The Vexley estate had always worn its power like a tailored suit—impeccable, expensive, and quietly threatening. His London residence was no different, a perfect mirror of the New York mansion he'd grown up in: polished, pristine, and saturated with the kind of old-money dominance that didn't need to raise its voice to be heard.
But tonight, something in the air felt… off.
The halls were too still, their silence pressed tight and unnatural, like the whole house was holding its breath. Shadows crawled across the marble floors, long and deliberate, stretching beneath the chandeliers that poured out a warm, golden glow—soft enough to soothe, bright enough to lie. The light made the place look regal, almost holy, but beneath the shine lived the truth: this was a palace built from pride, guarded by secrets no one ever spoke aloud. Tonight, however, every one of those secrets felt awake.
And in the heart of it all sat Rafael Vexley quietly in his study.
