The pretty rays of morning sunlight slipped past the heavy velvet curtains of Rafael Vexley's master bedroom, washing the room in a muted, golden haze. The silk sheets were a mess—evidence of a night that had offered everything except rest. Rafael lay across the king-sized bed, his tall, athletic body stretched out like a man who had finally surrendered to exhaustion rather than sleep. His dark, wavy hair was tousled, sticking up in chaotic angles that didn't match the ruthless precision he wore in daylight.
At twenty-nine, Rafael Vexley was the kind of man whose presence could still a boardroom: a billionaire who built empires out of nothing but ambition and the steel eyes that never missed a thing. Those same eyes were shut now, their sharpness buried beneath shadows of fatigue.
