Chapter 3

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FLASHBACK

(Lamia and Rani’s Wedding Day)

play the music above while reading this CHAPTER.
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“She’s so pretty, oh my God.”

The girl in front of the mirror smirked, not at the compliment, but at her reflection. Rani knew she looked stunning in the white, custom-designed wedding gown hugging her curves like it was stitched by the gods themselves. Her makeup was flawless, her hair perfectly pinned, her posture like royalty. But when she heard her mother’s voice behind her, that sharp edge in her gaze softened. Barely.

She turned her head, slow and deliberate, like a queen acknowledging her court. Her mother and father stood behind her, Margaret radiant in her ocean-blue gown, Ramil sharp as ever in his tailored barong. A single tear betrayed her composure, slipping down her cheek like a crack in marble.

“Mom,” she said, voice cracking despite her effort to sound composed.

Margaret rushed forward, lifting her gown as she moved gracefully toward her daughter. She wiped Rani’s tear without hesitation and pulled her into a tight hug. She could feel it, the storm inside her daughter.

She knew this wasn’t Rani’s dream. No, her daughter never fantasized about being handed off like a prized possession. But Margaret also believed, with all the guilt she carried, that this marriage, arranged by Ramil and his powerful associates, was the safest, smartest future Rani could walk into.

In less than an hour, Rani would be married to Lamia Al Gaddafi, heiress to the most dominant business empire in the country.

“Stop crying, Rani, please…” Margaret whispered, pulling away to cradle her daughter’s face. “Today is your day. You and Lamia will receive the most beautiful gift from God…”

Rani blinked slowly, her long lashes wet with emotion. Then she gently took her mother’s hands and lowered them, her touch graceful, but firm… commanding.

“Mom,” she said, voice shaking slightly but laced with a bitter undertone, “do you really think I can pull this off? Because I’m not built for fairy tale bullsh*t, and this…” she gestured to her reflection, “this is a costume for a role I never auditioned for.”

Margaret’s eyes welled up. Alam niyang nasasaktan si Rani, na hindi ito ang gusto ng anak niya. Pero bilang ina, kahit masakit, kailangan niyang lakasan ang loob niya para sa anak.

“Rani, of course, baby… you can do this,” she said, squeezing her daughter’s hand. “This is a gift from God… Mommy will always be here for you. Just… calm yourself, okay? Accept it with your whole heart. I know Lamia will meet you halfway. Maybe more.”

Rani let out a humorless laugh through her tears, “Lamia better have heels sharp enough to keep up with me.”

Just then, Ramil stepped forward and handed his daughter a neatly folded handkerchief. “Dry your tears, my princess.”

Rani took it and dabbed her face carefully, trying not to smudge the artistry her makeup team worked on for hours.

“Thanks, dad,” she said quietly, then returned the handkerchief with a cool nod.

“Smile for us, anak,” Ramil added.

Rani forced a smile, not fake, but the kind you give when you’re about to walk into a battlefield looking like the main event.

She didn’t want to marry Lamia. She didn’t want to be anyone’s trophy, no matter how powerful or alluring they were. But disappointing her parents? That was a wound she couldn’t bandage with attitude or lipstick.

So she smiled, adjusted her crown, figurative and literal, and whispered to her reflection, “Let them think I’m just another pretty bride. Watch me burn the whole show down in heels.”
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“I know you’re still mad at me, Rani…” Ramil said quietly, eyes lowered to the marble floor. His voice carried that rare softness, almost like he was trying not to wake a sleeping lion.

“I am, Dad,” Rani replied without hesitation, her voice like silk over steel. “I really am.”

Another tear threatened to slide down her face, but she blinked it back with all the stubborn pride she’d been raised with. Vulnerability was exhausting, especially when you’re trying to hold your whole world together in a couture gown.

“I’m so sorry, Rani…” Ramil continued, struggling to look her in the eyes. “I just… I know the Al Gaddafis will take care of you. Trust me this time, anak. Trust all of us. You and Lamia… you’re the most beautiful couple I’ve ever seen. You have the power to build something extraordinary. Jazed, Victoria, Margaret, and I… we’re here, always, to guide you both.”

His words were filled with love, genuine, raw, fatherly love, and somehow, that made it even harder to listen. Because Rani wasn’t mad at the lack of love. She was mad that the love came with conditions.

Margaret stepped closer, brushing Rani’s cheek with the back of her hand, her voice trembling. “I believe in you, baby. You’ll be the best wife… and one day, the best mom in the world.”

