Chapter 40: A Harsh Morning

Morning sunlight crept through the gap in the curtains, slipping across the room like it was trying not to wake anyone. It landed on the bed in thin gold lines, highlighting the mess of sheets and limbs tangled at the center of it all. The first thing Rafael Vexley felt was the pounding in his skull. A deep, sluggish ache that reminded him he’d had way too much to drink the night before. His second realization hit harder. He wasn’t alone. He blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the light, and that’s when he saw her—Eliana. Curled against his chest, warm skin pressed to his. She was completely naked, her smooth brown skin glowing in the soft light, her wild black curls splayed across the pillow and part of his shoulder like they belonged there. One leg was tossed over his, her arm draped across his stomach. She looked peaceful. Beautiful. And then he noticed himself—just as naked, the sheet barely covering anything. His heart skipped. Clothes were everywhere. Her sweater was crumpled by the dresser. Her bra? Hanging from the lampshade like a joke they were both in on. Panties on the floor, delicate and lacy. His own shirt and pants were in a heap by the door, like they’d been yanked off in a hurry and forgotten. But that wasn’t what made his stomach twist. It was the wheelchair. It wasn’t where it should’ve been—right by the bed, within arm’s reach like always. It was across the room, parked by the open bathroom door. He stared at it for a moment, chest tightening. His mind raced. Had he...? Did he walk last night? Had she seen? A rush of panic rose in his throat. For months, Rafael had worn the mask. The limp, the wheelchair, the story he never explained. And now, just like that, one night—one drunken night—and he might’ve ruined everything. The secret he’d protected so carefully could’ve slipped out with the rest of his clothes. He had to fix this. Fast. Holding his breath, he gently slid out from under Eliana’s arm, careful not to wake her. She made a small sound in her sleep, but didn’t stir. He moved quietly, tiptoeing across the cool marble floor, every tap in the silence sounding louder than it should. He reached the chair and quietly brought it back, placing it exactly where it always sat—like some quiet piece of set design for the lie he’d built. Then he climbed back into bed, pulled the sheet over himself, and forced his breathing to slow. A moment later, Eliana shifted beside him, murmured something he couldn’t quite hear. He laid there, still and silent, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know if she’d seen. He didn’t know if the truth had slipped out. But for now, all he could do was wait... and hope the mask hadn’t fallen too far. Eliana’s eyes fluttered open to soft morning light—and within seconds, panic punched her right in the chest. She gasped, sharp and sudden, like she’d been dunked in cold water. Her eyes flew wide, and she sat up so fast the sheet nearly slipped off her. Her arms flew up to clutch it against her chest, her heart thudding wildly. Her skin was bare. Completely naked. And the body lying beside her? Definitely not hers. "Oh my God," she breathed out, her voice rising in alarm. "Oh my God!" She looked down—then at the man next to her—then down again, like the view might somehow change. But it didn’t. Rafael Vexley was lying there, shirtless, the sheet barely covering him, too. Their legs had been tangled together. She couldn’t breathe. Her head throbbed with a nasty, wine-soaked ache, the kind that made the room tilt slightly at the edges. But nothing—not even the headache—was stronger than the wave of horror crashing over her. "What—what is this?!" she burst out, completely unable to hide the panic in her voice. Rafael stirred, like her shouting had just pulled him from a dream. He rubbed at his eyes lazily, brows furrowed like he was still half-asleep. "Eliana?" His voice was groggy, rough. "Why are you yelling? What’s going on?" She stared at him like he’d grown a second head. "We’re naked, Rafael!" she practically shouted, her voice cracking. "I woke up in your bed, with you, and we’re both—" She shook her head, struggling to find the words. "We’re not wearing anything!" He pushed himself up on one elbow, his face unreadable. Calm. Too calm. "I should be asking you that," he said slowly, almost accusing. "Eliana, I’m blind. I can’t exactly see what’s going on, can I? I don’t even remember you coming into my room. So maybe you can tell me why you’re here?" She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Closed it again. Her brain scrambled to stitch together fragments of the night before—bits of memory that refused to settle. "I... I remember going to the kitchen," she mumbled, her voice small now, shaky. "I was hungry. I thought I was heading back to my room, but I must’ve gotten lost on my way back. I thought this was my bedroom." She glanced around the room and winced. Her bra still dangled from the lamp. Her panties lay half-crumpled on the floor. Her sweater was by