In the hushed opulence of Rafael Vexley's bedroom, silence wasn't empty—it was weighted, alive, as though the walls themselves held their breath. The air carried his signature—sandalwood, rich and smoky—yet beneath it lingered something sharper, restless, like a storm pacing the edge of release.
The room was every bit the fortress of a man who lived behind walls: a four-poster bed draped in midnight silk, art that watched like unblinking witnesses, and a towering window spilling moonlight across the polished floor. Outside, the gardens blurred into shadow, the kind of view meant for royalty—or for a man too guarded to let anyone see him.
