Chapter 12

Rani’s Point Of View

Morning came with no warning. No birds chirping. No sun gently filtering through gauzy curtains. Just silence and the headache of another restless night in a life that refused to calm down.

I stepped out of bed wearing one of my silk robes, my hair a mess I couldn’t even pretend to care about. The penthouse was unnaturally quiet, like the air itself was bracing for drama.

And then I saw them.

The boxes. The garment bags. The signature Lamia chaos.

All of her things lined up in the hallway, stacked in the closet, sprawled across the walk-in like a hurricane wearing Chanel had landed overnight. Shoes in their original boxes. Skincare like an altar. Her obnoxious sunglasses lined in perfect rows, silently judging me.

She’d sent her things.

But not herself.

I stared at the sight for a long moment, hands on my hips, my jaw locked. Typical. So perfectly, tragically Lamia. Always half-in, half-out. A ghost in couture.

I waited.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

An hour.

No footsteps. No click of her heels. No biting insults wrapped in perfume and silk.

She wasn’t coming.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered, turning away from the closet, rage swirling in my chest like black ink in water. She wanted to pretend she was making an effort… but of course, she couldn’t even bother to show up for her own comeback.

I stomped toward the kitchen, needing caffeine or a punching bag. I got neither.

Instead, I barely made it to the sink before the nausea hit me like a truck.

I dropped to my knees, grabbing the counter for balance as my stomach turned itself inside out. I retched until there was nothing left… just bile, sweat, and silence. My head throbbed, my throat burned, and my pride? Shattered all over the cold marble tiles.

I stayed there, gripping the edge of the sink, trembling.

Something wasn’t right.

Not with her. Not with me.

And as I wiped my mouth with shaking fingers, one thought clawed its way into my brain… unwelcome, terrifying, impossible:

No. It couldn’t be.

Right?

I forced myself to stand, hand on my stomach, trying to breathe through the storm.

Lamia’s things were here. Lamia was not.

And my world, once again, was about to spin out of control.

I barely had the energy to pull myself together after what happened in the kitchen, but I still made it to the dining table. I always did. Face beat. Chin up. Hair brushed into a low bun even if I felt like hell underneath. That’s the thing about being a diva, no one gets to see the cracks unless you hand them the hammer.

Manang Sally placed my usual breakfast on the table… sliced mangoes, soft-boiled eggs, a croissant, and that damn green juice I always forced myself to drink because I was supposed to be “balanced.” I stared at it, suddenly aware of how green it looked. Too green. Aggressively green.

“Ma’am Rani?” Manang Sally asked gently, wiping her hands on her apron. “Okay lang po kayo? Namumutla po kayo.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered, waving her off as I reached for the fork. “Just didn’t sleep well. Don’t hover.”

She didn’t move. Just watched me the way only someone who’d raised three generations of spoiled heiresses could. With quiet, patient worry. I hated it.

I stabbed a piece of mango and brought it to my mouth, chewing slowly.

And then it hit.

Again.

That awful wave… hot, crawling up my spine, wrapping around my throat like a noose. My stomach lurched and I shoved back my chair so hard it screeched against the marble floor. I barely made it to the nearest sink before everything came back up.

Mango, eggs, pride… gone.

I coughed, clutched the edge of the counter, and tried to breathe.

Manang Sally was behind me in an instant, hand on my back, voice tight with concern. “Ma’am Rani, pangalawa na po iyan. May lagnat po ba kayo? O gusto niyo po tumawag  na ako ng doctor?”

“No,” I croaked, waving her off, not even bothering to hide how rattled I was this time. “Don’t make a fuss. Just… water. Please.”

She hesitated, then hurried to get a glass, muttering prayers under her breath. As I leaned against the sink, shaking, trying to will my body back into submission, one horrible, insane, impossible word started echoing in my mind.

No.

No. No. No.

Not now. Not like this.

And especially not while Lamia was out there choosing Peterson over everything we were barely holding together.

But the nausea, the fatigue, the way my body trembled, it wasn’t subtle.

Not even close.

I took the glass with a trembling hand, sipped slowly, and forced a smile for Manang Sally.

“Probably stress,” I lied.

But my whole world was already tilting.

