Victor leaned back in his large chair, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest as he stared at the screen. There stood Rafe, still and silent, his head bowed in defeat while the press shouted questions at him with relentless fervor.
What did he say this time? That he was ashamed? Victor sighed, his lips curving into a faint smirk. It was predictable—typical, even. When had Rafael ever taken responsibility for anything? All his life, his misdeeds had been neatly swept under the rug, conveniently pinned on Kael, while he pranced about as the pristine white prince.
If only the man had shown a shred of guts—just once—and stood up for his wife. That, Victor mused, might have earned him a flicker of genuine respect. But no, there he was, keeping up the same old act, shielding his carefully polished image by throwing his wife under the bus.
