Rafael rolled in like he owned the place—which, judging by the suit and the attitude, he probably did. The black tailoring fit him obscenely well, crisp lines hugging an athletic build that had no business looking that powerful from a wheelchair. His dark, wavy hair was styled with effortless precision, the kind that suggested money and a very patient stylist. His chiseled jaw could have cut glass, and his steel-grey eyes drifted over the crowd, calm on the surface, sharp underneath—cloudy only if you believed the performance. The sarcasm lived there too, simmering quietly, right alongside an unspoken promise: touch what's mine and regret it.
At his side was James, polished in a navy suit, dark hair neatly combed back, wire-rim glasses perched just right. He looked like the sort of man who'd apologize before ruining your life with legal paperwork. His kind eyes held a glint of quiet amusement, as if he were already entertained by the chaos he knew was coming.
