The game of power

The night inside the Aldridge estate stretched long and suffocating.

Rafael lay still, staring at the ceiling of his dimly lit room. The city outside was silent, but silence never existed inside his mind. Not when the past lurked in every shadow, in every breath, in every fragment of his being.

And as exhaustion finally pulled him under, the past came rushing in.

It always started the same way.

The garden. Sunlight. A child's laughter.

His mother's voice, soft and melodic.

"Come here, my love."

She sat in the middle of the grass, arms stretched out to him, warmth in her smile. She was beautiful—delicate where his father was hard, loving where his father was cold. She held him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

"Promise me, Rafael," she whispered, running her fingers through his dark hair. "Promise me you'll never become like him."

Like his father.

But then the world shifted.

The golden light faded into cold gray. The warmth of her arms turned to ice. The scent of roses was gone—replaced by something metallic and suffocating.

And then—

The scream.

Sharp. Ragged. Terrifying.

His mother was no longer smiling. She was running. Away from something. Away from someone.

Then—the hands.

Large, cruel, grabbing her, dragging her away as she clawed at the ground.

Rafael tried to move, tried to scream, but he was a child again, powerless and frozen.

"Rafael—RUN!"

Another scream. His mother's voice—shattering, breaking, dying.

And then—nothing.

Silence.

Darkness.

The Scream That Ripped Him Awake

Rafael bolted upright, his breath sharp and uneven.

His entire body was damp with sweat, his fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. The air in his room was thick, suffocating.

The clock on the wall read 4:13 AM.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. Sleep was useless. There was no escaping the memories—not in dreams, not in reality.

Throwing the covers aside, Rafael stood, grabbing a jacket before stepping out into the cold air of the estate grounds.

The night was bitter. A sharp wind cut through the trees, but Rafael welcomed the cold. It reminded him he was still here, still breathing, still standing.

He walked without a destination. His mind heavy, his hands shoved into his pockets. But somehow, his feet took him to the place he had spent years avoiding.

The house.

A small, broken-down house on the other side of the estate's iron gates.

It stood lifeless, empty—a ghost of what once was.

He stopped in front of it, his jaw tightening.

This house had ruined him.

This was where Amara Lenz had lived.

This was where her mother had died.

This was where his father had taken everything from her—just as he had taken everything from Rafael's mother.

Rafael's throat tightened, his fingers curling into a fist. He wanted to leave. But he couldn't move.

Memories clawed at him—memories of watching Amara's world fall apart, watching her crumble while he stood silent.

She never knew.

She never knew that his mother had been the only witness.

She never knew that Rafael had known the truth all along—and done nothing.

The wind howled through the trees, but Rafael barely felt it.

He stood there for what felt like hours.

Then, finally, he forced himself to turn away.

To keep walking.

To pretend the past wasn't dragging him back into its grip.

By the time Rafael returned to the Aldridge mansion, the sun had started to rise, painting the sky in cold hues of blue and silver.

Stepping through the grand entrance, he could already sense the tension in the air. He was late for breakfast.

And his father was waiting.

The moment Rafael entered the dining hall, Victor Aldridge's voice sliced through the air.

"You're late."

Rafael didn't pause. He moved toward his seat at the long, perfectly polished table, where a feast had been laid out—one he barely touched on normal days.

Victor sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable, a newspaper folded neatly beside his untouched coffee. His presence alone commanded attention.

Rafael didn't speak. He simply poured himself a drink, his movements calm.

"I expect better from you, Rafael." His father's voice was smooth, yet edged with warning. "You are not some common boy with no direction in life. You are an Aldridge. Act like it."

Rafael took a sip of his coffee, unbothered. He had heard this speech a thousand times before.

"The world belongs to men who wake before the rest. To men who control before they are controlled."

Victor set down his cup, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Rafael's.

"Tell me, Rafael—what is power?"

Rafael exhaled. Another lesson. Another test.

"Control." His voice was steady, void of emotion.

Victor's lips curled in approval. "Good. And what is the greatest illusion of control?"

Rafael leaned back in his chair, meeting his father's gaze. "Choice."

Victor chuckled softly. "You are learning."

He set his napkin down, watching Rafael closely.

"You will take over everything I've built one day. But you are still soft, Rafael. I see it in your eyes. I see it in the way you hesitate. You must learn to crush hesitation before it crushes you."

Rafael said nothing.

Because he knew his father was right.

No matter how much he played the part, he was still haunted.

By his mother. By Amara. By the truth he had never spoken.

And Victor could smell weakness like blood in the water.

"Do not disappoint me, son."

Victor rose, adjusting his cufflinks before leaving the room without another word.

The moment he was gone, Rafael finally let out a slow breath.

He pushed his untouched plate aside, standing.

He had played his role for the morning. Now, it was time to return to the only place where he could truly watch his game unfold.

By the time Rafael stepped outside, his sleek black car was already waiting. The driver, recognizing his presence, immediately opened the door.

As Rafael slid into the luxurious leather seat, his mind sharpened.

His father wanted him to be ruthless. To be a king without hesitation.

But Rafael had his own way of ruling.

He wasn't interested in running a company, in wearing his father's legacy like a crown.

No.

He was interested in something far more entertaining.

And she had no idea what was coming next.

With a smirk, Rafael leaned back as the car pulled away from the mansion, heading straight for the Cafe.

Straight for Amara.

The café hummed with quiet morning conversations, the soft chime of silverware against porcelain blending with the faint jazz playing in the background.

