Chapter 97: Piecing Revelations
Rafael Vexley’s black SUV growled quietly where it sat on the shoulder of the quiet highway, the engine’s low hum like a caged predator pacing behind steel bars. Outside, the late morning sun blazed high, spreading long streaks of light across the asphalt. Heat shimmered above the road in restless waves, warping the horizon into a mirage. The world seemed too still for the hour, broken only by the occasional car speeding past, a fleeting reminder that life carried on elsewhere, indifferent to the storm brewing inside the vehicle.
Inside, the air felt dense, almost choking, as though the leather and tinted glass were holding the tension prisoner along with them. Every exhale carried weight, every inhale came slower than the last.
Rafael leaned forward from the plush backseat, his presence filling the space with a quiet intensity that demanded attention. His storm-grey eyes locked on James, the only man he trusted to stand at his side when the world threatened to cave in. James sat stiffly in the front, posture like a soldier at attention, the sleek tablet glowing in his hands. The pale light carved sharp angles into his face, deepening the grooves of worry already etched there.
Rafael’s pulse thundered in his chest, each beat a reminder of what was at stake. Anticipation and dread wrestled inside him—two storms colliding in the same sky, both equally destructive. He dragged in a breath, slow and deliberate, fighting to keep his voice steady when he finally broke the silence.
"James," Rafael urged, his voice a low rumble, laced with the raw edge of impatience and vulnerability. He ran a hand through his dark wavy hair, disheveling it slightly from its usual impeccable style. His crisp designer suit felt suddenly constricting, as if the fabric itself were tightening around his broad shoulders. "Keep reading. Whatever’s in there, I can take it. Throw it at me—I’ve been through hell already. This is just words on a screen. Words can’t break me now."
James hesitated, his fingers hovering over the tablet like a pianist afraid to strike the wrong key. He swallowed hard, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand. The man was usually a pillar of stoicism, his loyalty as unyielding as granite, but now his voice cracked slightly as he began. "Alright, sir. If you’re sure. The report... it details Mirabel’s first marriage. She was only eighteen when she tied the knot with a man named Tony Norman. They had a daughter together. Her name is..."
He trailed off, his eyes darting up to meet Rafael’s in the rearview mirror. The pause stretched, heavy and ominous, like the silence before thunder. James’s face paled further, his lips pressing into a thin line as if the words themselves were poison.
"Her name, James," Rafael pressed, leaning even closer, his athletic frame coiled with tension. His chiseled jaw clenched, and a vein pulsed in his temple. "Don’t stop now. What’s the daughter’s name?"
James swallowed again, the lump in his throat visible, audible even. He cleared it with a cough that echoed in the confined space. "Clara. Clara Norman. And... the marriage only lasted two years before it fell apart."
The words hung in the air like smoke from a gunshot. Rafael’s world tilted, his breath catching in his chest as if an invisible hand had squeezed his lungs. He blinked rapidly, his steel eyes widening in disbelief. The highway outside blurred into insignificance; all that mattered was this revelation, this betrayal unfolding in the dim light of the car. "What did you just say? Repeat that. The name—say it again."
"Clara Norman, sir," James repeated, his voice steady but soft, almost apologetic. He set the tablet down on the dashboard for a moment, turning slightly in his seat to face Rafael directly. His own eyes, usually calm and reassuring, now held a flicker of shared pain. "That’s what it says here. Clear as day."
Rafael’s mind reeled, a whirlwind of confusion and shock crashing over him. He pressed a hand to his forehead, as if to steady the chaos inside. "Clara... our Clara? The housekeeper who’s been with us forever? The one I’ve known my entire life? You’re telling me she’s Mirabel’s daughter?"
James nodded solemnly, his expression grave. "Yes, sir. The very same. The report links it all—birth records, everything. It’s undeniable."
Rafael felt like he was choking on air, his throat tightening as a wave of nausea hit him. He slumped back against the seat, his tall frame suddenly seeming smaller, more vulnerable. The memories flooded in unbidden, pulling him into the past like a riptide. He could almost hear his mother’s gentle voice echoing in his ears, see her warm smile as she sat him down one day in the sunlit nursery of the Vexley mansion.