And deep down, I already knew.

I sat in silence after Manang Sally stepped away, pretending everything was fine while the taste of acid still burned the back of my throat. The penthouse felt colder than usual, like it knew I was on the verge of unraveling. I pressed the cool glass of water against my lips, trying to steady myself.

Then it hit me.

A flash of memory… so sudden, so sharp, it made my chest ache.

The clinic. The paperwork. The nurse with the glossy lips and gentle voice. The chilled air of the fertility center. The long conversation I’d had with the doctor about compatibility. About the risks. About the statistics.

About her.

Lamia.

I blinked hard, my grip tightening around the glass. Almost 3 months ago. I’d gone through with it. IVF. On my own terms. On my schedule.

I hadn’t told anyone. Not Lamia. Not our parents, not our friends, not even Nina or the maids. It had been impulsive. Strategic. Emotional. All rolled into one. I’d told myself it was for Faisal, so he wouldn’t grow up alone. So he’d have a sibling that wasn’t born from another one of Lamia’s scandals. So I’d never feel as disposable as Lamia made me feel.

I hadn’t let myself hope. The doctor said I’d wait. That it would take time to know. That I needed rest, minimal stress, and stability.

Stability.

And now?

I looked down at my shaking hands, suddenly very aware of every strange sensation in my body. The nausea. The fatigue. The headache. The firestorm in my chest that had nothing to do with Lamia’s absence and everything to do with something much deeper.

A child.

Her egg. My body.

Ours.

I leaned back in the chair, breath shallow, staring at nothing.

She wasn’t even here.

And somehow, she was already inside me again.

Not as a wife. Not as a lover. But as a mother. Again.

God.

What the hell was I going to do?

——

I didn’t tell anyone. Not Nina, not Manang Sally, not even Kristof or Patricia or Queen. I just slipped out of the penthouse like I was running from a crime scene… oversized sunglasses, trench coat, lips pressed into a tight line. I told Nina I had a “board thing.” She didn’t ask questions.

The car ride felt like a blur of concrete and noise. BGC pulsed with its usual ambition, glass towers glinting with morning sun, people power-walking in suits with overpriced coffee. But all I could hear was the pounding in my chest.

My hands didn’t stop shaking.

The moment I stepped into the clinic, everything came rushing back. The waiting room still smelled like eucalyptus and sterile nerves. The nurse still had those same glossy lips. The receptionist greeted me like she remembered I was that Rani Hidalgo. I didn’t bother smiling.

They moved me fast. VIP treatment, of course. But even in a private room, with warm lighting and a doctor who spoke in calm, professional tones, I felt exposed. Raw. Like one wrong word could tip me straight into the abyss.

“Miss Hidalgo,” the doctor said gently, glancing down at the tablet, “we confirmed with the blood work. You’re pregnant.”

The words didn’t echo. They landed… heavy, final, terrifying.

I blinked.

Pregnant.

I swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of my coat. “How far?”

“Just about five weeks,” she said with a small smile. “It took beautifully. The embryo implanted well, and your hormone levels are rising consistently.”

I didn’t respond right away. I stared at the monitor beside her, like I could see something through all that black and gray. But there was nothing there yet. Just the ghost of something coming. Something real. Something that was ours.

Mine and Lamia’s.

Again.

But Lamia… she was still with Peterson. Still stringing everything along while I was left holding the weight of a future she didn’t even know she helped create.

“Miss Hidalgo?”

I snapped out of it. “Yes. I’m fine,” I said too quickly. Too cool. I forced a breath. “Thank you, Doctor.”

She smiled kindly. “We’ll schedule a follow-up ultrasound. And if you need prenatal vitamins, support, anything…”

“I have people,” I said, standing, smoothing down my coat. “I always have people.”

She didn’t press. Just nodded. She knew my type.

I walked out of that clinic with a thousand things spinning in my head. My heels clicked against the polished floor like war drums.

I wasn’t just pregnant.

I was pregnant with Lamia’s child.

And she didn’t even know.

Not yet.

——

The elevator doors to my company opened with a soft chime, and just like that, I stepped back into power.

