Mirabel Vexley stormed out of Rafael's lavish bedroom like a thunderclap breaking over marble. Every strike of her heels ricocheted down the hallway—sharp, unforgiving, a sound that made even the chandeliers seem to tremble. Rage carved itself into her features, her jaw tight, her eyes burning. The silk blouse hugging her figure clung as if it, too, wanted to escape her fury.
She wasn't alone. Celina and Caleb shadowed her, their presence less support and more extension of her venom. Celina tossed her hair with the kind of dramatics only a spoiled daughter could perfect, lips twisting into a sneer that promised cruelty. The hem of her designer skirt swished with each step, like a warning before the strike. Caleb, ever the vulture, kept his pace deliberately unhurried, his slicked-back hair catching the chandelier's glow. His chuckle was low, dark, predatory—like he could already taste the chaos waiting to unfold.
