h4Chapter 53: A Stubborn Woman/h4

    Eliana stormed down the vast corridor of the Vexley estate, each step cracking against the marble like a drumbeat of defiance. The lilies arranged in tall crystal vases perfumed the air with sweetness, but the scent only made her angrier—beautyid over a prison, elegance disguising chains. Her chest burned, her pulse racing as Rafael’s voice reyed in her head, sharp and cruel. He had ripped her resignation letter to pieces right in front of her, as if her will and her freedom were nothing but scraps to be tossed aside. Worse, he had threatened her—spoken to her like she was a bird meant to stay caged, wings clipped for hisfort.

    By the time she reached her bedroom, her fury had nowhere left to go. The door mmed behind her with a violent crack, shaking the frames on the walls. For a moment she just stood there, trembling, her vision blurred by the hot sting of tears she refused to let fall. Crying meant surrender, and she would not give him that.

    "I can’t stay here," she whispered, though her voice wavered, betraying the ache beneath the anger.

    She yanked open the closet doors, her hands moving fast, restless. Her modest clothes—soft blouses, faded jeans, that worn sweater still carrying the faintfort of her father’s cologne—looked almost out of ce in this gilded pce. She pulled them down one by one, stuffing them into the battered box she had carried when she first arrived, the same box that had always held the little pieces of home she couldn’t let go of. The rasp of the zipper closing was sharp, final, a sound that steadied her shaking breath.

    "I’m leaving," she told herself, firmer this time. "With or without his permission."

    Her reflection caught her eye in the mirror across the room—wild curls tumbling around her face, her brown eyes shing with determination that barely covered the fear lurking underneath. Mirabel’s shadow loomed in her mind—her own mother, blood yet stranger, circling closer with every passing day. The woman who had abandoned her and her father for this hollow world of power and deceit. And Rafael? He wasn’t the savior she had once foolishly imagined him to be. He was just another tyrant, another hand around her throat.

    Her thoughts leapt to her father, frail and waiting. The image of him alone, worrying, made her chest ache so fiercely it nearly knocked the breath out of her. She needed to see him. She needed to hold his hand, to tell him she was safe, to keep her promise that she would never be lost to himpletely.

    Eliana dragged the box off the shelf and steadied it on its tiny handle. Her arm no longer bound in a sling, she was grateful for at least that freedom. She drew in one deep breath, the kind that burned her lungs and stiffened her resolve, and slipped out of her room.

    The hallway stretched ahead, lined with curious stares from passing staff who pretended not to see the panic in her eyes or the box she tugged behind her. The grand oak doors at the end of the corridor rose like titans, heavy and immovable—but to her, they were salvation. She shoved them open, the weight of the world giving way to the cool sting of the outside air.

    The manicuredwns sprawled in every direction, green and perfect under the fading afternoon light, the iron gates glittering in the distance like the edge of freedom. The breeze rushed against her face, tangling her curls, urging her forward. She gripped the handle of her box tighter and marched on, every step a rebellion, every breath a promise.

    She wasn’t going to let Rafael, Mirabel, or this cursed estate decide her fate. Not anymore.

    As Eliana neared the gatehouse, thete afternoon sun red off the steel bars, momentarily blinding her. For a fleeting second, she thought freedom was just a few steps away. But then Bruce—the broad-shouldered guard with kind eyes who usually greeted her with small talk about the weather—stepped out. His posture was stiff, his jaw tight, and the apologetic crease between his brows told her everything before he even spoke.

    "Miss Bet," he said carefully, his voice low, almost regretful, "I’m sorry. I can’t let you leave."

    Her heart stuttered, then thudded painfully. She froze mid-step, the beat-up box scraping along the ground behind her until it caught on a crack in the pavement. The cardboard groaned under the strain as she tightened her grip on the edges. "What?" Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "Why not? Open the gate, Bruce. Please."

    Bruce shifted his weight, ncing at the inte clipped to his belt like it was a chain tying him there. "Orders from Mr. Vexley, ma’am. No one leaves without his clearance today." He hesitated, then added with a wince, "Especially not you."

    Her blood burned hot in her veins. Of course. Rafael—always two steps ahead, always pulling strings before she even thought to cut them. She clenched her jaw. "This is insane! He can’t just lock me in here like I’m... some criminal—or worse, his prisoner!"

