The study in Rafael's London home was a sanctuary carved out of mahogany and quiet power—a temporary stronghold compared to the sprawling mansion he owned in New York, but still a room that carried weight. London lacked the dramatic skyline and glittering nightscape of Manhattan, yet the space felt intentionally curated, wrapped in shadows and polished wood, the kind of place where truths were negotiated, buried, or reborn.
Outside the tall windows, the city lights shimmered like distant constellations, faint and indifferent to the storm tightening behind the closed door.
Rafael pushed away from his wheelchair he'd been lounging in, rising with the unhurried grace of a man who owned every room he stepped into. His body moved smoothly, effortlessly—no weakness, no hesitation—only controlled strength honed by years of discipline and the heavy expectations he'd long since outgrown.
