Chapter 117: Days Before Decision
Two Weeks Earlier — Before Eliana’s Decision to Travel to the UK
The once-lively corridors of Vexley Manor had grown cold and hollow, their silence pressing down like an iron weight. Even the chandeliers, which usually glittered with arrogant brilliance, seemed dimmer that night. In his study, Rafael Vexley sat alone behind an antique mahogany desk, a fortress of shadows and regrets. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, its light dancing across the sharp lines of his face, carving deeper the grief etched into every angle of his expression.
His grey eyes were fixed on the clutter before him. Scattered reports, crumpled letters, and a stack of surveillance photographs lay abandoned across the polished wood. At the center of them all was a single image of her.
Eliana Bennett. His caretaker. His lover. The woman who had dared to melt the frost encasing his heart.
She had disappeared for three long, punishing days—three nights in which the silence of the manor clawed at him like a living thing. And when she finally returned, it wasn’t with the softness of a lover’s embrace but with truths sharp enough to draw blood. Not just the fact that she was Mirabel Vexley’s daughter—the same woman who had orchestrated the shadows that stalked him, the hands that tried to end his life.
But worse... she had known. All along.
But the final blow came like a blade through the ribs: she had returned not alone, but with a stranger—Henry Jackson. Their first reunion after her vanishing was tainted by the sight of her clinging to another man.
There was a time, not so long ago, when the story was different. A time he believed she truly loved him. But that was all a lie.
Rafael groaned softly, pressing his fingers against his temples as if he could silence the storm raging in his mind. The constant throb behind his eyes was a cruel reminder of how much he had thought—overthought—everything. Outside, the sky wept violently, sheets of rain lashing against the wrought-iron gates of Vexley Manor. The downpour turned the gravel driveway into a slick mirror of stormlight.
And there she stood.
Eliana. Soaked to the bone, rainwater falling down her trembling frame. Her curls clung to her face, her clothes plastered against her warm brown skin, but her stance was unyielding—shoulders squared, chin lifted against the storm. Rafael had cast her out of his company yesterday like a stray dog—cold, ruthless, without a flicker of mercy. Yet here she was, at his gates, as if daring the night itself to swallow her whole.
She had left Henry’s house in the middle of the night the moment she gathered the courage to face Rafael again, slipping away without a word. She couldn’t risk telling Henry; she knew he would try to stop her. After all, Rafael’s security had dragged her off like she was nothing yesterday. She still carried the sting of their rough hands, the humiliation carved deep into her chest.
But none of that mattered now.
She had come for him anyway.
Her warm brown skin glistened under the storm with raw emotion in her eyes, and still she stood her ground, fists clenched, voice trembling but resolute as she begged for forgiveness.
"Rafael... please," she had whispered through the downpour, the gate a cold barrier between them. "I’m not leaving until you hear me."
Inside, he had watched her from the security feed on his tablet, every part of him warring between rage, betrayal, and the memory of the woman who once made him believe in something more than power and revenge.
"Rafael, please! You have to listen to me!" Eliana’s voice had cracked through the intercom, raw and desperate. "It’s not what you think! I didn’t betray you—I love you!"
But Rafael’s heart, scarred from years of deception, slammed shut like a vault. He muted the speaker, his jaw tightening. She doesn’t deserve a second of my time, he thought bitterly. Cheating with this Henry, conspiring with Mirabel... It’s all a game to her. The betrayal burned like acid in his veins, fueling a rage that blinded him to any doubt.
James, his loyal assistant, had burst into the study moments later, his face flushed with urgency. "Sir, you can’t just ignore her. Eliana’s out there in the rain, sobbing. At least hear her out—"
"No," Rafael snapped, his voice a whip crack in the quiet room. "She’s played me for a fool, James. Pretending to care while feeding information to my enemies. And now this Henry? It’s obvious she’s been unfaithful. I won’t let her twist the knife deeper."
James paced, his hands gesturing wildly. "But what if you’re wrong? You’ve built walls so high, you’re trapping yourself inside. Please, sir, just talk to her. For your own sake."
Rafael’s laugh was hollow, laced with sarcasm. "My hurt is the only truth I have left, James. It’s kept me alive this long. I won’t risk it again—not for her, not for anyone."
As the days bled into nights—seven nights to be precise—her pleas became a haunting rhythm at the gates of Vexley Manor. Unknown to Henry, Eliana returned every day, her steps growing slower, her voice raspier, but her determination never faltering. Rain, wind, or blistering cold—she stood there like a promise carved into stone. Her slender frame bore the weight of both the storm and her own heartbreak. Her honey-brown eyes, once so alive, were now red and swollen from endless tears, yet they still held that stubborn glimmer of hope that he might come down. That he might listen.
On one of those relentless nights, she didn’t stand alone. Henry came looking for her. He approached with the calm of someone who cared deeply, wrapping his coat tighter around her shivering form as if trying to shield her from the world. His voice was low, a balm against the chaos.
"Eliana," he murmured gently, his arm settling over her shoulders, "this isn’t good for your health. Maybe... maybe he’ll listen another time. Let’s go home."
The sight of them together—a fragile woman leaning into the warmth of another man—lit a dangerous fire in Rafael’s chest. Watching from the security feeds, jealousy and rage twisted inside him like a living thing, clawing against his ribs. Henry’s touch wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t possessive. It was kind. And that, somehow, made it worse.
But Rafael remained unyielding. Even his mysterious friend—the enigmatic savior who had pulled him from the wreckage of that fateful car crash years ago, guiding him through recovery and even suggesting he hire Eliana—tried to intervene. The friend’s calls came relentlessly, his voice steady and pleading over the phone.
"Rafael, don’t let anger rule you," the friend urged one evening, his tone laced with concern. "I’ve known you through your darkest days. Eliana’s innocent—I’d stake my life on it. Give her a chance to explain."
Rafael’s grip tightened on the receiver, his knuckles white. "You of all people should understand betrayal. She cheated, she conspired. I’m done being vulnerable."
"But you’re not seeing clearly! This pain is clouding your judgment. Remember how I helped you rebuild? I’ll never lie to you. Trust me now—listen to her."