The prison gates closed behind Stacy with the usual mechanical groan. She had thought the sound would grow familiar, even fade into the background after so many visits, but it still rattled her nerves. It was the reminder that she was crossing into Rafael Manuel’s world, a place where freedom ended, where walls pressed down on secrets that begged to be heard.
But today was different. Before she could return to Rafael, another figure had sought her out. Eleonor Vasquez.
The meeting had been arranged discreetly, not in the prison itself but in a quiet corner of a nearby café. The kind of place where the air smelled of stale coffee beans and people spoke in hushed tones. Stacy arrived early, clutching her notebook like a shield.
When Eleonor stepped inside, she carried herself with the poise of someone who had endured storms. She was dressed plainly, a cream blouse and black skirt, nothing that drew attention, but her eyes carried a sharpness that instantly cut through the room.
“Miss Bendoy,” Eleonor greeted softly, sliding into the seat opposite Stacy.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Stacy said. She set her notebook down but did not open it. Something told her this was not a conversation that could be captured in neat bullet points.
“I did not agree for your sake,” Eleonor replied. “I came because someone needs to tell you the truth before you let that man twist it into a spectacle.”
Stacy straightened, sensing the weight of her words. “You mean Rafael Manuel.”
Eleonor’s jaw tightened. “Who else. He has always been skilled at weaving stories, charming his way into people’s lives, and leaving nothing but ashes behind.”
“Yet you came,” Stacy observed. “Which means you do not only despise him. You fear what he might say.”
Eleonor’s gaze flickered, betraying more than her words. “I came because my sister is not here to defend herself. Trisha’s life was ruined because of Rafael. You need to understand that.”
The name hit Stacy like a chill. Rafael had spoken of Trisha only once, in passing, but the way he said it had been different. As though the syllables were dipped in longing and regret, laced with venom all at once.
“What happened between them?” Stacy asked carefully.
Eleonor hesitated, and for a moment, she looked like she might retreat. But then she exhaled. “Trisha was always drawn to fire. She wanted excitement, a taste of rebellion. Rafael gave her that. He gave her the illusion of being alive, of being untouchable. She thought she could match him, that she could be his equal. But she was only ever his pawn.”
Stacy leaned forward. “You say that, yet he calls her his equal. His ruin.”
Eleonor let out a bitter laugh. “His ruin? No. She was the one ruined. My sister was elegant, ambitious in her own way, but Rafael consumed her. She followed him into his world, crimes and betrayals that stained not only her name but our family’s. The Vasquez family has carried that shame for years. I am still cleaning it up.”
Stacy could not ignore the tension that rippled through her. “So why tell me this now? You could have stayed silent.”
“Because,” Eleonor said, her voice low and steady, “you are letting him into your head. He knows how to prey on empathy. He knows how to look at a woman and make her believe she sees a wounded man who can be saved. But Rafael Manuel is not broken. He is deliberate. If you let him, he will write you into his story the way he did with Trisha. And you will not like the ending.”
The warning cut deeper than Stacy expected. She wanted to argue, to defend her role as a journalist who was simply documenting confessions. Yet something about Eleonor’s controlled fear unsettled her.
“You say Trisha was destroyed,” Stacy said, “but I cannot help wondering if there is more. What are you not telling me?”
Eleonor’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup. For the first time, her composure cracked. “There are sins in my family that go beyond Rafael. Trisha made choices, yes, but she was also used. Not only by him. Perhaps by me too.”
The confession lingered in the air, unfinished, but Eleonor quickly stood as if she had already said too much.
“I will not sit here and confess to you,” she said sharply. “I only wanted to warn you. Do not believe Rafael. He will make you see tragedy and romance in his crimes, but what he leaves behind is ruin.”
She walked away, leaving Stacy frozen at the table.
Later, inside the prison visiting room, Stacy found Rafael waiting with his usual calm. He leaned back in his chair, his wrists bound in chains, but his posture was relaxed as if he were at home.
“You look unsettled,” he remarked. His voice was smooth, almost playful. “What ghost did you meet today?”
Stacy dropped her notebook on the table. “Eleonor Vasquez.”
For the first time, his smile faltered. Only slightly, but enough.
“She told you her version,” he said. “Of course she would.”
“She said Trisha was destroyed by you,” Stacy pressed.
Rafael leaned forward, his eyes locking on hers. “Destroyed? No. Trisha was alive with me. She was fire. She chose to stand beside me when the world burned. If she fell, it was because she could not decide whether she wanted to be my partner or my savior. Eleonor would never understand that.”
“Eleonor said you used her,” Stacy countered.
Rafael chuckled. “Eleonor has always wanted to believe she is the voice of reason. But she hides her guilt behind judgment. She could not protect her sister, and so she blames me. Convenient, is it not?”
Stacy studied him, the way he spoke with conviction, as though truth bent to his will. “You twist words to make yourself look like the victim. Yet Eleonor’s warning stays with me. She said you would try to make me part of your story.”
“And you are not?” Rafael asked softly. “You sit across from me, day after day, writing down my confessions, breathing life into my sins. Whether you admit it or not, you are already inside my story.”
The words slid under her skin like a blade. She hated the way part of her shivered, not from fear but from something else.
“Why does Trisha matter so much?” Stacy demanded. “Why does her name still haunt you?”
Rafael’s gaze darkened. “Because she was the only one who looked at me and saw more than a criminal. She believed I could be something greater. And yet, she betrayed me when it mattered most. That is what haunts me. Not her ruin. Mine.”
Stacy scribbled his words but her hand trembled. “And Eleonor? What role does she play?”
Rafael’s lips curled. “Eleonor has always despised me. But let me tell you something, Stacy. Families carry stains that run deeper than blood. The Vasquez sisters were not as innocent as they appeared. Perhaps one day I will confess that part too.”
His eyes bored into hers, daring her to challenge him.
That night, Stacy sat alone in her apartment, reviewing her notes. The contrast between Eleonor’s warning and Rafael’s confession tangled in her mind. Two versions of the same story, both dripping with pain, both incomplete.
She thought of Trisha, caught between sister and lover, ruin and rebellion. She thought of Eleonor, carrying shame she could not admit. And she thought of Rafael, who confessed not with remorse but with pride and longing.
Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her head, reminding her of his warnings about chasing stories that stained reputations. But Stacy knew this was no longer about ambition. This was about truth, whatever fractured form it came in.
And yet, as she closed her notebook, she could not ignore Eleonor’s words. Rafael will make you part of his story.
The thought lingered like a shadow she could not shake.
ns216.73.216.23da2
and then Add to home screen.