his grip on the ss tightening until his knuckles whitened. What the hell was she doing?


    Eliana, lost in her own exhaustion, didn’t register the warmth of another body until her bare legs brushed against his under the nket. The contact was electric, a jolt that sent her heart racing. She screamed, a sharp, startled sound that echoed in therge room, and scrambled to leap out of the bed.


    "Don’t. Move. A. Muscle." Rafael’s voice cut through the darkness, low andmanding, each wordced with a dangerous edge that made the air feel colder. "Or you’ll regret it."


    Eliana froze, her body rigid, her good hand clutching the edge of the nket. Her eyes, wide and frantic, darted around the room, finallynding on Rafael’s shadowed form. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, his steel-grey eyes glinting with something unreadable—anger, suspicion, or maybe something softer, buried deep. Her breath hitched, her voice trembling as she spoke. "R-Rafael? Oh my God, I’m so sorry—I thought this was my room!"


    His lips curled into a sardonic smirk, though his eyes never met her. "Your room? You think you can just waltz into mine and climb into my bed like it’s nothing?" He set the whiskey ss on the nightstand with deliberate slowness, the clink of ss against wood sounding louder than it should. "Care to exin yourself, Eliana?"


    "I—I didn’t mean to!" she stammered, her cheeks flushing despite the dim light. "I was hungry, and I went to the kitchen, and then I got lost, and I’m so tired, and—" Her words tumbled out, frantic and unpolished, her usualposure unraveling under his intimating presence even though his eyes wasn’t holding hers. "I swear, I didn’t know this was your room!"


    Rafael leaned forward slightly, his broad shoulders drawing a long shadow over her. "You’re telling me you wandered into my bedroom by ident?" His tone was mocking, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, a crack in his cold facade. "You’re either very lost or very bold."


    Eliana’s lips parted, indignation flickering through her fear. "Bold? I’m not bold—I’m lost," she shot back, her voice tight. "This ce is a maze, and I’m barely functioning here."


    She gestured to her sling cradling her arm—then stopped halfway, realizing he couldn’t even see her. Her anger wavered, reced by something softer. He was probably just startled, thinking a stranger barged into his space. He was only protecting himself.


    Her voice dropped. "I didn’t mean to intrude, Mr. Vexley. I’ll go."


    "Stay," he said sharply, the word almost a growl. His hand shot out, not touching her but hovering close enough to make her pulse race. "You’re already here. Might as well tell me why you’re sneaking around my house in the middle of the night."