Chapter 48: It Can’t Be

Celina Vexley slammed through the ornate double doors of the east wing, the echo of her sobs carrying down the marble hall like shards of glass skittering across stone. Inside of the mansion was cool and perfumed with faint notes of white roses, yet it only made the burn in her chest feel sharper. The crystal chandeliers glittered above, each delicate prism throwing flecks of light along the gilded frames on the walls, as if mocking her with their untouched perfection. Her designer handbag was clutched tight to her chest, almost like it was the only thing holding her together. Black streaks of mascara traced uneven paths down her flushed cheeks, her breath hitching as she stumbled forward. Her heels—too high for the pace she was moving—clicked in an uneven rhythm on the polished floor, the sound collapsing into a muffled thud as she stepped into the plush carpet of the sitting room. The room was the kind of space no one dared to truly live in—luxurious sofas that looked barely sat on, antique vases resting in glass cabinets like museum pieces. And there, draped languidly across a chaise longue, was her mother, Mirabel Vexley. Mirabel’s silk blouse caught the warm light, a faint shimmer rolling with every slight movement. Her pearl necklace rested against her collarbone, each bead glinting like frozen drops of moonlight against her smooth brown skin. She took one unhurried sip of her chilled champagne before lowering the glass with a soft, deliberate clink, her manicured fingers barely making a sound. Then she arched one perfect brow, a slow, practiced gesture that held equal parts elegance and quiet judgment. "Celina, darling, what on earth is the matter?" Mirabel’s voice was smooth as butter but laced with impatience, her icy blue eyes—contacts that hid her natural brown—narrowing as she rose to her full, commanding height. She smoothed her immaculately styled bob, the strands catching the light like polished obsidian. "You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Sit down and compose yourself before you ruin that mascara entirely." Celina collapsed onto the nearest sofa, her body heaving with dramatic sobs. She fanned herself with one hand, the other gesturing wildly. "Oh, Mom! It’s awful! That... that wretched girl, Eliana—Rafael’s so-called caregiver—she assaulted me! Right there in his kitchen! I was just trying to be nice, mixing some tea, and she came at me like a feral cat! Scratched and shoved me!" Mirabel’s expression shifted from mild annoyance to a flicker of intrigue, her lips pursing into a thin line. She crossed the room in measured steps, her heels clicking with authority. "Assaulted you? That little nobody? Tell me everything, Celina. From the beginning." Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, Celina straightened up, her voice pitching higher with each word, fueling the drama. "I went over to Rafael’s wing—just to check on him, you know, family and all. And there she was, that peasant girl, acting like she owns the place. I told her the truth—that she’s nothing but trash, a toy for Rafael to play with until he gets bored. And she lost it! Slapped me first, Mom! Me! Then Rafael shows up, and do you know what he did? He sided with her! Told me to get out, like I was the intruder. His own sister!" Mirabel’s face hardened, her elegant features twisting into a mask of fury. She paced the room, her silk skirt swishing like a whisper of impending storm. "Sided with her? Over you? That blind fool, he’s always been a thorn in my flesh. But to let some low-class caregiver lay hands on my daughter? Unacceptable. He’s forgetting who holds the real power in this family." Her voice dropped to a venomous hiss, eyes blazing. "We’ve tolerated his games long enough. This ends now." Celina nodded vigorously, her sobs subsiding into sniffles as she fed off her mother’s rage. "Exactly! She’s poisoning him against us. We have to do something, Mom. Make her pay." Mirabel whirled toward the door, her posture ramrod straight, exuding the cold authority of a queen dethroned but plotting her return. "Oh, we will. Come with me, darling. We’re marching right over to his precious wing and demanding answers. No one touches a Vexley and gets away with it—especially not some street rat." Celina scrambled to her feet, a gleeful spark igniting in her eyes beneath the feigned hurt. "Yes! Let’s show them who’s in charge." They stormed out together, Mirabel leading the charge like a general on the battlefield, her heels echoing a battle drum through the mansion’s vast halls. The east wing blurred into the central atrium, where grand staircases spiraled upward, and then into Rafael’s secluded west wing. Servants scattered like leaves in the wind, whispering among themselves as the duo passed. Not even ten minutes had passed since Eliana stormed out of Rafael’s study, but her pulse was still hammering as if she’d run a mile. The words he’d thrown at her—"trashy lifestyle"—clung to her like burrs, sharp