The morning sun slipped through the grand windows of Rafael Vexley's London townhouse like an uninvited but very welcome guest, painting the kitchen in soft gold. Eliana Bennett stood barefoot near the island, wrapped in one of Rafael's absurdly expensive robes—far too big for her, sleeves threatening to swallow her hands. Her long, curly black hair spilled down her back in lazy waves, untamed and unapologetic, catching the light like it knew it was being admired.
And admired it was.
Rafael Vexley—billionaire, corporate menace, and walking headline—was currently engaged in mortal combat with a frying pan.