    Bruce’s gaze flickered away, shame tugging at his features. "I’m just doing my job, Miss Eliana. You know how it is. If you want answers... you should talk to him."

    Her fists curled tight at her sides, fingernails biting into her palms. She wanted to scream at Bruce, to demand that he defy his boss just this once, but she knew it would be useless. Defying Rafael Vexley never ended cleanly. And worse, if Rafael grew furious enough, his retaliation might not stop at her. It could spill out, reaching her father. The thought of her fragile dad—alone, vulnerable—stole the fight from her chest.

    With a sharp breath, she spun around, sneakers stomping furiously against the stone as she stormed back toward the mansion. The heavy box in her hand thudded against her leg with each step, an unwanted reminder that her escape hadsted all of ten minutes.

    The grand foyer greeted her like a trap, all polished marble and glittering crystal. The chandelier overhead sparkled mockingly, throwing fractured light over her hunched shoulders as if to say: look how pretty your cage is. She muttered to herself as she walked down the hall, voice trembling between anger and despair.

    "He’s locking me up... treating me like property." Her throat tightened. "I have to get out. Not just because of her—that woman haunting me like a ghost, trying to snuff me out with no clue of who I am. But Papa..." Her voice broke, and she clutched the handle of her box harder. "He hasn’t seen me in days. What if he’s worse? What if he’s calling for me, thinking I’ve abandoned him, just like she did?"

    Her feet carried her to her room, but she didn’t go looking for Rafael. She couldn’t. Just the thought of his thunderous baritone booming through the halls, his eyes—those piercing grey eyes that seemed to see through every flimsy wall she built—made her stomach twist. She knew how easily he could shatter her if she pushed too far. Silence, bitter as it was, felt safer.

    That evening, the world outside bled into hues of violet and deep indigo, the estate sinking into shadows as if mirroring her own despair. Eliana curled up on her bed, cocooned in silk sheets that mocked her with their softness. The tray of food delivered to her—roast chicken steaming, mashed potatoes swirled with butter, green beans bright with a drizzle of oil—sat untouched at her side. The smell alone made her stomach turn.

    A gentle knock came at the door, followed by ra’s voice. Her ck hair pinned in its familiar bun, always spoke like a mother trying to soothe a restless child.

    "Miss Eliana?" ra’s tone was tender, coaxing. "Dinner’s here. You should eat something, darling. You’ll feel better."

    Eliana buried her face deeper into the pillow, her words muffled and raw. "I’m not hungry, ra. Just... take it away."

    "But you’ve barely touched anything all day. It’ll help if you eat, love."

    Her voice cracked, thick with tears. "I can’t. I won’t."

    The tray was eventually whisked away, but ra’s worried silence lingered in the air long after she left. Eliana sobbed quietly into the pillow, hot tears soaking through the fabric until the world blurred. Every weight pressed down at once—Rafael’s suffocating grip, her mother’s shadowy pursuit, her father’s fragile absence. She felt small, crushed, and chained in ways she couldn’t even name.

    Sleep didn’t save her. When it finally came, it dragged her into jagged dreams of locked gates, rattling chains, and her father’s voice calling for her from a lonely hospital bed.

    strong******/strong

    In the dim hush of his study, Rafael sat motionless in his wheelchair, the shadows swallowing him whole. The space smelled of old leather and the sharp bite of whiskey, the scent clinging to the half-empty ss he swirled absently in one hand. On his desky the shredded remains of Eliana’s resignation letter, torn pieces scattered like the remnants of a battle he couldn’t win. He had tried fitting them back together, but the jagged edges refused to align—like his life, like his choices.

    A tightness pressed against his chest, unfamiliar and unwee. He drew a shaky breath, his voice breaking the silence with a rasp meant for no one but himself.

    "What the hell have I done?"

    His words fell heavy, almost foreign. For a man who prided himself on control, it was a rare admission. His jaw flexed as he stared at the scraps, each fragment a reminder of how far he had gone. Women, in his past, had been diversions—glittering ornaments he could acquire and discard. Never attachments. Never someone to beg. But Eliana... she unsettled him. She saw through the carefully built walls he’d lived behind since the crash, since betrayal had taught him to bleed alone.

    He dragged a hand through his dark, unruly hair, cursing under his breath. Her strength—quiet, steady, maddening—had cracked open a space he hadn’t wanted touched. He had cared too much, too fast, and in his panic he had tried to trap her. But the memory of her face streaked with tears refused to loosen its grip.

