The mountain air felt charged, like it was holding its breath. Lanterns dangled from overhanging branches, swaying lazily and throwing restless shadows across the narrow trail where the upper crust of the business world had assembled. The scene looked almost magical—soft light, towering pines, expensive laughter—but the tension beneath it all was sharp enough to cut skin.
Clusters of CEOs and executives mingled along the path, champagne flutes in hand, their laughter bouncing between the trees as if money itself echoed louder up here. Deals were being hinted at, egos quietly compared. But for Rafael Vexley, seated slightly apart in his wheelchair, the noise faded into something distant and dull, like a radio playing in another room.
Then he heard it.
Not the laughter. Not the wind.
Mirabel's voice.
It sliced through the evening—smooth, sharp, and unmistakably poisonous. That particular edge, the one she reserved for humiliation wrapped in silk, was aimed squarely at his wife.
