Chapter 44: Emotional Whiplash

Eliana’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might break free from her chest, a wild thing desperate to escape. Her big brown eyes, still wide in disbelief, stayed locked on Rafael as if staring long enough might make him make sense. The space around them seemed to shrink, the air growing heavy and electric—thick with the residue of everything they’d thrown at each other moments ago. His hand rested over hers, warm and steady, a quiet contrast to the storm he’d been moments earlier. The touch sent a rush through her that she hated—half reassurance, half warning—like stepping into the sun but knowing rain is just behind the clouds. She eased her hand back, the motion slow, curls brushing against her cheeks as she shook her head. How could this be the same man who loved making her feel small and bad at every chance he got? The same man who, from the moment their eyes first met, had been her tormentor? "What... what are you planning, Rafael?" she asked, her voice trembling but laced with suspicion. "Why are you apologizing now? Is this some kind of game to you? Another way to keep me here, under your thumb?" Rafael let out a low, rumbling laugh that echoed softly in the room, not mocking but tinged with a rare self-deprecation. He tilted his head, his grey eyes maintaining that unfocused gaze, his chiseled jaw softening just a fraction. "Planning? Eliana, no—I’m not plotting anything, I swear. I’m sorry. For the words that cut deeper than they should have, for the snap judgments I threw at you without thinking. You’ve tolerated me more than I probably deserve—and I’m well aware I’m not exactly easy company. Most people would’ve walked away the moment we met. But instead of making it easier, I’ve made it worse—been sharp, petty, downright cruel, and not because you earned it. That’s not who I want to be with you. I just... I hope my own stupidity isn’t the thing that pushes you out the door." She crossed her arms over her chest, the sling on her right arm making the motion awkward, but her stance defiant. The emotional whiplash left her dizzy, her full lips pressed into a thin line. "Sorry isn’t enough, Rafael. You accused me of... of things I would never do. And now you’re begging me to stay? Why should I believe any of this?" He leaned forward in his wheelchair, his athletic build straining against the crisp lines of his designer shirt, as if the pretense of fragility couldn’t fully contain the commanding presence beneath. "Please, don’t leave. Don’t make good on those threats—I couldn’t bear it. I promise, from this moment, I’ll treat you better. No more games, no more walls. I’ll prove how sorry I am, one way or another. But for now... go freshen up. Join me for breakfast. And after that, I’ll take you to see your father. I can tell, without you even saying it, how worried you are about him. The way your voice caught when you mention him earlier, the shadows in your eyes—it’s written all over you." Eliana’s mouth hung open, her expressive face a canvas of shock and confusion. How could he know that? The constant knot in her stomach over her father’s frail health, the fear that gnawed at her every quiet moment—it was like he’d peeled back her layers without effort. Before she could respond, Rafael gently nudged her further into the room, his hand brushing her arm with a feather-light touch that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. "Go on," he urged softly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Take your time. I’ll wait." As she stepped back, still stunned, Rafael turned his chair toward the door. He stretched out his hand, fingers splaying in the air like delicate sensors, tracing the invisible path to the handle. It was a motion born of habit, not just performance—after all, blindness had been his reality for so long, etched into his muscles like an old scar. His fingertips grazed the cool metal, twisting it with practiced ease, and he wheeled himself out, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that left the room echoing in silence. Eliana stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, her slender frame rooted to the spot as minutes ticked by. Her mind raced like a storm-tossed sea: What was his angle? Why this sudden apology, this vulnerability from a man who thrived on suspicion and control? But beneath the doubt, a small voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, he was genuine. The regret in his eyes—those piercing grey depths—had seemed real, raw. And truthfully, leaving wasn’t in her best interest, or her father’s. Quitting this job, bizarre as it had been—with no actual caregiving done yet—would mean jail or worse, as he’d threatened. She couldn’t risk that, not when her father’s life hung by such a fragile thread. With a deep, steadying breath, she dragged her suitcase back into the closet, the wheels rumbling softly over the plush carpet. The decision settled over her like a tentative truce. She’d calm down, play along, see where this led. Pushing open the bathroom door, she stripped off her rumpled clothes, wincing as the sling caught on fabric. The shower’s hot spray fell over her warm brown skin, washing away the sticky remnants of last night’s alcohol haze. She lingered under the water, letting it soothe the ache in her muscles and the fog in her head, emerging refreshed but still wary, her long curly black hair damp and fragrant with shampoo. Meanwhile, in his own lavish suite down the hall, Rafael shed his pretense in private. He rose from the wheelchair with fluid grace, his