Chapter 41: Sizing The Competition

Rafael Vexley’s bedroom seemed to shrink around him, shadows clinging to the corners like they knew something he didn’t. The intercom’s sharp buzz still pulsed in his head, chased by the security guard’s brisk voice: "Mr. Vexley, there’s a man here to see you. Says his name is Jason Asher." Rafael’s jaw locked, his fingers tightening on the armrests of his wheelchair until his knuckles went pale. Jason Asher. Even hearing the name was like striking a match in a room full of gasoline fumes. Heat flared under his skin—not the kind born of fear, but of a fury that had no business feeling so personal. Jason, Eliana’s golden boy... the worthless fiancé with a perfect smile, polished enough to hide whatever rotted beneath it. His pulse was a drumbeat in his ears, but when he spoke, his voice was calm—too calm. "Let him in," he said, each word cooled to ice. He let go of the intercom button slowly, his mind already circling the same thought: the audacity of this man, walking into his home like he owned it. What was he here for? To plant a flag in Eliana? To prove something? The memory of earlier came uninvited—Eliana’s tear-streaked face, their shared heat tangled in his sheets. He shoved it into the shadows of his mind. Anger was easier. Anger had direction. His anger redirected toward the intruder. He pressed the intercom again. "Tony, escort our guest to my study. I’ll meet him there." "Yes, sir," came Tony’s prompt reply, the butler’s tone as unflappable as ever. Rafael spun his wheelchair with smooth precision, the wheels whispering over polished marble as he left the bedroom. The hallway stretched out ahead—tall oil paintings in gilded frames, crystal chandeliers spilling rainbows onto the walls. It was a house built to impress, to intimidate... and right now, it felt more like the opening move in a war. The study was his chosen battlefield. Dark mahogany walls. The scent of leather and old paper. Shelves crammed with books he could quote from memory. And in the center, the massive desk—a statement in itself. He slid into position behind it, adjusting himself into the part he knew how to play: the blind, crippled billionaire. His hands rested lightly on the desk. His gaze, unfocused, drifted just beyond the room’s center, as if he couldn’t quite find the source of the sound he was waiting for. All the while, the storm inside him kept gathering. Minutes ticked by, each one stoking the fire in his chest. Then came the knock—firm, precise. Tony’s voice followed. "Mr. Vexley, your guest is here." "Show him in," Rafael said, his tone smooth but laced with an edge only he could feel. The door swung open, and Jason Asher strode in with a confidence that made Rafael’s skin crawl. The man’s golden hair caught the light, his hazel eyes glinting with a smugness that screamed entitlement. His tailored blazer and crisp white shirt were impeccable, his gym-toned frame practically screaming look at me. Rafael’s jaw ticked, his fingers twitching with the urge to wipe that smirk off Jason’s face. This was the man Eliana had chosen to marry? This peacock who cared more about his reflection than her heart? Was she blind? Jason’s gaze swept over Rafael, lingering on the wheelchair, the clouded eyes, the carefully curated fragility. His smirk widened, a flicker of triumph in his expression. Rafael could practically hear his thoughts: This is my competition? A broken man? Jason had seen the videos, no doubt—the grainy hospital footage of Eliana at Rafael’s side, the captions swirling on social media: Are they dating? She must be Rafael Vexley’s girlfriend. He’d come to size up the rumors, to see if a blind, paralyzed billionaire could possibly rival his charm. The arrogance radiating off him was suffocating. Rafael tilted his head, his voice cool and measured. "Mr. Asher, how can I help you?" Jason didn’t waste a second. His voice was syrupy with fake warmth, each word dripping with the kind of charm that came gift-wrapped in arrogance. "I heard my fiancée, Eliana, was in an accident," he said, as if the phrase my fiancée wasn’t the verbal equivalent of tossing a grenade into the room. "And that you were kind enough to help her out. I can’t thank you enough. I came to pick her up." He eased himself against the edge of Rafael’s desk, all casual confidence—one hand in his pocket, the other drumming a slow, cocky rhythm. He stood like he owned the place, like he’d been invited. The word fiancée landed with a dull, heavy thud in Rafael’s mind. A small, almost imperceptible lift of his brow was the only betrayal of surprise. Fiancée? The thought burned through him. Eliana hadn’t called Jason when her father’s hospital bills threatened to bury her —when her own hospital bills came calling —even though the man was rich enough to cover them without blinking. Rafael had assumed—no, known—that whatever they’d once had was dead, strangled by Jason’s wandering eye and Eliana’s quiet refusal to chase him. Yet here Jason was, brandishing that title like