The morning sun streamed through the massive windows of Rafael Vexley's dining room, flooding the space with soft golden light. It danced across the long mahogany table and made the crystal chandeliers overhead sparkle like captured stars. The room smelled of freshly brewed coffee, warm buttery croissants, and sharp citrus from the bowl of perfectly arranged oranges in the centre. Every inch of the space screamed wealth and power.
At the head of the table sat Rafael in his sleek wheelchair, wearing a navy suit that hugged his broad shoulders like it was made just for him – because it was. His dark wavy hair caught the morning light, and though everyone believed he couldn't see, his steel-grey eyes watched everything with a quiet, dangerous amusement. Around him, staff moved like silent shadows: Clara pouring coffee with steady hands, a young maid adjusting the silverware just right, and James standing by the doorway with his tablet, ready for orders.