The scent of polished floors and ambition hit me instantly… clean, cold, and expensive. Assistants scurried like ants as they saw me pass, giving their usual half-bows and perfectly rehearsed greetings. “Ma’am Rani,” “Good morning, Ms. Hidalgo,” “The board is waiting on line three…”

I raised a single manicured finger, silencing them all as I walked straight through the glass doors into my office.

I wasn’t in the mood for boardrooms, revenue breakdowns, or today’s briefing from marketing. Not when the only figure echoing in my mind was five weeks.

I closed the door behind me and exhaled, just for a second. I pressed a palm to my abdomen, fingers still trembling from the weight of everything I wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Pregnant. With Lamia’s child. And no one knew.

Not even Lamia.

I stared at my reflection in the glass wall… flawless makeup, pristine power suit, not a single crack visible. I looked like the same Rani Hidalgo who closed billion-peso deals, gave speeches, and silenced rooms with one arch of her brow.

But inside? A war.

This couldn’t come out. Not yet. Not when Lamia was still floating between her soap-opera romance with Peterson and her chaotic promises to be a “present mother.” Not while the press already sniffed around our every movement like vultures.

If anyone found out I was carrying Lamia’s child now, it would be blood in the water.

Her scandal would become my scandal.

So no. Not now.

I sat behind my desk, crossed my legs, and pulled out my planner like everything was normal. I scribbled in hard strokes:

Keep it quiet.
No stress.
Play it smart.

This wasn’t just about survival anymore. This was about control.

Let Lamia play her drama. Let the world think she had me cornered.

Because this time?

I was holding the real trump card.

And no one, not even her was going to see it coming.

I had just finished signing off on a deal worth more than most people’s lifetime salaries when the door to my office swung open without a knock. Only one person had the audacity and the connections to bypass all my assistants like that.

“Ugh, this place is still colder than your ex’s heart,” Patricia drawled as she waltzed in, her heels clicking against the marble like a drumline announcing chaos. She was wearing a red power suit only a lunatic or an icon would dare wear at ten in the morning. She was both.

I didn’t look up from my screen. “Patricia. I didn’t realize my day was scheduled for unsolicited chaos.”

She flopped dramatically onto the velvet couch, her clutch tossed onto the coffee table like a mic drop. “You looked way too serious in your last Instagram story. Your resting bitch face was at a ten. So I decided to rescue you from yourself.”

I arched a brow. “By showing up uninvited?”

“Exactly,” she beamed. “And also, listen, tonight. Bar. You, me, Queen, Kristof. The usual place. I’m talking music, cocktails, and at least three rounds of drunk Lamia slander. My treat.”

The mention of Lamia made my stomach coil… again. And not in the cute, giddy way. In the nauseous, bile-burning, pregnancy way.

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “Can’t. I have… a lot to handle.”

She narrowed her eyes at me like she knew something was off. “You? Say no to tequila and chaos? What, are you on some weird cleanse again? Or are you hiding something?”

I let out a soft scoff, flicking my pen onto the table. “Not everything’s a dramatic secret, Patricia. Some of us just prioritize work.”

She leaned in, eyes glittering. “Fine. But you’re coming out with us soon. You need to detox from Lamia. That witch still has you twisted.”

I smiled sweetly. “I’ll detox when I’m dead. Now get out, I have actual business to run.”

Patricia stood up, smoothing down her blazer with exaggerated flair. “Suit yourself, diva. But when you’re ready to sip, slander, and slay, you know where to find us.”

She blew a kiss and strutted out like she owned the floor.

I stayed seated, the smile on my face fading the moment the door clicked shut.

No tequila. No slander.

Not tonight.

Because I wasn’t detoxing from Lamia.

I was carrying her child.

——

By the time the clock hit five, I could barely hear the voices outside my glass office. Everything felt muted like I was underwater, clinging to the last shreds of control. My phone buzzed with Patricia’s texts about drinks, drama, and forgetting our troubles in overpriced vodka.

But I didn’t want noise tonight.

I wanted silence.

Then I changed my mind.

I grabbed my phone and typed,

Rani Hidalgo Al-Gaddafi
Come back. Alone.

It took her ten minutes to come storming back into my office like a runway hurricane. Her heels were louder than my thoughts, her perfume unapologetically loud.

