A storm had not yet come, but Rafael could feel it in his bones.
The night hung still and heavy around the Vexley mansion, pressing into the walls like a breath held too long. In his office—the coldest and most secluded wing of the estate—Rafael sat behind his massive desk in perfect silence, leaned back in his wheelchair, posture deceptively casual, eyes fixed on the faint glow of the surveillance tablet resting on his lap. The quiet hum of the device was the only sound in the room. He swiped lazily through the camera feeds, one after the other, each screen showing the same empty driveway, the same quiet gate.
Still no sign of Eliana.
He didn't sigh or frown—just stared, stone-faced. Waiting.
Then came the sound. That unmistakable creak of the office door swinging open, slow and theatrical—like someone wanted to be heard. No knock. No courtesy.
