The night had sharpened its teeth by the time Rafael's convoy peeled away from the conference grounds.
The luxury tents—once blazing with chandeliers and laughter and the low hum of powerful people pretending they weren't afraid—fell behind them, shrinking into soft pinpricks of gold against the dark. From a distance, they looked like stars in retreat, dimming one by one as the engines carried them farther away. The wind had picked up, tugging at the canvas flaps of the tents and carrying with it the last echoes of applause, gossip, and forced smiles.
Rafael stood at the curb for a moment longer than necessary, the cold air biting through his suit. His gaze lingered on the road ahead, jaw set, eyes dark and unreadable. Whatever triumph the night had promised had long since curdled into Henry's love problems. But he hoped things wouldn't turn too sour between the couple.
