h4Chapter 52: Scheming Billionaire/h4

    The Vexley mansion stretched across the horizon like something torn from a painting—grand, cold, untouchable. Under the bruised indigo sky, its spires pierced upward like watchtowers, the ivy creeping over stone walls as though even nature longed to im it back. Thewns were trimmed to perfection, not a de of grass out of ce, yet to Eliana Bet it all felt sterile, suffocating. Luxury wrapped in steel. A pce, yes—but to her, it was a prison with fancy locks.

    Five days had slipped by since she had stood in the hospital and finally said it out loud—her resignation. The words had cost her, like tearing something alive from her chest. And yet, she was still here. Still walking these echoing halls where every corner seemed to breathe Rafael’s name. Each day had blurred into a silent tug of war: her resolve against his persistence, her desire for freedom against the weight of promises she couldn’t quite abandon.

    Eliana sat curled in the wide bay window of the guest suite, her knees drawn close, her fingers idly worrying the frayed edge of her sweater. That sweater was her one stubborn rebellion against the mansion’s silk and marble—it smelled faintly ofundry soap and the little apartment she had once called home. Her eyes, usually warm and filled with a restless kind of hope, were tired now. Determined, but tired. She had told herself again and again: Rafael Vexley’s world isn’t mine to live in. In his story, my mother is the viin—and I can’t afford to be trapped between them.

    But leaving wasn’t simple. Something about Rafael —his broken edges, the way he hid them with arrogance—kept pulling her back in. And then, as if fate knew her weakness, Rafael had chosen this exact week to fall "ill." Not the kind of illness that brought doctors to the door, no—this was the sort of sickness that lived more in his theatrics than his body. A lingering cough, a pale expression, an exaggerated groan at the wrong time. He had staged the perfect performance of a dying man—everybored breath, every faint groan, carefully measured to pull at her heartstrings. And it worked. No matter how loudly her mind screamed that it was all an act, that she couldn’t let herself be fooled again, a part of her still wavered, aching for him against her better judgment.

    "Eliana!" His voice carried down the marble hall, low and rasping, like a man on the brink. "Please—I need you."

    She closed her eyes. The sound pierced her armor, the way it always did. Duty, habit, pity—call it what you will, but it had a leash on her soul. She stood with a sigh, curls bouncing as she straightened her faded jeans. The letter she had started—her resignation—still sat unfinished on the desk. nk spaces where her final words should have gone.

    Her sneakers squeaked softly as she walked across the polished corridor, the sound far too ordinary for such a grand setting. The door to Rafael’s bedroom was cracked open. She pushed it wider, and there he was—stretched across the expanse of a four-poster bed, sheets tangled around him. The man who usuallymanded every room he wheeled into looked disheveled, boyish almost, with his dark wavy hair spilling over the pillow. His eyes, sharp and searching, flicked to hers the moment she entered.

    "You look awful," Eliana said dryly, bncing a tray of tea and tissues as she crossed to his bedside. Her tone was light, almost teasing, though her chest felt heavier than her words. The room carried the scent of eucalyptus and menthol, like someone had bottled up "illness" and sprayed it into the air. A performance, yes, but one convincing enough to make her heart stutter. She set the tray down carefully. "Still alive, I see."

    "Barely," Rafael rasped, clutching the nket up to his chin like a sulking child. At six-foot-three, with that sharp jawline and a body that usually radiated power, he should have looked intimidating even from a sickbed. But right now? He looked ridiculous—and he knew it. His lips jutted in a pout, milking his weakness for all it was worth. "You wouldn’t walk out on a dying man, would you?"

    Eliana’s eyes flicked heavenward as she reached for the teapot, the fragrant steam of chamomile rising between them. She poured slowly into the delicate porcin cup, the sound of liquid filling the silence. "You’re not dying, Rafael. You’ve caught a cold. Drink this, and for heaven’s sake, stop whining."

    He took the cup from her, letting his fingers linger just long enough to brush hers. The move felt intentional, practiced. "Heartless," he muttered, bringing the rim to his lips with exaggerated care, like every sip might be hisst. "Here I am, wasting away, and you’re already plotting your escape."

