<h4>Chapter 50: The ws of The Wicked</h4>


    The private hospital room was too quiet, the kind of quiet that sat heavily on your chest. Machines beeped in the background, steady but cold, like they were reminding Eliana she was still here. She sat propped up against the pillows, eyes fixed on the pale curtains swaying slightly under the hum of the air conditioning. The ce smelled sharp with antiseptic, softened only by the faint trace of roses from the diffuser Rafael had insisted on bringing in—his way of trying to make this ce less unbearable.


    Rafael sat in his wheelchair right beside her, leaning forward like he’d been there for hours without moving. His expensive suit had long since lost its sharpness, creased from waiting, but he didn’t seem to care. His eyes weren’t fixed directly on Eliana—still ying into the illusion of blindness—but every muscle in his body was tuned to her, listening to her breaths, watching for the tiniest shift in her hands or shoulders.


    "Eliana," his voice was low, rough around the edges with worry, "you’ve barely said a word since you woke up. Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?"


    She blinked slowly, dragging her attention back from the curtain to him. A small smile tugged at her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her dark curls slipped down around her shoulders, stark against the thin white gown. "I’m fine, Rafael. Really. Just tired." Her voice cracked just a little, betraying her. "The doctors said it’s just shock. Nothing serious."


    He reached out, his hand finding hers with unerring precision, as if guided by instinct rather than sight. His touch was warm, reassuring, but Eliana felt a pang in her chest—a mix of guilt and resolve. How could she tell him the truth? That the woman he’d just shoved away was her mother, the one who’d abandoned her years ago for the very wealth that now poisoned this family? "You’re not fine," Rafael pressed, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. "I can hear it in your voice. It’s like you’re a million miles away. Is it because of what happened with Mirabel? That viper’s words... they cut deep, I know. But you don’t have to carry that alone."


    Eliana swallowed hard, her throat tight. "Maybe... a little. She was so cruel, Rafael. The way she looked at me, like I was nothing. It just... brought up old memories, I guess." Her voice cracked slightly, and she pulled her hand away, tucking it under the nket. Old memories indeed—the abandonment, the poverty, the endless nights wondering why her mother had left. But now, seeing Mirabel in the flesh, elegant and icy, it was a knife twist she couldn’t bear.


    Rafael nodded slowly, his chiseled jaw tightening. "I understand. More than you know. That woman’s poison has seeped into every corner of my life. But listen to me, Eliana—you’re stronger than her theatrics. You’ve got a fire in you that she could never extinguish." He paused, then reached into his suit pocket for his phone, his fingers deft despite the act. "I’m calling James. He’ll handle the bills and get you discharged. You need rest, real rest, back at the mansion. But if you want space... just say the word."


    Before she could respond, he activated the voicemand on his phone. "Call James."


    The line connected almost immediately, James’s efficient voice crackling through the speaker. "Mr. Vexley? Is everything alright? How’s Miss Bet?"


    "She’s awake, James, but still shaken," Rafael replied, his tone shifting to themanding CEO he was. "I need you here at the hospital. Take care of the bills—make sure it’s all settled discreetly. And prepare for discharge. I’ll be stepping out for a bit while you handle it."


    "Of course, sir. I’m on my way. ETA ten minutes."


    Rafael ended the call and turned back to Eliana, his expression softening again. "James is reliable. He’ll sort everything. You just focus on getting your strength back." He leaned in, as if to kiss her forehead, but hesitated, sensing her withdrawal. "I’ll give you some time alone. Fresh air might clear my head too. I’m heading to the garden’s just outside—I’ll be back soon."


    Eliana nodded, her heart aching as she watched him wheel himself toward the door. "Okay. Thank you, Rafael. For everything."


    He paused at the threshold, his broad shoulders tense. "It’s my fault anyway. No thanks needed. You’re... important to me, Eliana. More than you realize." With that, he maneuvered out, the door clicking shut behind him.


    Eliana had no clue what he meant by thest bit, but she was too drained to bother asking.