Rani let out a shaky exhale and nodded, but she couldn’t speak. Her throat was too tight, her chest too heavy. She wanted to scream, cry, rip the gown off and disappear into a world where no one expected her to be perfect. But in less than thirty minutes, she had to walk down that aisle like she wasn’t a storm hiding behind lashes and lipstick.

As her parents walked out of the room, the energy shifted. In came her glam team, her real ride-or-dies for the past seven years. They were already moving like a pit crew at a Grand Prix, fixing her makeup, adjusting the dress, checking every angle.

One of them wrapped an arm around her and whispered, “You’ve got this, queen. You’re not just walking down the aisle… you’re owning it.”

Another added, “And babe… if Lamia doesn’t know what she’s getting, she’s about to find out.”

Rani cracked a grin through the tears. “Y’all are lucky I’m not running away in six-inch heels right now.”

“We’d cover for you if you did,” her stylist said, dabbing the last of the ruined mascara. “But then you’d miss your entrance. And you never miss your entrance.”

She stared at her reflection. The diva stared back, hurt, yes, but unbroken.

“Okay,” Rani said finally, voice low but steady. “Let’s finish the damn show.”

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“Lamia, here, take a sip.”

Lameel, Lamia’s younger sister, held out a bottle of water with a straw already poking out. Lamia took a small, delicate sip, just enough to soothe her dry throat, careful not to smudge even a hint of her perfect lipstick. After all, Rani was minutes away from becoming Mrs. Rani Al-Freaking-Gaddafi in the most glamorous church in the entire country.

She leaned slightly toward her sister, her voice low and razor-sharp. “Have you seen Dove?”

Lameel sighed dramatically, eyes rolling like it was part of her skincare routine. “No, girl. I don’t think she’s coming. She’s the sister of your ex-boyfriend, remember? Of course she’s salty. Masakit pa rin ‘yon for her.”

Lamia didn’t respond. Her face remained a polished, unreadable mask, cold, ethereal, dangerously beautiful. But beneath that frosted surface, she was still scanning the crowd. Not for the press. Not for her family. Just for one girl.

“Stop it, Lamia,” Lameel warned under her breath. “You’re being obvious. Baka mahalata ka ni babba.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Lameel,” Lamia hissed, still not looking at her. Her tone was calm, but the venom laced in her words was pure royalty.

Lameel, being the only person in the world unbothered by Lamia’s infamous tone, simply rolled her eyes and muttered, “Drama queen.”

Guests were starting to arrive. The air turned thick with perfume, designer gowns, and carefully curated small talk. Most of the crowd were businessmen and women, power players, old-money elites, allies of their empire. Lamia’s grandparents from the Emirates had just entered, followed by other distant relatives, each one trying to outdo the last in extravagance.

“Oh look, mga relatives ni Rani ‘yon, ‘di ba?” Lameel said, pointing subtly toward the group entering the main aisle.

Lamia spared them a brief glance before returning her eyes straight ahead, arms elegantly crossed over her waist. Her silence spoke volumes: Don’t start with me right now.

But her subtle shade wasn’t subtle enough. Their father, Jazed, caught the whole moment.

“Lamia,” he said with that deep, commanding tone only Middle Eastern patriarchs could perfect.

Lamia turned toward him slowly, lifting one perfectly arched brow in defiance. Her father flicked his eyes toward Rani’s family. The message was clear: Go. Be nice. Act like a bride.

With a slow exhale, half sigh, half sigh of death, Lamia walked toward them. Each step was calculated elegance. As soon as she reached the group, she turned on her public smile, a curve of her lips that looked warm to the untrained eye but held no real fire.

“You’re so gorgeous, Lamia,” one of Rani’s titas gushed.

“She’s perfect for Rani, grabe!”

“I’m crying! Look at her!”

“Hi po,” Lamia said sweetly, giving the expected hand gestures, one-by-one nagmamano sa bawat kamag-anak ni Rani like the demure queen she was pretending to be.

“Ang ganda talaga ng mapapangasawa ni Rani, ‘di ba?” said one middle-aged woman as she looped her arm around Lamia’s.

“Naku! Magaganda sigurado ang magiging lahi ng dalawa!” added Rani’s uncle, laughing with the others.

“Hindi na ako magtataka kung magkakaroon ng beauty queen na anak ‘yan! Look at this face!”

Lamia smiled, a small, icy smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Inside, she was screaming.

