The dining room of the Vexley mansion was the kind of place that made you sit straighter without realizing it—ceilings so high you could almost lose sight of them, walls lined with old portraits of people who looked like they'd never smiled in their lives. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, catching on half-eaten croissants and cooling coffee cups. The maids hovered at the edges, quiet and watchful, their white uniforms a sharp contrast against all the gold and dark wood.
Eliana pushed her eggs around her plate, the yolk already cold and sticky. Her head was a mess of questions. Why was Rafael being… nice? It didn't feel right. Like something fragile that could break if she breathed too hard.
Rafael sat at the head of the table in his wheelchair, posture straight, every bit the king of the room. His grey eyes—cloudy in that way he liked people to think meant weakness—shifted toward one of the maids.
