gleamed around her graceful neck, their cool sheen matching the glint in her honey-brown eyes. Her smooth brown skin seemed to glow in the golden light, but her smile held no warmth. Instead, her lips curled into a smirk as her gaze travelled over the unconscious woman in Rafael's arms, amusement and something darker flickering in her eyes. Rafael's jaw tightened, his hatred for Mirabel simmering like a coiled snake. He knew her for what she was-a gold-digger who'd clawed her way into his father's bed, her heart as cold as the diamonds she wore. His father, Vexley Sr., was too enamored to see her for the viper she was, but Rafael wasn't so blind. Still, he never acted rashly. His words were always refined, layered with double meanings that cut deeper than any shout. "Mirabel," he said, his voice smooth as polished steel, "I suggest you attend to your own affairs. This doesn't concern you." His tone was polite, almost deferential, but the underlying command was clear: Fuck off. Mirabel's smirk faltered, but she recovered quickly, tossing her head. "Touchy, darling. I was only curious about your... guest." Her eyes lingered on Eliana, sharp and calculating. Rafael pressed the remote on his wheelchair, the motor whirring as he moved past her without another word, leaving her standing in the corridor, her smirk fading into a scowl. He didn't look back as he guided the chair into his private suite, the heavy door closing with a soft thud. Inside, the room was a sanctuary of dark wood and deep blues. The massive king-sized bed sat beneath a sculpted ceiling, its silk sheets pooling like liquid silver in the dim light. Rafael pressed the small brass service bell resting on his side table, the sound sharp and delicate in the quiet room. Within moments, the door creaked open, and Clara stepped in. She was young, her uniform crisp, her brown hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck. "Sir?" she asked softly, but her gaze shifted immediately to Eliana, and her expression melted into quiet worry. "Help her out of those wet clothes," Rafael said, his voice losing its usual edge, becoming almost tender. "Find one of my dress shirts for her. Something comfortable. Be quick." Clara nodded without hesitation and hurried to his side. Rafael slipped his arms beneath Eliana and lifted her effortlessly onto the bed, careful not to jostle her. As Clara began her task, he turned his wheelchair and rolled himself out, leaving the maid to work in private. Minutes later, Clara's gentle call reached him. He returned to the room to find Eliana lying against the pillows, her damp curls fanned out like dark ink across the white pillowcase. She wore one of his crisp white dress shirts, the fabric drowning her slender frame, the sleeves slipping past her small hands. The shirt clung softly to her curves, and Rafael felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight. He flicked his gaze to Clara's direction and gave her a silent nod of dismissal. She slipped out, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Alone now, Rafael wheeled himself closer to the bed. Reaching up, he slowly removed the tinted contact lenses that kept the world convinced he was blind. As they slipped free, his true eyes were revealed-piercing steel-grey, clear and cutting through the dim light with a cold, unflinching brilliance. He blinked, adjusting to the clarity, and leaned forward, letting his eyes trace the lines of Eliana's sleeping form. She looked so impossibly small lying there, so fragile and vulnerable in his shirt. Yet there was something undeniably captivating about her-her parted lips, the faint rise and fall of her chest, the quiet strength beneath her softness. For a moment, his carefully guarded expression eased, a fleeting smile softening his harsh features. He reached out, brushing his fingers gently over a damp curl stuck to her forehead, pushing it away with a tenderness he rarely showed. His voice dropped to a whisper, low and almost broken as he spoke words meant only for her sleeping ears. "You will regret coming back to me, Eliana," he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek. "But I'm not sure I'll ever let you go now." Outside, the storm continued its relentless rage, thunder rolling over the city like an angry god's drum. But inside that quiet room, something shifted-something small and fragile but real. A thin, silken thread of connection began weaving itself between the ruthless billionaire who trusted no one and the woman who, whether she knew it or not, had just given him everything.