"Trust you?" Rafael chuckled darkly, the sound devoid of humor. "That's rich, coming from you two. But fine—let's say I believe you. What hospital? Think hard."
Bianca leaned in, her smirk barely contained. "We told you, we don't know. That's why we're here, begging for your help. You're the powerful one, after all."
The golden light of Rafael Vexley's lavish living room spilled across the marble floors, glinting off every polished surface like it was trying too hard to impress. The air carried that familiar blend of mahogany, wealth, and quiet deceit—an intoxicating mix that could make anyone forget what honesty smelled like.
Rafael sat motionless in his wheelchair, his tall, athletic frame drawn taut as if a single wrong word might snap the tension holding him together. His hands gripped the armrests, knuckles pale, while his steely grey eyes—supposedly blind—held a hidden fire that made his jaw tighten with restrained rage.
