Rafael's apartment in the capital was quiet in the way only distance could buy. Not the sterile silence of palace corridors, where even the air felt supervised, but personal.
He sat at the small dining table by the window, one leg crossed over the other, jacket tossed aside with uncharacteristic carelessness. A bottle of chilled white wine stood open beside him. One glass, half-full, already in his hand. Across from it, a plate of bread and cheese he had arranged out of habit rather than appetite.
He took a sip and grimaced faintly.
Too dry. He should have chosen something softer, but maybe the dryness of the wine would help him to keep his calm.
Rafael leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, letting the irritation roll around his head until it settled into something usable.
So. That was that.
