Chapter 27: Waiting (Continuation)

The memory clawed its way to the surface without permission. Rafael didn’t ask for it. He never did. But tonight, as the mansion sat cloaked in silence and shadows, it came anyway—uninvited, unwanted, and merciless. Flashback - Twenty Years Ago The soft chime of the school bell had barely faded when Rafael spotted his mother standing at the gate, her figure taut with unease. She looked breathtaking as always—tall, graceful, with her coat fluttering in the evening breeze like she belonged on a magazine cover. But even at nine, Rafael had learned how to read faces, and something in hers was... off. "Mamá!" Rafael ran up to her, his tiny backpack bouncing with each step. "You’re early today!" She smiled quickly, too quickly. Her beautiful gray eyes darted around the street behind him, scanning each face, each shadow. Her hand gripped his tightly—too tightly. He frowned. "Are you okay?" She forced another smile. "I’m fine, mi amor." Her voice trembled slightly. "Let’s get you home, okay?" "But—" he began, but she tugged him toward the car. Rafael climbed into the passenger seat, the door shutting with a soft click that felt too loud in the tense quiet between them. He didn’t buckle up right away—just stared at her. His mother gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had gone pale. Her eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror, again and again, like something—or someone—might appear at any second. Her chest rose and fell in fast, shallow breaths, like she was trying to stay calm and failing miserably. "Mamá?" His voice was small, careful. "Why do you look scared?" Her hands flinched like the question had reached out and touched her. She glanced at him, and for a second, he saw it—the truth she hadn’t said out loud yet. Her face looked like it had forgotten how to hide things: fear, exhaustion, and something close to heartbreak flickered across her features like broken lights. "I’m not scared," she whispered, voice barely holding itself together. "Just... tired, sweetheart." Rafael blinked, unconvinced. She always tried to sound strong, but this wasn’t strength—this was the kind of tired that lived in the bones. "Is someone following us?" he asked gently. She opened her mouth like she had a ready answer, then shut it just as quickly. Her jaw clenched. Her mask slipped for the briefest moment—and there it was. Pure fear. Sharp, naked, and real. Then, just as quickly, she forced it away and smoothed her face into something softer. "No one is after us, Rafi," she said, but her voice quivered on the edges. "You don’t have to worry. I’ll always protect you. Always, okay?" He nodded slowly, even though he didn’t buy it. Something felt... off. Off in that way kids could sense, even when no one said anything. The engine hummed beneath them, and they drove on. Neither of them spoke. The sky outside darkened, heavy clouds swallowing the light as they sped along the highway. Rafael reached into his backpack for his comic book, flipping through the pages without really reading. Every once in a while, he peeked at his mom. Her hands were still trembling. The silence stretched, thick and electric, like the pause before a storm. Then— BAM. The world lurched. Screeching tires. His mother’s scream tearing through the air. His own voice joining hers, raw with terror. Metal shrieked as it collided with something unmovable. Rafael felt himself thrown sideways, the seatbelt snapping him back just in time. His head slammed into the window, and a sharp pain shot through his skull like fireworks exploding behind his eyes. Glass shattered. The car spun. He was floating—then crashing. Then nothing but a horrible, final crunch. Steel. Earth. Bone. And then... Silence. A silence so deep it felt like the world had stopped breathing. Darkness. But not the kind of darkness that comes with nightfall. This was worse. This was inside him. Permanent. Rafael’s hands flew upward in the black. His fingers clawed at the air. Blind. He blinked again and again but saw nothing. "Mamá?" His voice cracked around the word. "Mamá?!" No answer. Panic climbed into his throat like fire. He turned his head and smelled it—blood, thick and metallic. Smoke, bitter and suffocating. Gasoline, sharp and dangerous. The seatbelt dug into his chest, tight and unforgiving, but he didn’t care. "MAMÁ!" he screamed, throat raw. Still nothing. The wreckage groaned around him. A distant drip. A whine of wind through shattered glass. But no voice. No arms. No comfort. Just Rafael. Alone. Blind. And scared out of his mind. The sound came first—boots crunching over gravel, heavy and urgent. Men shouting. Then hands—rough, unfamiliar—dragging him from the wreckage, tearing him from the last place he’d seen her alive. Still, Rafael screamed her name. His throat was raw, but it didn’t matter. He screamed until his voice broke. He kept screaming even as someone strapped him to a gurney, even as paramedics muttered in hushed, grave voices just out of reach. He kept screaming as