If she could roll her eyes without creating scandal headlines the next day, she would’ve done it ten times by now. She didn’t want this wedding. She didn’t want this applause. She didn’t want to be anyone’s trophy wife, no matter how shiny the pedestal.

But still, she stood there like a porcelain goddess, unbothered, untouched, and undefeated.

Because Lamia Al Gaddafi never breaks. She lets the world break around her.

“Aba teka! Buntis ka na ba?” biglang tanong ng isang Tita ni Rani, her voice loud enough to turn heads.

Lamia gave her a sharp, polite smile, the kind that could cut diamonds. “No po. Even Rani isn’t pregnant yet. It’s not in our plan.” She tilted her head just slightly. “But maybe… maybe soon. If the stars behave.”

“Kung sabagay, bata pa sila, Prima,” another chimed in. “Ilang taon ka na nga, Lamia?”

“Twenty-four,” Lamia answered coolly. Her tone was flat, bored, but still dripping in elegance. She wanted out. She wanted to spin on her heels, disappear into a puff of Chanel No. 5, and go back to where her sister was, far away from this circus.

“Bata pa nga,” Prima nodded. “Rani is twenty-one, right?”

Lamia nodded without hesitation, even though the truth was… she didn’t know. She never bothered to read that info packet Margarita gave her about Rani. Blood type? Hobbies? Favorite flower? She couldn’t care less. This wasn’t love. This was business with diamonds.

Suddenly, an usher approached and whispered something to her. The bride was arriving.

Showtime.

Lamia was led to the front. Her parents stood beside her, both grinning like politicians at a press con. She, on the other hand, looked like a statue sculpted out of pride, pain, and pressed powder. Every guest turned their eyes to the grand cathedral doors, ready to witness the start of a “fairytale.” But for Lamia, this was no fairytale. This was a transaction. A trade. Her freedom for power.

She stood tall, but her heart was ice.

Behind her, Aeris stepped closer, Lamia’s childhood best friend turned reluctant maid of honor. The only one in this church who knew the full story. Who knew about Peterson. Who knew about Dove.

“Ngumiti ka naman,” Aeris whispered with a smirk, her glossed lips barely moving. “Or baka isipin nila hologram ka lang.”

Lamia let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Tell me, Aeris, how do you expect me to smile at a funeral dressed like a wedding?”

“Lamia, don’t be a big dumb,” Aeris snapped back in the same honeyed tone. “Malaki ka na. Act like it. Show some respect, to Rani’s family, sa mga bisita, and most importantly to God. Kahit ngayong araw lang.”

Lamia turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing. “Are you lecturing me at my own wedding?”

Aeris didn’t flinch. She flipped her hair off her shoulder like the diva she was and leaned in closer. “I’m telling you to stop acting like a spoiled heiress and start acting like a woman in control. Hindi ito fashion show. You don’t get to storm off in heels and call it a plot twist.”

Lamia blinked, jaw tightening.

“And before you ask… yes. Dove’s not coming,” Aeris continued, cool and brutal. “We talked last night. I told her. Don’t show up. Because you? You’re a mess when she’s around. And I’m not about to let your drama headline this wedding.”

Lamia turned to her fully now, her voice low and dangerous. “Kinakalaban mo ba ako, Aeris? Is that what we’re doing now?”

Aeris smirked and crossed her arms. “No, sweetheart. I’m not your enemy. I’m just the only one here who’s not afraid to tell you the truth.”

Silence crackled between them.

“Fix yourself, Lamia,” Aeris said, voice firm and flawless. “Alam ko, after all this, you’ll go back to your usual chaos. Do whatever. But not today. Today, you keep it together. You owe yourself that much.”

Then, without waiting for a response, Aeris turned and walked back to the bridesmaids, hips swaying, head high, the kind of exit only a diva could pull off.

Lamia was left there, in silence, the cathedral doors just moments away from opening, her past behind her, her future walking toward her, and her pride barely holding everything together.

The towering walls of San Sebastian Basilica cast long, golden shadows as the late afternoon sun filtered through its stained glass windows. The church was a masterpiece of Gothic revival, its iron spires and stained glass glinting like relics of a long-forgotten fairy tale. Inside, it was nothing less than a royal spectacle. Bouquets of sampaguita and white roses lined the aisle, petals scattered like snow by two flower girls in dainty Filipiniana dresses. A full quartet played a soft rendition of Ikaw, the familiar melody echoing through the stone arches.