"James," he murmured aloud, his voice distant, as if recounting a dream to James. "Do you know how she came to live with my family? My mother—Eleanor—she told me the story when I was just a boy. Clara was seven years old, an orphan after her father’s mysterious death when she was only two, and her mother... well, vanished. My mother took her in, said it was the right thing to do. How they met I don’t know. Clara had been living with us a full year before I was even born. Mother always insisted I be kind to her, treat her like family. ’She’s lost so much, darling,’ she’d say, her hand on my shoulder. ’Show her the love this world hasn’t.’ And I did—I was nice, played with her as a kid, shared toys and secrets."
James listened quietly, his hands folded in his lap, giving Rafael the space to unravel the threads of his thoughts. The car felt like a confessional, the outside world forgotten.
"But then Mother died," Rafael continued, his voice thickening with emotion. A single tear traced down his cheek, unheeded, as he stared out the window at the dark expanse. "Everything changed. Father—cold as ever—decided Clara should train as a maid. ’Everyone earns their keep in this house,’ he’d bark. Reasons best known to him, I suppose. She rose through the ranks, became head maid. She was treated better than the others. I loved her like my sister. Sure, I was unintentionally mean to her a few times. Snapping orders when the depression from my... my ’blindness’ got too heavy. The isolation, the pain—it made me lash out. But I never hurt her. James, never in all my life, did I imagine she was blood-related to that witch. And the worst part? Clara and Mirabel—they’ve never acted like they knew each other before stepping foot my house. No glances, no whispers. Just... nothing. How? How could I have been so blind—literally and figuratively? Have they been plotting behind my back all these years?"
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and laced with self-loathing. It bounced off the car’s interior, a stark contrast to the dramatic weight of the moment. James offered a faint, sympathetic smile, trying to lighten the air. "Sir, if it helps, even I didn’t see that coming. And I’ve been watching everyone like a hawk for years. Mirabel’s a master at this game."
Rafael shook his head, wiping the tear away with the back of his hand. His eyes, usually so commanding, now burned with a mix of hurt and fury. "I feel like the biggest fool alive, James. How deep do her webs run? She’s spun them around my entire life—family, staff, everything. It’s like I’ve been dancing on strings I didn’t even know were there. Pulling me this way and that, all while she laughs from the shadows."
James picked up the tablet again, his face still etched with concern. He glanced at Rafael, hesitating once more. "Sir... that’s not all. The story gets worse. Much worse."
Rafael’s head snapped up, his gaze sharpening like a blade. He leaned forward again, his athletic build tensing as if ready for a fight. A spark of dark humor flickered in his eyes amidst the pain—perhaps to cope, perhaps to defy the encroaching despair. "Worse? How the hell could anything be worse than this? Realizing the person you’ve trusted as family—maid or not—is actually the enemy’s ally? That she’s been under my roof, watching, waiting? Come on, James, hit me with it. What’s next in this nightmare?"
James swallowed hard, the sound almost comically loud in the quiet car. He adjusted his posture, steeling himself like a soldier before battle. His fingers scrolled down the screen, the soft beep of the device punctuating the tension. "After the first marriage ended... Mirabel remarried twelve years later. To a man named... Frank Bennett."
The name hit the air like a gunshot. Rafael’s brow snapped into a hard line, his breath catching before he even realized it. His head jerked toward James, eyes narrowing as though they might force the truth out of him. "Frank Bennett?" His voice cracked between disbelief and anger, the syllables sharp enough to cut. "No—no, that’s not possible... it can’t be him. Tell me it’s not him."
James paused again, his breath shallow, as if the words were lodged in his chest, fighting to stay unspoken. His hands trembled slightly on the tablet, the screen’s light reflecting in his widened eyes. "Sir... I..."
"James!" Rafael snapped, though not unkindly—more a plea wrapped in frustration. He reached forward, placing a firm hand on the secretary’s shoulder, his touch grounding them both. "Out with it. Impatiently waiting isn’t my style. Read it. All of it."
James drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly before continuing, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, laden with the gravity of the revelation. "Their marriage... it produced one child. A daughter. Named Eliana Bennett."
The name struck like lightning, illuminating the car with shock. Rafael froze, his hand slipping from James’s shoulder as his face drained of color. The air seemed to thicken further, charged with emotion—betrayal, heartbreak, disbelief all crashing together in a symphony of silence. Eliana. His Eliana. The woman who’d cracked his icy walls, the caregiver whom he let see through his facade, the one he’d begun to love despite himself. Mirabel’s daughter? The implications spiraled in his mind, a vortex of questions and pain.