As the smooth black car rolled away from the sprawling Vexley estate, the morning sun slid across its gleaming hood, scattering reflections like shards of glass over the perfectly trimmed lawns. The mansion behind them stood in all its opulent silence—columns, marble, and secrets—but Rafael Vexley didn't glance back.
He sat in the back seat, spine stiff as iron, his eyes trained on the road ahead though he wasn't the one driving. His wheelchair, polished to a cold shine, was folded and strapped neatly beside him—a prop more than a necessity. To the world, it painted him as fragile, broken. To Rafael, it was the perfect disguise, a mask that let people underestimate him. He thrived in their underestimation.