someone gently, almost reverently, pulled a white sheet over the crumpled body next to the mangled car. He didn’t stop until the needle slid into his arm and the world dimmed under the grip of sedatives. Present Day – Rafael’s Study, Night Rafael’s eyes snapped open. He gasped like he’d been drowning, dragging air into his lungs in ragged pulls. Sweat soaked his shirt, clinging to his spine and brow. His hand trembled as he pushed himself back from the desk. The familiar ache bloomed in his chest—sharp, hollow. He hated this part. Hated how the past still wrapped around his throat like barbed wire, even after all these years. The memory always came back the same way: loud, brutal, and unforgiving. Falling. The helplessness. The silence that followed. He rolled his wheelchair slowly toward the large window, dark now except for the glow of security lights outside. The surveillance feed on his tablet showed the driveway. Still no sign of Eliana. His fingers tapped against the armrest, restless. The waiting scratched at him from the inside—taunting, constant. He loathed waiting. Always had. Because waiting had been the cruelest part of it all. After the crash, he’d spent three days in a hospital bed. Alone. Blind. Nine years old and screaming into a pillow until his throat gave out. Asking questions no one would answer. The nurses were kind, yes. Their voices were soft. Their hands gentle. But their words? Empty. "Your father’s coming soon," they whispered. "Just rest, Rafael. He’ll be here." But he never came. Not that night. Not the next. Not even the third. The only one who showed was his grandfather—stormy-eyed, jaw clenched, disgust radiating from every inch of him. "I’ll take him," the old man had growled at the attending doctor. "He’s not rotting away here one more night." And that was it. No warm reunion. No father’s embrace. Just a silent, bitter march out of the hospital, Rafael clinging to the old man’s coat like a lifeline, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. Blind. Shattered. Alone. The world felt colder after that. Harder. That was the day Rafael Vexley learned how to stop expecting rescue. That was the day something inside him stopped hoping. A knock jolted him back. He didn’t flinch. Just kept staring at the screen. "Enter." The door creaked open, and Clara stepped inside. Her presence was careful, unobtrusive. Hands folded neatly behind her back, voice low and polite. "Sir... it’s getting late. Would you like something to eat?" "No." She lingered. "She may not come tonight," Clara offered gently. "Perhaps tomorrow." "She’ll come." Rafael’s reply was ice. Calm. Final. Clara shifted her weight. "And if she doesn’t... what should I do with the room I prepared?" A pause stretched between them like a blade. His eyes narrowed slightly. His voice, when it came, was quiet and lethal. "She will." Clara drew a slow breath. "With all due respect, sir... why are you doing this?" Her tone was still respectful, but something fragile hovered behind it. "You have women practically begging for your attention. Why put Miss Bennett through this? Why torment her?" Rafael turned his head just slightly in her direction, careful to mask the fact that he could see her through the reflection in the dark glass. "Because she’s different." Clara blinked. "Different how?" "She’s not actively chasing my money. Not yet, anyway." His voice dipped into something almost uncertain. "She can stand in front of me and still speak her mind. She doesn’t cower when I go cold. Doesn’t flinch when I’m cruel." Clara tilted her head. "Then why be cruel?" Rafael leaned back in his chair, letting out a soft laugh. Dry. Joyless. "Because if I don’t test her, how will I know she’s real?" Clara fell Silent. "I’ve seen kindness used like a weapon," he muttered, voice turning sharp at the edges. "Sweet words hiding knives. Smiles hiding teeth." "Miss Bennett isn’t like that," Clara said softly. "And deep down, you know it." He didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes drifted back to the screen. The driveway was still empty. A silent battlefield. "Get out, Clara," he said, voice suddenly cold. "And don’t ever question my choices again." She froze. "Just because I treat you a little better than the others doesn’t mean we’re equals. Know your place." Clara stiffened, bowing her head. "Yes, sir. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything." She left quietly, shutting the door behind her with practiced grace. And then, Rafael was alone again. The silence closed in fast, pressing against his skin like a ghost. He hated silence. It sounded too much like that hospital room—the one where he’d waited, and waited, and waited... for someone who never came. The tablet in his lap slipped onto the desk. His fingers hovered above it, then slowly dropped. His gaze stayed fixed on the screen. The camera feed showed nothing but stillness. But he waited anyway. "Eliana will come," he murmured to the empty room. He said it again—more to himself than anyone. "She always does."