and impossible to shake off. They hadn’t just stung; they had cut deep, had sliced through her heart, reopening old wounds she thought she’d bandaged. She shoved her bedroom door shut, the echo bouncing off the high ceilings, and began pacing across the soft carpet. The luxury under her feet felt almost insulting in that moment, as if comfort itself were mocking her hurt. Her slender frame trembled with the effort of holding back tears, her warm brown eyes glassy with the ones she refused to let fall. Loose strands of her long black hair tumbled forward, framing her face in messy waves, matching the whirlwind in her mind. "How could he say that?" she muttered under her breath, the words breaking on the edges of disbelief. She sank onto the edge of her bed, her shoulders folding in as if trying to shield her own heart. "After the day we had... after everything... I thought he finally understood me." Her voice was softer now, the fight draining from it, leaving only the ache. "I thought he really saw me." A sharp knock interrupted her turmoil. The door creaked open, revealing a young maid named Lila, her uniform crisp but her expression anxious. "Miss Eliana? There’s... trouble downstairs. Celina’s mother, Mrs. Vexley, she’s in the living room, yelling for you and Mr. Rafael to come face her. She’s causing quite a scene." Eliana sighed deeply, rubbing her temples. Of course. She had expected something like this—the entitled never let slights go unanswered. "I was stupid to think Celina would just slink away," she whispered, more to herself than to Lila. Rising with a resigned grace, she smoothed her modest blouse and jeans, the worn fabric a reminder of her roots. "Alright. Lead the way. Let’s get this over with." Lila nodded nervously and guided her through the luxurious hallway, the air growing thicker with tension. Meanwhile, in his study, Rafael sat brooding behind the massive oak desk, regret gnawed at him, his eyes—sharp and seeing—stared unseeingly at the wall. He dragged a hand through his dark wavy hair, exhaling sharply. "Damn it, Eliana. I didn’t mean..." His thoughts trailed off as another knock sounded. Clara poked her head in, her face pale. "Mr. Vexley, sir? Mrs. Mirabel Vexley is here—in the living room. She’s... well, causing a scene. Demanding to see you and Miss Eliana. It’s about Celina." Rafael’s jaw tightened, his calculating mind racing. This was escalating faster than he’d anticipated. "Of course she is," he muttered sarcastically, wheeling his chair around with practiced ease. "Can’t have a day without family drama. I’ll handle it." He propelled himself out, determined to deescalate before things spiraled further, his athletic build tense beneath the crisp designer shirt. But Eliana arrived first. She stepped into the sprawling living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows framed the twilight gardens, and crystal vases held wilting roses that seemed to echo the room’s fragile peace. Mirabel stood in the center, arms crossed, her commanding presence dominating the space like a storm cloud. Celina hovered behind her, smirking triumphantly. Eliana stopped dead in her tracks, every muscle locking in place. Her brown eyes widened, her mouth slag, and the air in her lungs turned heavy and strange. The world seemed to tip sideways, voices fading to a dull hum as the truth hit her like a speeding truck. That face. Smooth brown skin. Regal posture. Eyes like winter. It was her. The woman who had walked out on Eliana and her father, Frank, leaving them to claw through the dust of poverty while she chased a life lined with gold. Now she stood here as Mirabel Vexley—the untouchable queen of this empire. Eliana’s heart pounded so loud it drowned the silence. Her lips parted, her voice cracked "Mama? No... it can’t be." Celina pointed accusingly, her voice shrill and victorious. "There she is, Mom! That’s the one—Eliana, the caregiver. She’s the peasant who assaulted me! Look at her, acting all innocent now." Mirabel’s gaze locked onto Eliana, her expression a mix of disdain and curiosity. She moved forward, each step deliberate, her heels clicking like ticking bombs. Eliana saw it all in slow motion—the sway of Mirabel’s pearls, the flare of her nostrils, the ghost of a past life flickering in those eyes. All Eliana could think was: It’s her. My mother. The one who left us broken, who chose gold over love. How? Why here, now? Before Eliana could process, before words could form, Mirabel reached her. "You dare lay hands on my daughter?" Mirabel snarled, her voice a whip crack. Her hand flew up, connecting with Eliana’s cheek in a stinging slap that echoed through the room. The impact sent Eliana staggering, her warm brown skin blooming red, tears springing unbidden to her eyes. And that was when Rafael wheeled into the doorway, his eyes widening in horror as he witnessed the blow. Time seemed to freeze, the air thick with betrayal, shock, and the unspoken secrets that bound them all in chains.