a weapon. The confidence in his voice wasn’t confidence at all—it was a provocation. Rafael kept his face still, his fury locked behind the calm surface of his eyes. He would not give Jason the satisfaction of a reaction. "You heard about the accident, you say?" His tone was smooth, almost bored, his fingers tapping an unhurried beat on the desk’s polished wood. "Interesting. Let’s see if Eliana’s available." He reached for the intercom. No rush. No flinch. Every movement deliberate enough to feel like a challenge. "Clara, please ask Eliana to come to my study," he said. "Someone’s here for her." Jason’s jaw tightened—just a twitch, but enough for Rafael to catch it. He hadn’t expected this. That little story about Eliana being here had been bait, meant to draw Rafael into giving him Eliana’s current location. Jason never for once thought Eliana would be living with Rafael Vexley. Now, the bait had caught him instead. The truth crashed in fast and hard—Eliana really was here. In Rafael’s house. Jason’s thoughts scattered like leaves in a sudden wind, and Sarai’s poison-soft voice slithered through his memory: She’s leeching off him, Jason. She’s not who you think. His eyes narrowed just enough to show the doubt gnawing at the edges of his pride. Was she really playing him? Was Eliana just another beautiful opportunist with her claws in a billionaire’s wallet? Or was there something here Jason didn’t understand—and maybe didn’t want to? Back in her room, Eliana lay curled on the bed, her face buried in the pillow as sobs wracked her slender frame. The memory of Rafael’s cold words—"Name your price"—cut deeper than any knife. The shame burned, mingling with the ache of her father’s frail form in her mind. She was trapped, chained to this gilded cage by Rafael’s money and threats. The knock at her door startled her, and she swiped at her tear-streaked cheeks, forcing herself to stand. Her reflection in the mirror was a mess—red-rimmed eyes, tangled curls, her sweater still inside out from her frantic escape. She opened the door to find Clara, her kind face etched with concern. "Eliana, are you alright?" Clara’s voice was soft, her eyes searching. "I’m fine," Eliana lied, her voice hoarse. She straightened, smoothing her sweater as if it could hide her pain. Clara hesitated, her voice careful, almost too careful. "Someone’s here to see you. They’re in Mr. Vexley’s study." Eliana’s heart gave a sharp, uneven beat. Rafael? The name alone sent a ripple of unease through her chest. She wasn’t ready to face him—not after this morning, not with the weight of his last words still pressing on her. But curiosity was a stubborn thing. Who could possibly be asking for her? No one knew she was here. Not even her father, tethered to machines in a sterile hospital room miles away. She gave Clara a silent nod, the kind that felt heavier than it should, and followed her through the mansion’s endless halls. Her bare feet whispered against the marble floor, the cold seeping into her skin until it felt like the chill had crept into her bones. The hallway to Rafael’s study seemed to stretch unnaturally long, like the house itself wanted to slow her down, to make her think twice. Every step drew her closer to a door she didn’t want to open. Memories pressed in—sharp, uninvited. The night she’d knelt in that room, begging Rafael to save her father. The night he’d agreed—at a cost she could never repay. The night she’d let go of her dignity, feeling like she’d left a part of herself behind in the shadows between those walls. And now she was walking back into them. Clara knocked on the study door, and Rafael’s voice, smooth and controlled, called, "Come in." Eliana stepped inside, her breath catching as her eyes landed on Jason Asher. His hazel eyes widened, mirroring her shock. He stood there, golden and polished, like a prince from a fairy tale she no longer believed in. But his presence here, in Rafael’s domain, felt like a violation. "Jason?" Eliana’s voice was sharp, disbelieving. "What are you doing here?" Jason’s shock morphed into a scowl, his arms crossing. "I should be asking you that, Eliana. What the hell are you doing in his house?" His gaze flicked to Rafael, who sat silently, his expression unreadable. Eliana’s cheeks flushed, her heart pounding as she realized Rafael was listening to every word. She couldn’t do this here, not in front of him. "Mr Vexley, can you give us a moment?" she asked, her voice trembling but firm. Without waiting for his reply, she grabbed Jason’s hand, her grip tight, and pulled him toward the door. The contact sent a jolt through her, a mix of anger and betrayal, but she didn’t stop. She dragged him out, the door clicking shut behind them. Rafael sat frozen, the echo of Eliana’s hand in Jason’s searing into his mind. The sight of her touching him, choosing him, shocked him to his core. His fingers gripped the armrests, his facade of indifference cracking. For the first time in years, Rafael Vexley felt something he couldn’t control—jealousy.