“Rani Hidalgo,” Patricia sing-songed, throwing her clutch on the couch. “Have you finally come to your senses and realized you need tequila and bad decisions?”

I stared at her from behind my desk, calm but unreadable.

“I’m pregnant.”

She froze. One stiletto in mid-step.

“I…excuse me?”

I leaned back in my chair, arms folded tightly across my chest. “Buntis ako.”

Patricia’s mouth fell open. She blinked once. Twice. Then finally dropped herself onto the nearest chair like her knees gave out. “Hold on! what?!”

“It worked,” I said flatly. “The IVF. I did it almost 3 months ago.”

Patricia stared at me like I’d just announced I was building a moon colony.

“You did IVF? Without telling anyone?” Her jaw dropped even lower. “Wait, does Lamia know?!”

I shook my head. “No. She has no idea.”

Patricia nearly choked on air. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re carrying her child and she has no idea?! She’s out there probably sipping champagne with Peterson while you’re here pregnant?!”

I ran a hand through my hair, nails dragging across my scalp in frustration. “I did it before everything exploded. Before the fights. Before she disappeared to Antipolo like some tragic socialite running from guilt. Before everything that’s happening right now.”

“But still,” Patricia said, voice rising again. “You went through IVF. With her frozen egg. That is a very big decision to make without telling your… well, I don’t even know what she is to you now.”

I looked out the glass window, jaw clenched. “I did it because I wanted control. I didn’t want to ask her. I didn’t want her to think it was some desperate move to win her back. It wasn’t. It was for Faisal. For me. For the family I want. With or without her.”

Patricia was quiet for a moment. For once, the diva had nothing to say.

Then her voice softened, dangerously close to emotional. “What are you going to do now?”

I exhaled slowly, the air catching in my throat. “I keep it secret. For now. No one else knows. Not the maids. Not the press. Not Lamia.”

“Rani…”

“I mean it, Patricia.” I turned back to her, my eyes hard. “Not. A. Word.”

She nodded slowly, finally understanding the gravity. “Okay. You have my silence.”

I gave her a faint smile, fingers brushing over my stomach. “Thanks.”

She tilted her head, smirking through the shock. “You really are the queen of plot twists.”

I leaned back in my chair and muttered, “No. I’m just surviving my own damn drama.”

And Lamia?

She had no idea what was coming.

——

I stepped into the penthouse later that night, the city’s lights still clinging to the hem of my coat, the weight of my secret lodged deep in my spine. The scent of garlic and butter hit me first, warm and familiar, as if the space itself was trying to convince me that things were normal. As if anything about this place or my life was.

I unbuttoned my coat slowly, heels clicking against the marble floor. The lights were dimmed, golden, soft. Too soft. Suspiciously soft.

Then I saw her.

Lamia.

Seated at the dining table like a queen returning to her throne… perfect posture, red silk blouse, wine glass in one hand, fork in the other. Her legs were crossed like she wasn’t the same woman who’d shattered this home weeks ago. Dinner was set with steak, potatoes, vegetables no one in this house actually liked but looked expensive. Manang Sally had clearly gone all out.

And Lamia?

She didn’t even look up when she spoke. “Took you long enough.”

I raised a brow, setting my bag down on the entry console. “Didn’t know I had a curfew, Your Highness.”

She finally met my gaze, smirking like the devil in lipstick. “You don’t. But you do live here. At least, that’s what Babba and Mama still believe.”

I walked toward the table, my steps slow, deliberate, every inch of me wrapped in tension. She was back, her things were back, and now, apparently, her mouth was back too.

“Cute setup,” I muttered, eyes sweeping the table. “Trying to play the good wife all of a sudden?”

Lamia uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, slicing into her steak with unnecessary flair. “Just trying to bring some elegance back to this place. You’ve clearly been drowning without me.”

I sat down across from her, slowly, folding my hands on my lap to stop them from shaking. Not from fear. From fury. From the nausea that hadn’t left all day. From the fact that this woman… this impossible, maddening woman was sitting here like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t left. Like I wasn’t carrying a secret inside me with her DNA in it.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said coolly. “The air’s been easier to breathe without your perfume choking every room.”

