The VIP room felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage—quiet, polished, suffocating. The soft lighting glowed against the ivory walls, stretching shadows into elegant shapes that whispered of money and power. Beyond the panoramic windows, the Thames shimmered under the midday sun, a living ribbon of molten silver cutting through the heart of London. Yet none of it reached Eliana.
Her gaze was locked on the bed in the center of the room.
Rafael lay there—unmoving, fragile, a ghost of the man who had once filled every space he walked into. The memory of him was still sharp in her mind: the sharp suits, the quiet authority in his voice, the way people seemed to bend toward him without even realizing it. Now, that same man looked… diminished.