    Her chest tightened, but she hid it behind a scoff. "I’ve told you already—I can’t stay here. This house..." Her hand lifted, motioning toward the gilded chandelier, the polished wood, the heavy velvet curtains that framed the room like a stage. "It’s not my world. My ce is with my dad. He needs me."

    "Your dad’s fine," Rafael shot back too quickly, the sharp edge in his tone betraying his nerves before he softened it again. "I mean—he’s well cared for. Don’t run from this, Eliana. Stay. Be my eyes, my legs."

    She turned away, fussing with his pillows, hoping the rustle of fabric would cover the storm raging across her face. He couldn’t see her expression, but she still felt exposed, as if he might hear the crack in her breath or sense the tremor she fought to hide. His words carved straight into her, stirring gratitude, guilt, and the secret she carried like a burning brand. Because what he didn’t know—what she couldn’t ever risk telling him—was that Mirabel Vexley, his stepmother, the woman who glided through this mansion with frost in her veins, was her mother. The same woman who had abandoned Eliana and her father for power and money.

    Every day she lingered here, she risked colliding with Mirabel, risked those icy stares that sliced deeper than any p. And if Rafael found out? His moods were too unpredictable—ice one moment, fire the next. Would he turn that cold, ruthless edge on her? Or worse, take it out on her fragile father?

    She had to leave. It was her only way to protect herself, to protect her dad. But she wanted—needed—to walk away without bitterness, without turning Rafael into another enemy. For all his maniption, for all his games, he had shown her kindness in his own broken way. And that was the part that made it hardest to go.

    "Eliana," Rafael said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "You’re not just a caregiver. You’re..." He hesitated, his fingers tightening around the cup. "You’re different. I don’t trust people, but I think I can trust you. Stay, and I’ll make sure you’re safe."

    She met his gaze, those grey eyes boring into her despite his blindness. Her resolve wavered, but the memory of Mirabel’s p and sneer from yesterday steadied her. "I can’t, Rafael. I’m sorry."

    Over the next few days, Rafael’s "illness" turned into something that could’ve won him an award. He treated every cough like a death rattle, every sigh like the final gasp of a man fading away. He’d call out to her at the strangest hours—sometimes in the middle of the night—his voice thick with theatrical misery as heined about chills or a throat that felt "like sandpaper."

    By morning, his antics grew even more borate. Once, Eliana walked into the library and nearly burst outughing. There he was, buried under three heavy nkets, cocooned like a child who’d lost a fight with the linen closet. He was perched dramatically by the crackling firece, his tall frame folded into the armchair as though he were a tragic hero awaiting his end. She wondered how he managed to get into the chair. The flickering light danced across rows of leather-bound books and the deep reds and golds of the Persian rugs, giving the whole scene the gravitas of a painting. Except, of course, the subject was a grown man pouting like he’d caught the gue.

    "I’m freezing," he groaned, his teeth chattering for effect. "You can’t leave me like this, Eliana. What if I die of pneumonia?"

    She bit back augh, adjusting the thermostat. "You’re in a mansion with central heating, Rafael. You’ll survive."

    Still, his antics chipped away at her resolve, no matter how hard she tried to stay unmoved. When he let out an exaggerated sneeze—clearly put on for effect—and tilted his face toward her, those clouded, wide eyes somehow managed to carry a pleading, almost puppy-like look. It tugged at something deep inside her, something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

    This was Rafael Vexley—billionaire, master maniptor, a man who knew how to pull people’s strings with precision. And yet here he sat, ying the part of a helpless child just to keep her close. The contradiction was maddening. It was disarming. And the worst part? Against her better judgment, she felt herself soften. She hated that it was working. She hated that she noticed how oddly charming his ridiculous charade could be.

    By the third day, Rafael’s tactics grew craftier. He’d have the chef prepare her favorite meals—spicy jambya, warm cornbread—iming it was for his "recovery." He’d recount childhood stories, his voice low and vulnerable, hinting at the lonely boy beneath the cold exterior. Each gesture chipped at her defenses, but the specter of Mirabel loomed. Eliana’s silence about her mother was a wound she nursed alone, festering with every passing day.