    That night he didn’t sleep.

    By dawn, when sunlight spilled through the estate’s wide windows, Rafael had already wheeled himself to the sunroom. He wanted—needed—to make amends, though the word "sorry" tasted strange in his mouth. He had ordered the table filled with tters of fruit, stacks of pancakes, crisp bacon, fresh bread, steaming coffee—the sort of breakfast that spoke of abundance, of care. A peace offering disguised as a meal.

    When ra entered, apron neatly tied, Rafael’s head tilted slightly to her direction. "ra," he said, his tone firm but carrying a flicker of hope. "Go upstairs. Tell Eliana breakfast is ready. Tell her I want her to join me."

    The housekeeper hesitated. Her face, always kind, softened further. "Of course, sir. But..." She trailed off, as though weighing whether to say more.

    Rafael’s eyes narrowed. "But what?"

    "I’ll try," she said simply, bowing her head before hurrying off.

    Upstairs, ra knocked gently on Eliana’s door. "Miss Eliana? Breakfast is served. Mr. Rafael is waiting in the sunroom. He’d like you toe."

    There was a pause before Eliana’s muffled voice answered, t and resolute. "I’m not hungry, ra. And even if I were—I won’t eat with him."

    ra pressed her lips together. "But you skipped dinnerst night. You can’t go on like this. Please, Eliana, just a little food?"

    "No." The reply came sharper this time. "I said I’m not eating. Leave me alone."

    With a sigh, ra descended and returned to Rafael, who sat tensely in his chair. She shook her head softly. "I’m sorry, sir. She refused. Said she isn’t hungry... not with you. And..." ra’s voice faltered. "She didn’t eatst night either."

    Rafael’s hands tightened on the armrests of his wheelchair until his knuckles whitened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Stubborn woman," he muttered. But beneath the irritation, worry gnawed.

    He wheeled himself toward the elevator, the faint whir of its motor echoing down the hall. At her door, he rapped firmly. "Eliana?"

    After a long silence, the door cracked open. She stood there in a thin robe, curls tangled from a restless night, her eyes red-rimmed but still burning with defiance. She looked fragile, but her stance was unyielding.

    "What do you want, Rafael?" Her voice was hoarse, but steady.

    For once, his sarcasm deserted him. His tone came out low, almost gentle. "Stop punishing yourself. Come eat something. You’ll make yourself sick."

    Her arms crossed over her chest. "Strength for what? To rot here in your golden cage?" Her gaze, once warm with trust, now cut like ss. "If you don’t let me go, I’ll waste away in this house. Starve, copse—I don’t care. But I will not live as your prisoner."

    And before he could speak, the door mmed. The sound reverberated through the hall, sharp as a gunshot.

    Rafael sat frozen, his breath caught. Then fury, sharp and helpless, surged in him. "Damn it," he hissed, turning his chair away and retreating to the study.

    He snatched up his phone, thumbs hammering out a message to the one confidant he trusted, the unseen friend who advised him from the shadows.

    strongRafael:/strongstrongi/i/strongiI tried everything. Pleas, tactics—nothing. She won’t bend. So I tore her letter of resignation, locked her in, and now she says she’ll die before staying. What the hell do I do?/i

    The reply was swift, carrying a bite of disapproval.

    strongFriend:/strongiThreats? Rafael, that’s not what I meant. I told you to keep her close—by building trust. By making her want to stay. Not by caging her./i

    Rafael exhaled sharply, jaw tight as he typed back.

    strongRafael: /strongiSo what then? Apologize? Let her walk out?/i

    strongFriend:/strongiYes. Start with sorry—and mean it. If she still leaves, then you let her. Forcing her only destroys everything./i

    His hands hovered over the keys, his mind rebelling against the advice.

    strongRafael:/strongiAnd the danger? You told me Mirabel has her marked. That’s why I can’t let her go./i

    strongFriend:/strongiIf she leaves, we go to n B. Shadow her from a distance, guards following discreetly. Mirabel won’t touch her. But caging her will only drive her into Mirabel’s arms./i

    Rafael stared at the glowing words, his chest tight with something rawer than strategy. It was logical, clean, the kind of n he’d built his empire on. Yet the thought of Eliana walking out of his estate, away from his reach, carved a hollow ache inside him. The house already felt colder at the very idea.

    And for the first time in years, Rafael Vexley had no idea how to win.