On one side of the altar stood Lamia Al Gaddafi, tall, statuesque, and draped in a one-of-a-kind ivory piña wedding gown designed by the most sought-after couturier in the country. The sleeves were puffed and laced, a nod to the traditional terno, but the bodice hugged her like armor… cold and elegant. Her veil was sheer and embroidered with subtle gold thread, flowing behind her like a royal cloak. Her expression, however, was stiffer than the collar of her gown.

Lamia stood like a queen in exile, regal, radiant, but emotionally absent. Her almond-shaped eyes scanned the crowd in muted disinterest. Her mother, Victoria, stood behind her like a shadow, beaming with maternal pride, while her babba, Jazed, radiated quiet command in his hand-embroidered barong. On the outside, the family looked like a magazine cover of Filipino-Arab royalty. But Lamia? She felt none of it. Her chest was a pit of bitterness, her throat dry despite the cold water she had just sipped. All this… for a wedding she never wanted.

A soft murmur passed through the pews. Guests turned toward the entrance as the church doors slowly creaked open.

Then came Rani.

She stepped into the church like thunder in silk.

She wore a white terno-inspired gown with hand-embroidered floral patterns tracing down its delicate sleeves, and a trailing mantilla veil that shimmered subtly with every step. Her makeup was immaculate, bold eyes, soft lips, but it was the glare in her gaze that held power. Her heels clicked confidently on the marble as she walked, holding the arm of her father, Ramil, who was dashing in a classic black barong tagalog.

The two of them made a striking pair, father and daughter, walking side by side, yet heavy with invisible chains. Rani didn’t glance at the crowd, not even once. Her chin was lifted, her back straight, but her hand trembled slightly on her father’s arm. Her heart pounded like a warning drum, but she buried it beneath her elegance.

“Anak…” Ramil said softly, not looking at her as they walked, “You look just like your mom when we got married.”

Rani offered the smallest smile… bitter and brief. “Let’s not pretend this is a love story, Dad.”

As they reached the altar, Rani released her father’s arm. Ramil gave her a faint smile, touched her cheek briefly, and turned to face Lamia with a formal nod. Lamia didn’t return the gesture. She didn’t even blink.

The priest welcomed everyone in a warm, booming voice. “We are gathered here today in the house of God, to witness the union of two souls, Lamia Al Gaddafi and Rani Hidalgo, in holy matrimony.”

Every camera lens focused. Every elite guest sat still, absorbing every sacred word and designer detail.

The traditional Filipino rituals began.

The veil was draped over both brides by their chosen sponsors. The cloth was long, soft, and symbolic, but to Rani and Lamia, it felt like a net. A trap woven in lace.

Then came the cord, looped around their shoulders, twining their fates like an expensive rope. Lamia shifted slightly, but made no comment. Rani clenched her jaw. The photographer clicked.

The arrhae, 13 gold coins, a promise of provision and trust, was handed from Lamia to Rani. Their hands touched for a moment, cold skin on cold skin. Lamia’s fingers were stiff, mechanical. Rani received them like she was accepting a lawsuit.

Each sacred rite, performed to perfection, was wrapped in silence. No laughter. No side glances. No warmth. Only postured elegance and forced submission.

Then came the vows.

The priest turned to Lamia first. “Do you, Lamia, take Rani to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health…”

“I do,” Lamia said quickly, almost cutting him off.

The priest nodded, then turned to Rani. “And do you, Rani, take Lamia to be your lawfully wedded wife…”

“I do,” Rani said quietly, her voice smooth but dry as bone.

The priest smiled as if unaware. “Then, by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you… wife and wife. You may now kiss your bride.”

There was a pause.

Everyone leaned in.

Lamia stepped forward. Her jaw locked. She gave Rani a quick, mechanical kiss on the lips, barely touching skin. The photographers clicked anyway, capturing what would be printed in tomorrow’s headlines.

Rani didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes on the floor, hands at her sides.

As the priest presented them to the crowd, Lamia leaned in ever so slightly and whispered between clenched teeth, “You should be grateful. You just married a legacy.”

Rani turned her head and whispered back, “You just married a disaster.”

The doors opened again and the bridal march reversed, the two of them walking down the aisle together now, hand in hand. Every flash of the camera immortalized a lie. Every guest stood and clapped, oblivious to the battlefield beneath the silk and pearls.

The people saw two beautiful brides.

But what they didn’t see was this: Neither of them said yes with love.

They said yes with obligation.

And the war between them?

Was only just beginning.