Rafael Aldridge had no particular reason to stop here. His home had everything—more than everything. The estate's breakfast table was always set with imported coffee and a meal prepared by a chef whose talents were wasted on simple dishes.

But here—he was among the people who didn't belong to his world. The ones who whispered his name in corridors, the ones who stared at him like he was something to fear or desire.

And sometimes, Rafael enjoyed watching them.

The power they thought they had.

The power they tried to wield.

The barista stammered as she handed him his black coffee, barely meeting his gaze. Fear. Awe. The usual reaction.

He took his seat by the window, fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic cup as he observed the world passing by.

Then—someone slid into the seat beside him.

"Professor Aldridge," a voice laced with confidence purred.

Rafael barely turned. He already knew who it was.

Celeste Vance.

A student from his class.

Daughter of a senator. Born into privilege, influence, and generational power. The type who had never heard the word no in her life.

She wasn't just another student. She was the kind of person who thought she was untouchable.

"Didn't take you for the type to visit places like this," Celeste mused, crossing one leg over the other.

Rafael finally lifted his gaze, calm and unreadable. "Neither did I."

She smiled, tilting her head slightly, studying him like she was the one in control. "You know, there are plenty of places in the city more suited for you. High-end, private, exclusive."

Rafael hummed, sipping his coffee. "And yet, here you are."

Celeste's smile widened. "Maybe I was hoping to run into you."

Her words carried a subtle edge—a test, a challenge.

He had seen this before. Students who mistook his presence for something they could manipulate.

Celeste wasn't careless, though. She knew boundaries. She wouldn't cross the line outright—but she would push just enough to see where the cracks were.

"You've been quite the topic on campus, Professor," she continued smoothly. "It's not every day we get someone... like you."

"Like me?"

"Young. Powerful. Intimidating." She leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice. "Different from the rest."

Rafael simply stirred his coffee.

He could feel the unspoken weight in her words.

Celeste didn't see him as just a professor. She saw him as an opportunity. A name, a connection, a power play she could add to her collection.

"I'm flattered," he said, voice smooth but distant.

Celeste chuckled. "Are you? You don't seem like a man who enjoys compliments."

Before Rafael could respond, the bell above the café door chimed.

And his attention shifted.

Amara Lenz stepped inside.

Dressed in a simple sweater, her dark hair slightly damp from the lingering drizzle outside. She hadn't noticed them yet, her focus on ordering something warm.

Rafael leaned back slightly, watching her with interest.

Celeste followed his gaze and scoffed. "That one? I don't even know why she's still at Ravenswood."

Rafael's fingers stilled against his coffee cup.

"Is that so?"

Celeste rolled her eyes. "She's nothing, Professor. A charity case with no place among people like us."

Rafael said nothing for a moment. Then, with deliberate ease—he lifted a hand and gestured for Amara to join them.

Celeste's smirk vanished.

"What are you doing?" she asked, disbelief flickering across her face.

"Balancing the conversation," Rafael murmured.

Amara hesitated when she saw him.

And when she saw who he was sitting with—her entire body tensed.

She could have walked away. She should have walked away.

But he had called her.

And something about Rafael's gaze told her that turning her back was not an option.

Slowly, hesitantly, she approached the table.

"Sit," Rafael instructed, his voice as smooth as ever.

Amara clenched her jaw but obeyed, setting her drink down carefully.

Celeste barely concealed her irritation. "I don't see why she's here."

"Strange," Rafael mused, sipping his coffee. "I don't recall needing permission to extend an invitation."

Celeste stiffened.

And Amara knew—she had already lost.

The air between them shifted.

Celeste, realizing she had miscalculated, tried to recover.

"Professor, I was just saying how Ravenswood needs stronger policies about admissions," she said lightly. "After all, we want the best of the best. Not... projects."

Amara exhaled slowly. She had heard worse.

But Rafael's reaction was not what she expected.

"That's an interesting opinion," he said, setting his cup down. "Tell me, Celeste—who decides who belongs?"

Celeste faltered for a second before smiling. "Well, society does, doesn't it?"

"Society," Rafael repeated thoughtfully. Then, tilting his head slightly, "And yet, society has changed its rulers more times than I can count. Are you sure you're standing on solid ground?"

Celeste's expression flickered.

Amara couldn't breathe.

Rafael wasn't just shutting her down—he was watching her unravel.

Celeste, clearly realizing she wasn't going to win, forced a tight smile. "Well, Professor, I'm sure you have more important things to do than sit here debating philosophy. I'll leave you to your... company."

With that, she stood, straightened her coat, and walked away.

And just like that—it was only Rafael and Amara.

Amara let out a slow breath, fingers tightening around her cup.

"You didn't have to do that," she muttered.

"Do what?"

"Shut her down like that."

Rafael smirked slightly. "Should I have let her continue?"

Amara looked away.

"You're cruel," she said under her breath.

"You say that as if I care."

His voice was so calm, so infuriatingly composed.

Amara met his gaze then, and for a moment—everything else faded.

She felt it again.

The weight of his presence. The way he didn't need to raise his voice to be terrifying.

"You play too many games," she said finally.

Rafael leaned forward slightly, voice low.

"Amara, I don't play."

A chill ran down her spine.

The café felt too small. The air too heavy.

And as Rafael lifted his cup to take another sip, she knew one thing for certain.

Whatever game this was—she was already losing.