That had remained a mystery.
In my imagination, he was handsome—of course he was. A man like him had to be. But the image had always been incomplete, shifting, more feeling than form.
A silhouette shaped by instinct and fragments.
I wanted to see him.
No—needed to.
Everyone at the company spoke about him in hushed tones, as if saying his name too loudly might summon him.
Women didn’t just admire him—they wanted him.
Openly. Desperately.
I had heard the whispers, the laughter, the bold, shameless confessions of wanting just one night, one glance, one moment of his attention.
And yet...
He had married me.
The thought sent something sharp and complicated twisting through my chest.
I wanted to see the man who commanded that kind of obsession.
The man who kissed me like he was starving.
The man who held me together when I shattered.
So I waited.
All day, I waited.
Every sound in the house pulled my attention taut—the distant echo of footsteps, the murmur of staff voices, the faint opening and closing of doors.
Each time, my heart leapt, only to fall again when it wasn’t him.
He had gone to Zara’s grave.
The memory lingered uneasily at the edges of my thoughts, heavy and intrusive.
I didn’t know what that place meant to him, not fully—but I knew it mattered. Enough to pull him away like this.
Even so... he should have returned by now.
By evening, anxiety had settled deep in my stomach, coiling tight enough to steal my appetite.
The staff brought dinner—something that smelled rich and carefully prepared—but I barely touched it, pushing the food around my plate more out of obligation than hunger.
Night fell slowly, shadows stretching across the walls until the room dimmed into quiet stillness.
Still no Rafael.
Exhaustion eventually dragged me under, though sleep came uneasy and fragmented, filled with half-formed thoughts and restless anticipation.
The next morning, I slipped back into routine.
At work, I pretended nothing had changed.