    Unbeknownst to Eliana, Rafael had orchestrated more than his fake illness. He’d tasked James with checking on her father, who’d been secretly moved to a luxurious private hospital by Rafael’s mysterious friend. James reported back daily, his updates a quiet reassurance amidst Rafael’s scheming.

    "Frank’s doing well, sir," James had whispered during ate-night call, his voice steady through Rafael’s earpiece. "The new facility’s top-notch. He’s stable, even improving. No one knows he’s there."

    "Good," Rafael had replied, his jaw tight. "Keep it that way. And Mirabel?"

    "She’s already sniffing around town, asking about Eliana’s identity. I’ve blocked her sources, but she’s persistent."

    Rafael’s fingers had drummed against the armrest of his wheelchair, a habit when his mind raced. He’d expected Mirabel’s moves but not this soon. "Double down, James. No leaks. Eliana stays in the dark—for now."

    By the fifth day, Rafael’s "cold" had miraculously faded, but his desperation hadn’t. Eliana, meanwhile, had finalized her resignation letter, her handwriting neat but resolute. She’d cared for Rafael diligently, brewing teas, checking his "fever," but her mind was made up. She had to leave, to escape Mirabel’s shadow and protect her father.

    That afternoon, she approached Rafael’s bedroom, the letter clutched in her trembling hand. The door was slightly open, and she overheard James’s low voice inside.

    "Mirabel’s getting closer, sir. She’s digging into Eliana’s past. I’ve blocked every lead, but she’s relentless."

    Rafael’s voice was a low growl. "She’s a vulture. Keep her intel locked down, James. I won’t let her touch Eliana."

    Eliana’s breath caught, her heart pounding. She knocked softly, and James fell silent. "Come in," Rafael called, his tone shifting to that practiced frailty.

    James excused himself, brushing past her with a polite nod. Eliana stepped inside, the letter crinkling in her grip. Rafael sat up in bed, his dark hair mussed, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the cor, revealing a glimpse of his toned chest. His eyes, still ying blind, tracked her movements.

    "Eliana," Rafael’s voice was low, warm but edged with caution. "You’re holding something. I can hear the paper trembling."

    Her throat tightened. She stepped closer, forcing the words out. "It’s... my resignation letter, Rafael. I need you to listen this time. I can’t stay."

    His jaw clenched, the mask of frailty slipping for a moment. A storm flickered beneath his calm exterior. He extended his hand, slow and deliberate, palm open. "Give it to me."

    Eliana hesitated. "Rafael... it’s written. I can read it aloud if you—"

    "Don’t toy with me, Eliana," his voice sharpened, steel under silk. "Put it in my hand."

    Her pulse pounded in her ears. Against her better judgment, she ced the folded sheet into his waiting palm. The moment her fingers withdrew, his grip turned vicious. With a sudden snap, the letter was torn to shreds, fragments fluttering to the floor like broken promises.

    She gasped, frozen as he pushed himself upright on the bed with a strength that belied his feigned blindness. His voice erupted, no longer controlled but thunderous and raw.

    "You think you can walk away from me?" His breath came ragged, his fury uncoiled. "Don’t fool yourself, Eliana. You’re not leaving this house— not today, not tomorrow, not ever." He leaned forward, every word weighted with threat. "I pleaded with you, but you chose deaf ears. So now?" His tone dropped, dangerous and cold. "We do it my way. Say ’resign’ again, and you’ll learn exactly what regret feels like."

    Eliana’s chest tightened, fear and fury twisting together. "Rafael, you can’t—"

    "Out!" His arm shed toward the door like a sword. "Get out of my presence."

    Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to sob in front of him. She turned, every step backward heavy with dread, until the door shut softly behind her.

    Alone, Rafael sat rigid, pieces of the letter scattered across hisp and the floor. His breathing was harsh, uneven—rage tangled with desperation. Eliana was slipping, and the threats he’d forged as chains might not be enough to bind her much longer but for, it would keep her safe under his watchful gaze.

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