    Rafael rolled himself down the hospital corridor, the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and stretching shadows across the floor. His chest felt tight, and not just from the air in the building—it was Eliana. Something in her had changed. The warmth she usually carried, that quiet, stubborn smile that always kept her steady, was gone. She looked lost, almost hollow. He knew it had everything to do with Mirabel. That confrontation had been brutal—words sharp enough to draw blood—and Eliana, with all her softness, had been dragged right into the middle of it.


    He needed to get out of that room. To breathe. To think.


    The hospital garden gave him that space. A small square of calm tucked between the walls, with roses pushing out their petals like they had something to prove, andvender bending in the breeze, sweetening the air. The fountain in the center bubbled quietly, scattering droplets that caught thete-afternoon sun. Rafael steered his chair toward it, stopping close enough to feel the cool mist on his skin. For a moment, he closed his eyes—his real eyes, the ones no one knew still worked—and let himself pretend. Pretend he was just another man, just tired, just thinking.


    But quiet has a way of digging up what you try to bury. Memories pressed in, sharp and unwee. He couldn’t stop his mind from going back. The first time Mirabel had tried to kill him—it had been poison, hidden in the tea Mirabel had prepared for him. Days of pain, his body failing, his trust shattered. But the second time... that was worse. Because it wasn’t just about survival. It was about betrayal. And betrayal, he realized, leaves a wound that never really closes.


    A few years ago, when Rafael was eighteen, his world was nothing but darkness. The car crash that stole his sight when he was nine had left him with a life that felt like one long night, a veil he could never lift. Back then, he depended on others for almost everything—things that once seemed so small, like finding the edge of a table or pouring a ss of water, suddenly felt impossible. His independence was gone, and it ate at him.


    That’s when Ian showed up. He was Rafael’s age, hired through some agency Mirabel had approved. On his first day, Ian’sugh carried through the endless halls of the Vexley mansion, a sound so alive it almost didn’t belong there.


    "Hey, Rafael," he’d said brightly, guiding him to the breakfast table. "I’m Ian. Don’t worry, man—I’m not here to baby you. Think of me as your sidekick. We’ll make this blindness thing a little less boring."


    Rafael had actuallyughed at that—something he didn’t do much back then. "Sidekick, huh? Just don’t trip me on purpose. Tell me something real, Ian. Not the polished lies my family spins. What’s the world like out there?"


    Ian didn’t hesitate. He painted the world with words, filling Rafael’s darkness with color. "The city’s alive—cars honking, skyscrapers wing at the clouds, vendors yelling about hot dogs that smell like heaven. And girls, man... there’s this one at the coffee shop near my ce—hair like fire, temper to match. You’d like her. Feisty. Definitely your type."


    The two of them would talk for hours. Ian would describe sunsets Rafael couldn’t see, teach him shortcuts with braille, or sneak contraband snacks into the mansion. One night in the library, Ian pressed something into his hand. "Here—try this chocte bar. It’s got chili in it. Sweet and spicy, like life’s supposed to be."


    Somewhere in thosete-night talks, Rafael found himself opening up. "You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a broken toy," he admitted quietly. "Everyone else... it feels like they’re just waiting for me to fade out. But you—you’re different. You’re a friend. My best friend."


    "Yeah, man," Ian said softly, his voice carrying that easy warmth. "Best friends. We’ll get through this darkness together."


    Eliana reminded Rafael of Ian—so much it hurt. That same gentleness, that quiet resilience. But he knew how quickly Mirabel could take something pure and twist it into something unrecognizable. He’d lived it once before, and the memory never stopped bleeding.


    The change in Ian hade like a slow frost. At first, it was barely there—augh that no longer rang as brightly, conversations that ended too quickly. One night, as Ian guided him to bed, Rafael finally asked, his voice breaking under the weight of worry.


    "Ian, what’s happening to you? You’ve been so far awaytely. Did I do something? Talk to me. We’re friends... aren’t we?"


    The answer came back hollow. "Nothing’s wrong, Mr. Vexley. I’m just doing my job. Employer and employee—that’s all."


    The title sliced through Rafael’s heart. "Mr. Vexley? Since when? Ian, please. If something’s wrong, tell me. We can fix it."


    But Ian shut the door on him with a simple, final reply. "Nothing’s wrong, sir. Goodnight."