She took a sip of her wine, eyes never leaving mine. “And yet you look exhausted. Pale. Dare I say… bloated.”

I smirked. “Keep talking, Lamia. Maybe one day you’ll say something useful.”

She set her glass down with a soft clink, tilting her head like a predator circling its prey. “I came back because Luqman Omar told me to,” she said finally. “Not because I missed you. Don’t flatter yourself.”

I let the words sit in the air. Bitter. Cold. Familiar.

“I don’t care why you came back,” I replied, voice steel. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And why is that?”

I smiled faintly, leaning back in my chair. “Because tomorrow morning, I’m making sure you remember exactly who you married.”

She scoffed, turning her attention back to her food.

And I?

I sat there, hands clenched under the table, baby growing quietly inside me, and Lamia none the wiser.

This house might’ve belonged to both of us.

But the game?

The game belonged to me.

I picked up my fork with grace carved into muscle memory. I didn’t flinch as I sliced into the steak, medium rare, just the way Lamia liked it. I could feel her watching me from across the table, her smirk dripping with silent challenges and old wars. But I didn’t give her the satisfaction of flinching.

Not even when the first bite hit my tongue and the nausea clawed its way up my throat like acid.

No. Not here. Not now.

Not in front of her.

I chewed slowly, mechanically, praying my body would obey me just this once. The meat was soft, juicy, and suddenly revolting. My stomach twisted sharply like it was mocking me for trying to act normal.

Across the table, Lamia tapped her fork against her plate, her eyes narrowing.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, slicing into her food with practiced elegance. “You’ve barely touched your steak. That’s rare.”

I swallowed… barely. The food lodged in my throat like betrayal. “I had a long day,” I said, voice even, eyes locked on my plate. “Not in the mood to gorge like you are.”

She leaned back with a smirk. “Didn’t realize you were watching me eat so closely. Should I be flattered or concerned?”

I reached for my wine glass out of habit before pausing. Idiot. I quickly grabbed my water instead and sipped, slow and calculated.

Lamia raised an eyebrow, not missing a beat. “Since when do you drink water at dinner?”

I gave her a deadpan look. “Since you left and the air got drier.”

Her lips twitched. “Mm. Still a bitch.”

“Still a narcissist,” I said, stabbing a potato just to avoid hurling across the table.

The nausea was simmering now, deep and threatening, but I forced another bite… small, careful, robotic. Every inch of my body screamed to run to the nearest bathroom. But I didn’t move. I wouldn’t.

She could never know. Not tonight. Not when her gaze was already razor-sharp, looking for weakness.

I swallowed hard and dabbed my lips with a napkin, keeping my hand steady despite the sweat beading on the back of my neck.

“I’m just tired,” I murmured.

Lamia tilted her head, studying me with that unnerving stillness she had when she was piecing a puzzle together. “Well. Try not to collapse on the Versace rug. You’ll ruin the aesthetic.”

I smirked faintly, though my insides were screaming. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be the ugliest thing in this penthouse.”

She chuckled darkly and returned to her food.

And me?

I clenched my stomach, swallowed my secrets, and finished dinner like a queen should… silent, composed, and holding back everything that could destroy me.

I barely made it upstairs before my body betrayed me. The nausea surged like a storm I couldn’t hold back. My legs wobbled as I rushed into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

The second I knelt by the toilet, everything spilled out, sharp, unforgiving, relentless. My hands gripped the cold porcelain as I fought to steady my breathing, my throat raw and aching.

Through the thin bathroom door, I heard the bedroom door creak open.

“Rani?” Lamia’s voice called out, but it lacked concern it’s more like irritation. “You okay?”

I wiped my mouth, forcing a weak reply.

“Fine.”

No footsteps followed. No urgent knocks. Just silence.

Minutes passed.

Then, from the bedroom, I caught the faint sound of Lamia’s heels clicking away, leaving the place cold and empty.

She didn’t care.

Not for me. Not for whatever was happening inside this fragile body that was now hiding a secret she had no idea about.

I leaned against the bathroom wall, head bowed, heart pounding, not just from sickness, but from the bitter sting of being so utterly alone.

She doesn’t care. She never did.

I closed my eyes and whispered to myself,

I have to be stronger than this. For Faisal. For me.