Back in the secluded wing of the mansion that Rafael called his own, Rafael paced like a caged lion. The room smelled of aged whiskey and lingering cigar smoke, the dim lamps creating dancing shadows that mirrored his turmoil. He had dismissed Celina and Caleb to the hospital with a curt wave, their accusing glares burning into his back. James stood by the door, ever the faithful shadow, his expression unreadable.
"James…" Rafael's voice came out rough, the kind that carried the weight of sleepless nights and things left unsaid. He stopped mid-motion, turning toward his secretary as if steadying himself for a blow. The faint light from the window caught the hard planes of his face, softening the sharpness that once made him seem untouchable.
His steel-grey eyes—usually cold, unreadable—now burned with something raw and unguarded. Regret.