the dresser. Every detail screamed at her. "You brought me back to the kitchen," she continued, almost like she was trying to convince herself. "You made pizza... we talked. You gave me wine." Her voice dropped lower, her stomach turning. "After that, it’s just... fog." She covered her face with her hands and let out a low, strangled sound. "No, no, no. This isn’t happening. Not again." She didn’t have to say it out loud. Again was enough. The memory came back in a flood—one she’d tried hard to push down. That first time. That accidental, guilt-drenched night barley a week ago she’d been trying to forget ever since. And now this. Rafael Vexley. Her boss. The man whose name was on every check for her father’s hospital bills. The man who held her future in his hands. And she’d just slept with him again. Unthinkable didn’t even cover it. Rafael watched her silently, his face softening. But just for a second—barely a breath—before he schooled it back into indifference. He straightened his posture, tone turning cool, practiced. "Look, Eliana... it’s not a big deal," he said, shrugging like they hadn’t just woken up naked together. Like it wasn’t exactly the kind of mess you don’t come back from. "Things got a little out of hand. That’s all." He kept his voice light, almost dismissive, like if he said it casually enough, it wouldn’t matter. "I’ll fix it. Whatever you need." He leaned over toward the nightstand, his fingers feeling around like he was searching for something—his checkbook, probably. "How much do you want?" His hand trembled for a split second as he reached, the act of fumbling just a bit too exaggerated. He was playing blind again. Slipping back into the role he wore so well. Eliana’s eyes widened, her breath hitching. "What did you just say?" Her voice was low, trembling with a mix of hurt and fury. "I said I’ll pay you," Rafael repeated, his voice cool, though a flicker of unease passed through him. "For... whatever happened. Name your price." The room seemed to still. Eliana’s face crumpled, her eyes blazing with a fire Rafael hadn’t seen before. "You think I’m a prostitute?" she whispered, her voice shaking. Before he could respond, her hand flew out, connecting with his cheek in a sharp, resounding slap. The sound echoed in the silent room, and Rafael’s head snapped to the side, his jaw clenching. "I’m not some cheap fling you can buy off!" Eliana shouted, tears spilling down her cheeks. "How dare you? How dare you think so little of me?" She scrambled out of bed, clutching the sheet to her chest as she gathered her scattered clothes. Her hands trembled as she yanked on her sweater and jeans, not caring that they were inside out. "You’re an asshole, Rafael Vexley. A complete asshole." "Eliana, wait—" Rafael started, but she was already storming toward the door, her bare feet slapping against the floor. The door slammed behind her, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. In her own bedroom, Eliana collapsed onto the large bed, her sobs wracking her slender frame. The shame burned through her, hotter than the headache pounding at her temples. How had she let this happen again? Rafael’s cold offer echoed in her mind, each word a fresh wound. She wanted to pack her bags, to flee this stupid cage and never look back. But the image of her father, frail and tethered to hospital machines, stopped her cold. Rafael’s payments kept him alive. And his threat—if she left, he’d accuse her of theft and ruin her life—loomed like a guillotine over her neck. She had no choice. The tears came harder, her body shaking as she curled into herself, the weight of her reality crushing her. Back in his room, Rafael sat motionless, the sting of Eliana’s slap lingering on his cheek. He touched the spot gingerly, his jaw tight. He couldn’t remember how they’d ended up in bed, couldn’t recall the moment his carefully constructed facade might have slipped. But the look on Eliana’s face—heartbroken, betrayed—cut deeper than he’d expected. For a man who prided himself on control, this was a mess he hadn’t anticipated. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements fluid and sure, a stark contrast to the crippled persona he projected. He dressed quickly, pulling on a crisp white shirt and tailored slacks, his fingers deftly combing through his dark, wavy hair. Settling back into the wheelchair, he steeled himself. Pride be damned—he needed to apologize. Eliana deserved that much, even if it meant swallowing the bitter taste of vulnerability. He was about to wheel toward the door when the intercom on his nightstand buzzed, sharp and insistent. Frowning, he pressed the button. "Yes?" "Mr. Vexley," came the clipped voice of one of his security personnel. "There’s a man here to see you. Says his name is Jason Asher." Rafael’s jaw clenched instantly, his fingers tightening around the armrests of his wheelchair. Jason Asher—Eliana’s fiancé, the golden boy with a silver spoon and a wandering eye. Rafael’s blood simmered, his mind racing. What the hell was Jason Asher doing here?