The dim glow of the bedside lamp spilled across the room, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. Rafael stood motionless in the bathroom doorway, breath caught in his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was bare, stripped not just of clothing but of the armor he wore in the daylight—the ruthless mogul who commanded boardrooms and bent empires to his will.
Now, under the softened light, he was only a man. His body—sculpted, powerful, still slick with the remnants of their passion—looked carved out of fire and tension, every muscle pulled taut as if bracing for impact. But it was his face that betrayed him. Those steel eyes, usually cold and unshakable, were blown wide with worry, unguarded in a way he never let the world see. His jaw flexed, clenched so hard it looked painful, as though he could grind his fear into silence.
