The next morning Raphael drove out with Jessica.
She had only just gotten back from the set a couple of days earlier and still looked drained, hair messy, eyes heavy.
"So early… where are we going?" she asked from the passenger seat.
Raphael glanced over and grinned. "To look at a house."
"House?"
Jessica perked up instantly.
"What house?"
"The one I bought." He shot her a sideways look. "Or, strictly speaking, the big house that belongs to both of us."
The Mustang kept climbing north of Malibu, hugging the coastline. Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a tall iron gate. Raphael hit the remote; the gate slid open smoothly.
Jessica's eyes widened the second she saw the private driveway winding down toward the sea.
They drove through a small stand of trees, and the house appeared.
Three stories of crisp white modern architecture perched right on the cliff edge. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls faced the Pacific; the infinity pool sparkled electric blue in the morning sun. Neat lawns gave way to the sheer drop of the cliff beyond.
Jessica stepped out and stood frozen in the doorway for a long beat.
Raphael came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
"Like it?"
She didn't answer—just grabbed his hand and pulled him inside.
First floor: cavernous living room and open kitchen, every window opening straight onto the ocean.
Second floor: master suite plus guest rooms. The master walk-in closet alone was bigger than her current villa bedroom.
But the part that actually stopped her in her tracks was the master balcony.
Standing there, the entire Pacific stretched out in front of her—waves slamming the rocks below, seagulls wheeling overhead.
She gripped the railing, turned to him.
"How much did this cost?"
Raphael smiled. "Guess."
"Thirty million?"
He shook his head.
"Forty?"
Still shaking.
Jessica took a deep breath. "Fifty?"
He nodded. "Fifty-three."
Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes huge.
Then she remembered the words he'd used—"the big house that belongs to both of us"—and broke into a delighted smile.
"You know, Rafe… when we drove in just now, I was already thinking—if we ever fight, I could just move back to my little villa. Half-hour drive, not too far, not too close… perfect for cooling off."
Raphael looked at her with soft eyes. "Trust me, honey. You're never leaving me."
Jessica wrinkled her nose. "My little villa is mine, you know. It's nowhere near this nice, but at least it belongs to me."
She turned back to the sea.
"So if you ever piss me off again, I'll just drive back and stay there until I feel better."
Raphael kept quiet. He knew exactly what she was really talking about—the scandals, the photos, the other women.
Jessica never fought him face-to-face, but she wasn't stupid. This was her smart, graceful way of reminding him.
Still, both of them loved the house. That same day Raphael told Philip to close the deal. While he was off shooting, Jessica could oversee the renovations. When he came back, they'd move in together—official love nest.
Back at Jessica's villa that afternoon, Raphael slipped out again around two.
When he returned he was carrying a small box.
Jessica was sipping coffee in the living room. "Where'd you go?"
He set the box in front of her.
She opened it and froze.
Inside lay a sapphire necklace. The pendant was a perfect pear-shaped blue sapphire surrounded by a halo of tiny diamonds, catching the light in deep, mysterious flashes.
Jessica stared at it for a long time.
Then she looked up at him.
"This is…"
Raphael sat beside her. "I ordered it from Bulgari a month ago. Originally planned to save it for Valentine's next year, but… I figured we should enjoy the present. It arrived today—perfect timing."
Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted the necklace.
"How much?"
"Don't ask."
She held it up to the light. The color was flawless, the cut immaculate—top-grade everything. She weighed it in her palm and instantly knew: at least a hundred and fifty carats on the main stone alone.
Even at current market prices that meant well over a million. With Bulgari's prestige… two million wasn't out of the question.
Raphael watched her carefully, worried she might refuse. This wasn't the future North America full of gold-diggers who expected six-figure gifts as baseline. Right now, in 2003, a gift this expensive could make a woman nervous.
Thankfully Jessica didn't. She took several slow breaths, gently patting her chest to calm herself.
When she finally steadied, she handed the necklace back to him.
"Put it on me."
Raphael fumbled a little but managed to fasten the clasp around her slender white neck. The sapphire settled just below her collarbone, making her skin look even paler and more luminous.
Jessica walked to the mirror, studied herself, then turned back to him with a knowing smile.
"I know you're bribing me, darling."
Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but Raphael's Force perception caught the truth: every bit of resentment she'd been carrying since the Charlize photos had just melted away.
"Next time something like that happens… just make sure I never find out, okay?"
Raphael grinned, scooped her up, and kissed her—slow, sweet, and full of relief.
All the loose ends from the recent scandals were finally tied off. He could head to set with a completely clear conscience.
The next day at noon Raphael boarded the private jet. Six hours later, after crossing three thousand kilometers, he touched down in Asheville.
That same night, after thoroughly "comforting" Kate until she fell asleep with a satisfied little smile, Raphael drifted off himself.
When he opened his eyes again he was standing on a wide city street.
Typical American downtown—tall buildings, traffic, night lights. In the distance the Washington Monument glowed cold white.
Washington D.C.
Another dream world.
Raphael narrowed his eyes, scanning.
A short distance away two men were arguing heatedly. One was instantly recognizable: mid-forties, strong jaw, receding hairline, intense eyes—Nicolas Cage's face.
Not Cage himself. The character.
Raphael stepped closer. The man clutched an old map, voice excited.
Using the Force for the lightest nudge, Raphael asked casually, "Hey man, what's your name?"
Without turning, the guy answered, "Benjamin Franklin Gates."
Raphael's eyes widened.
Ben Gates—National Treasure.
This was the very beginning of the first movie. Gates had just found the initial clue and was about to launch the treasure hunt.
Raphael glanced at the map in Ben's hand and smiled faintly.
This treasure… he wanted it too.
Not for the money—dream-world wealth meant nothing. He wanted to flip the entire plot.
He didn't approach. He simply stood there while the Force rolled out like a tide, settling gently over Ben.
Not mind control—just the tiniest adjustments. Every future decision would be off by a hair. Every judgment slightly wrong. Tiny deviations that would compound into total failure.
When he finished, Raphael turned and walked away.
Ben kept arguing with his partner, completely unaware his destiny had just been quietly rewritten.
Raphael strolled for over an hour—being undocumented in this world was annoying—until he reached the northwest corner of International Place.
3505—Embassy.
The building blazed with lights. Guards at the gate checked IDs.
Raphael didn't bother with the front door.
He slipped around the side, found a blind spot in the cameras, used a Force Leap, and cleared the wall silently.
He picked the side entrance lock with the Force, stepped inside, and headed straight up the stairs.
The ambassador's office was on the third floor.
Light still glowed under the door.
Raphael pushed it open.
A middle-aged man sat behind the desk reading documents. He lifted his head calmly, no panic, no shout—just sharp, steady eyes.
Raphael felt a flicker of genuine respect.
This wasn't an ordinary bureaucrat.
Fifty-something, black hair, glasses, but the gaze behind them could cut steel. The aura of quiet authority filled the room.
Tiger Yang.
The man the previous U.S. president had once affectionately nicknamed that, the same man who years later would stand at the highest levels of Sino-American dialogue and deliver the thunderous line: "You have no right to speak from a position of strength."
In 2003 he was already in his prime, stationed in Washington for years, presence forged like tempered steel.
Raphael closed the door behind him and smiled.
"Mr. Ambassador… we need to talk."