tall, athletic form moving to the en-suite bathroom. The steam from his shower fogged the mirrors, but he didn’t need them to confront the turmoil within. As water pounded against his broad shoulders, he replayed the morning’s chaos—the jealousy that had ignited like wildfire at the sight of her with Jason, the words he’d regretted the instant they left his lips. Apologizing wasn’t in his nature; vulnerability was a luxury he couldn’t afford in his world of betrayals. But Eliana... she was different. She chipped at his armor without trying. Drying off, he dressed in another impeccable suit, dark waves of hair combed back, before settling back into the chair, resuming his role. They met in the grand hallway, the mansion’s opulent chandeliers creating golden light on the marble floors. Eliana, now in a simple blouse and jeans that hugged her slender figure with modest elegance, wheeled Rafael toward the dining room. The air carried the tantalizing scents of fresh coffee, baked pastries, and sizzling bacon, but she didn’t think much of it until they entered the vast space. The table stretched like a battlefield, laden with silver platters under crystal domes. Six maids stood at attention in their crisp white uniforms, starched aprons gleaming, their postures rigid as soldiers awaiting command. Clara, the head housekeeper with her stern bun and sharp eyes, hovered by the head of the table, where Rafael’s spot awaited. Rafael maneuvered his chair to his place with ease, the breakfast array already spread before him: golden croissants flaking delicately, eggs poached to perfection with yolks like liquid sunshine, fresh berries glistening in porcelain bowls, and steaming coffee in a china cup. Eliana hesitated for a split second, then chose a chair directly opposite him, sinking into the cushioned seat with a soft sigh. The moment her weight settled, a collective gasp rippled through the room—like a gust of wind disturbing still waters. The maids’ eyes widened in unison, hands fluttering to their mouths, while Clara’s face tightened in disapproval. Clara stepped forward, her voice a hushed whisper laced with urgency as she leaned toward Eliana. "Miss Bennett, no one is allowed to sit at the dining table with Mr. Vexley. It’s... it’s simply not done. Please, get up. He really hates it. I’ll prepare your breakfast in the kitchen—something suitable for the staff." Eliana’s eyes widened, heat flooding her cheeks as embarrassment coiled in her gut. She shifted, half-rising from the chair, her good hand gripping the armrest. "Oh, I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I thought—" But Rafael’s voice cut through the tension like a lightning, firm and unyielding. "Sit down, Eliana." He turned his head toward Clara’s general direction, his unfocused gaze steady. "Prepare a plate for her. She’s eating with me—from now on. That’s an order." Another gasp echoed, louder this time, a chorus of shock that hung in the air like smoke. The maids exchanged furtive glances, their expressions a kaleidoscope: some narrowed eyes burned with thinly veiled anger, as if Eliana had encroached on sacred ground; others bloomed with wide-eyed surprise, brows arched high; a few twisted into suspicion, lips pursing as whispers threatened to escape. Eliana turned nervously, her honey-brown eyes darting across their faces, feeling the weight of their stares like pins pricking her skin. What had she stumbled into? This wasn’t just breakfast; it was a declaration, a shift in the mansion’s unspoken hierarchy. Clara hesitated, her hands clasping tightly, but she nodded curtly. "As you wish, sir." She bustled to the sideboard, plating food with efficient, if reluctant, motions: a croissant dusted with powdered sugar, eggs with a sprinkle of herbs, a cluster of ruby-red strawberries, and a cup of coffee poured with steaming precision. Rafael, sensing the unease, leaned back in his chair, a small smile curving his lips—rare, genuine, transforming his handsome features from stone to something almost approachable. "Hurry up and eat, Eliana. We have to go see your father soon." His voice warmed, the smile lingering as he added, "Can’t have you starving on my watch." Eliana stared at him, fork hovering mid-air. Rafael Vexley smiling? It was like witnessing a glacier crack, revealing hidden depths beneath. But with the maids’ eyes boring into her back—sharp as daggers, heavy as judgment—the meal felt less like nourishment and more like an execution. Each bite of the flaky croissant turned to ash in her mouth, the eggs sliding down her throat like lead. The clink of silverware amplified in the silence, the maids’ presence a looming shadow, their whispers faint but cutting. She forced a swallow, glancing at Rafael, who ate with composed ease, oblivious—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—the drama unfolding around them. "Is... is everything alright?" she ventured softly, her voice sounding like a whisper, hoping to pierce the awkward veil. He chuckled lightly, a sound that carried a hint of amusement, breaking the tension like a unexpected ray of sun. "Better than alright. For the first time in a while, it feels... right." His words hung there, laced with unspoken promise, as the maids shuffled uncomfortably, their world tilting on this unforeseen axis. Eliana managed a tentative smile, though her heart still raced. The breakfast dragged on, each moment stretched by the invisible currents of emotion swirling in the room—hope flickering in her chest, wariness in her mind, and the ever-present drama of a house built on betrayals.