    After that, their days felt like ash—empty routines, the bond between them crumbling into silence. And then came the day that scarred Rafael forever.


    It was supposed to be routine—just another hair wash day. A small thing, but one Rafael had always hated. Blindness had turned it into a ritual of humiliation, stripping him of control, forcing him to lean on someone else. He’d tried doing it himself once; the mess that followed had been enough to remind him why he couldn’t. Ian had handed Rafael tea first—warm, soothing, meant to quiet his nerves. Rafael drank, grateful, letting the bitter calm settle into his chest. And now here he was again, palms braced against the cold marble sink, shoulders bare, vulnerable. Exposed. Waiting. Trusting.


    "Ready?" Ian’s voice was t, stripped of warmth. The faucet hissed, filling the basin.


    "Yeah," Rafael sighed, leaning forward. "Let’s just get it over with."


    But then—it happened. The betrayal. Swift, brutal, without warning.


    Ian’s hands, which only moments ago had been gentle,thering soap through Rafael’s hair with practiced ease, suddenly shifted. Fingers that once steadied him became iron shackles, shoving his head down, merciless, into the basin filled with water.


    The shock of icy water mmed into Rafael’s face, flooding his nose, his mouth, burning down into his lungs. His Instinct screamed for air. He thrashed, legs jerking against the tiled floor, hands wing at Ian’s arms. His voice broke into muffled cries, choking, sputtering—"Stop! Ian!"—but the water drowned the words before they could escape.


    Terror tore through him like wildfire. His body, usually sharp with strength, felt heavy, slow, uncooperative. His muscles buckled as if wrapped in lead. A dizzy haze spun the edges of his vision, ck creeping in like ink spilled across paper. And then, amidst the chaos, a single truth pierced through the fog:


    The tea Ian had served him earlier was making Rafael weaker than normal.


    The bitter aftertaste he had ignored, the strange warmth in his veins—it hadn’t been fatigue, it hadn’t been weakness. It was poison. Drugged. Betrayed.


    And the worst part—the hands pinning him down were the same ones he had trusted most..


    He iled, knocking bottles to the floor, but Ian’s grip was iron. "I’m sorry," Ian whispered, his voice trembling—but he didn’t let go.


    The water burned his lungs, and the darkness—his constant prison—closed in tighter, suffocating him until nothing remained.


    When Rafael opened his eyes again, it was two weekster in a hospital bed. Tubes in his arms. Machines keeping him tethered to life. He had nearly drowned. And Ian was gone.


    What Ian left behind was worse than his absence. A voice note, hidden in Rafael’s phone, in a folder only Rafael would ever search. Rafael listened in silence, each word another knife.


    "Rafael... God, I’m so sorry." Ian’s voice cracked with grief. "Mirabel made me do it. She threatened my sister—said she’d kill her if I didn’t... if I didn’t end you. I didn’t want to. You were my friend. My best friend. Forgive me... please."


    Tears he couldn’t even see slipped down his face as he listened, over and over, until he buried the note deep in his vaults. What could he do then? He had been nothing but a blind, broken teenager, powerless against Mirabel’s empire. But that betrayal carved something permanent in him. It was the day he stopped being helpless. It was the day his weakness became his weapon.


    The memory dissolved, but its ache lingered. Rafael found himself back in the garden, the fountain whispering beside him, the roses painted gold by the setting sun. And all he could think about was Eliana.


    What if Mirabel set her sights on Eliana next? What if she twisted Eliana’s kindness the way she had twisted Ian’s, turning her warmth into a de aimed straight at him? The image crushed him—Eliana’s hopeful smile hollowing into coldness, her loyalty poisoned into betrayal.


    "No," he whispered fiercely, gripping the arms of his chair until his hands shook. "I won’t let her. Mirabel won’t destroy Eliana the way she destroyed Ian."


    He had spent four years weaving his—evidence, schemes, traps waiting to close around Mirabel. But until that day came, she was still dangerous. Too dangerous. And Eliana... Eliana had to be kept away, even if it meant Rafael had to be very cruel.


    With a heavy breath, Rafael turned his chair back toward the hospital, his decision settling inside him like cold steel. For her safety, for what was left of his own fragile heart, Rafael had to let Eliana go.


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