The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the sleek black Bentley as it pulled into the circular drive, coming to a stop with the elegance of something practiced a thousand times. The Vexley mansion stood before them—massive and unyielding, its stone facade catching the golden hues of the late afternoon sun like a castle pulled straight from some forgotten century. It didn't just loom—it dared you to question who lived inside.
Rafael Vexley sat poised in the back seat, his broad shoulders square and still, a picture of unshakable control. He didn't move until James, ever dutiful, swung the door open. Then, with effortless precision, Rafael shifted forward, guiding his sleek carbon-fiber wheelchair down the built-in ramp. Despite the chair, there was nothing frail about his movements. If anything, they were smoother than most men on two legs—quiet, deliberate, commanding.
