The grand hall of the Vexley International Conference Center was no longer just buzzing—it was vibrating on the edge of collective meltdown. The air carried an expensive cocktail of designer perfume, nervous sweat, and scandal-in-progress. Velvet-upholstered chairs stretched endlessly, packed tight with the powerful and the curious: billionaires in suits that cost more than most cars, socialites shimmering like walking chandeliers, and journalists in full survival mode—pens flying, thumbs tapping, pupils dilated at the promise of career-making headlines.
Towering LED screens flanked the stage, replaying the moment on an endless loop: Rafael Vexley rising from his wheelchair. Slow motion. Dramatic lighting. Steel eyes locking with the camera like he knew this clip would haunt the internet forever. And honestly? He wasn't wrong.
