The study in Rafael’s London ho was a sanctuary carved out of mahogany and quiet power—a temporary stronghold compared to the sprawling mansion he owned in New York, but still a room that carried weight. London lacked the dramatic skyline and glittering nightscape of Manhattan, yet the space felt intentionally curated, wrapped in shadows and polished wood, the kind of place where truths were negotiated, buried, or reborn.
Outside the tall windows, the city lights shimred like distant constellations, faint and indifferent to the storm tightening behind the closed door.
Rafael pushed away from his wheelchair he’d been lounging in, rising with the unhurried grace of a man who owned every room he stepped into. His body moved smoothly, effortlessly—no weakness, no hesitation—only controlled strength honed by years of discipline and the heavy expectations he’d long since outgrown.
He crossed over to the large desk positioned at the left side of the room, each step soft against the Persian rug, and slid into the leather chair behind it with a low exhale. The seat molded around him like it recognized its rightful king.
Then the quiet broke again.
A sharp vibration rattled against the polished surface of the desk.
Rafael didn’t reach for it. His steel eyes narrowed the mont he saw the sa na glowing on the screen again.
"Father."
The single word carried a thousand unwanted feelings he so much wished he could silent permanently. The call wasn’t unexpected—his father always had a way of sensing when Rafael carved out a sliver of peace—but it was unwelco all the sa.
Not because Rafael feared confrontation.
But because he simply didn’t care enough to entertain it.
The phone buzzed again, impatient, like it knew it was being ignored.
Rafael rested his forearm on the desk and leaned back, watching the screen with a look that was almost amused, almost cold.
But eventually, the insistent ringing beca too annoying to ignore.
Not because he cared—he reminded himself of that twice—but because avoiding the man only prolonged the inevitable. And Rafael Vexley hated giving anyone the satisfaction of thinking he was avoiding them.
With a slow, resigned exhale, he reached for the phone. The sigh slipped out of him—controlled, but unmistakably threaded with the storm he kept locked behind ribs and restraint.
He pressed accept, brought the phone to his ear, and let his voice slide into the cool, razor-edged sarcasm that had protected him for years.
"Father," he drawled, every syllable dipped in ice. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? I assu you’re not calling to congratulate on my recent nuptials."
The silence on the other end was imdiate—heavy, taut, crackling with the disapproval he knew was coming.
Rafael leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, letting the sarcasm curl into a smirk.
If his father wanted war tonight, Rafael was ready to give him poetry.
On the other end of the line, Charles Vexley’s voice erupted like thunder over a stormy sea, his late-50s timbre gravelly from years of boardroom battles and fine cigars. The silver fox, no doubt pacing in his opulent study across the ocean, clad in one of his impeccable suits, wasted no ti on pleasantries. "Congratulate you? You’ve got to be kidding, Rafael. What in God’s na were you thinking, marrying that girl without so much as a whisper to your family? Your stepmother, your siblings—they’re furious, and rightly so! We deserved better than this slap in the face. An invitation, at the very least. But no, you slink off like so thief in the night and tie the knot with... with who? So nobody from nowhere!"
Rafael leaned further into his chair, his athletic build tensing beneath the crisp designer suit that hugged his 6’3" fra. A low chuckle escaped his lips, building into a full-throated laugh that echoed off the wood-paneled walls. It wasn’t amusent; it was the bitter release of years of pent-up resentnt, sharp and cutting like a blade. "Oh, Father, that’s rich coming from you. A nobody? Not from a reputable ho? You sound like a Victorian novel villain clutching his pearls. Tell , did you rehearse this speech in front of the mirror, or did Mirabel feed it to you line by line?"
Charles’s breath hitched—audible even through the static—followed by a silence so heavy Rafael could almost see his father’s face contorting on the other end. That infamous Vexley fury, carved into sharp lines and rigid control, was no doubt cracking at the edges now.
"Don’t you dare laugh at , boy."
His voice ca low, clipped, vibrating with a rage sharpened by decades of entitlent and cold ambition.
"This isn’t a joke. That girl—Eliana, is it?" Charles practically spat the na, as though it tasted bitter on his tongue. "She’s probably just another opportunist circling our fortune. Reaping where she didn’t sow. Latching onto you in your... vulnerable state."
He paused, letting the accusation hang in the air like smoke.
"Blind and paralyzed," he added with venomous emphasis, as if the words were a stain Rafael had chosen to wear.
"My father and I built this empire brick by brick while you—" his voice rose, cracking with offended pride, "—you squander it on so nobody. So girl off the street who sees you as a walking inheritance."
His breathing grew harsher, the anger boiling over into sothing raw and unfiltered.
"You owe a lot of things, Rafael. At the very least—respect."
The laugh faded from Rafael’s voice, replaced by a steely edge that could slice through steel. His chiseled jaw clenched, dark wavy hair falling slightly over his forehead as he gripped the phone tighter. "I owe you a lot of things? I owe you respect? Careful, Father, your mask is slipping. But let’s talk about gold diggers, shall we? Remind again—after Mother died, who did you marry? Mirabel, wasn’t it? A woman from the poorest slums, scraping by on nothing but ambition and cunning. She abandoned her own children for a shot at your wealth. And not just poor—oh no, she’s a full-blown psychopath. How many tis has she tried to kill ? The car crash that ’paralyzed’ ? Her handiwork. The poisoned als, the rigged accidents? All her, and you turned a blind eye because she keeps you on a leash with her manipulations."
There was a stunned silence on the line, broken only by Charles’s heavy breathing. Rafael could picture his father’s face reddening, the passive indifference cracking under the weight of truth. "How dare you speak of your stepmother that way! Mirabel has been nothing but loyal to this family—"
"Loyal?" Rafael interrupted, his sarcasm dripping like venom. "Loyal to the money, maybe. But let’s not pretend, Father. I know you know the truth about Eliana. She’s Mirabel’s daughter—one of the children she left behind in her greedy climb to the top. Eliana and her sister Clara, erased from Mirabel’s shiny new life like they never existed. You both act like they were ghosts from a past you’d rather forget. And now you have the audacity to criticize my choice? My wife is a hundred tis the woman Mirabel could ever dream of being. Kind, resilient, with a heart that’s survived more betrayal than you can imagine. So, stay in your lane, Father. Leave mine alone. I won’t tell you a second ti."
Charles’s voice rose to a roar, the detached businessman giving way to raw anger. "You ungrateful little—! After everything I’ve done for you, building this legacy, and you throw it back in my face? You’re nothing without us, Rafael. Nothing!"
To be continued...
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