Chapter 7

Rani’s Point Of View

It’s been seven days.

Seven days since that cursed family dinner at Casa Al-Gaddafi, where everyone was so busy toasting to tradition that they forgot the marriage was a performance, and the actresses hated each other’s guts.

It’s been a week since I found that photo.

Lamia and Peterson. Her ex-boyfriend. The ghost of her past or apparently, the man in her present.

Love.

That was not a look you gave your ex if he stayed an ex.

And now, it’s been three whole nights since she last walked into our penthouse.

Three nights of empty sheets.

Three nights of no clacking heels at midnight, no faint scent of her stupid luxury perfume floating in the air, no passive-aggressive insults in the morning over eggs and tapa.

Three nights of silence.

The kind of silence that screams betrayal.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of our living room, arms crossed, robe cinched tight around my waist, the Manila skyline sparkling beneath me like a mockery of my perfectly shattered pride. The city didn’t care. Neither did Lamia.

I already knew where she was.

She wasn’t working overtime. She wasn’t staying late at the office.

She was sleeping in someone else’s bed.

His bed.

Peterson’s.

I scoffed out loud, the sound bitter even to my own ears. The gall of her. To keep disappearing like I wouldn’t notice. Like I wouldn’t count every damn night she left this place like it meant nothing. Like we were nothing.

And maybe that’s what we were.

Nothing but an arranged performance written by our parents and signed in blood and business. She didn’t love me. I didn’t love her. Fine. But this? This was disrespect.

I turned away from the glass, snatching my phone off the marble console with a dramatic swipe, my heels clicking against the floor as I made my way to the kitchen, where Anna was quietly folding a dish towel and pretending not to look shaken every time I walked past.

“Manang Sally still asleep?” I asked, not looking at her.

“Opo, Ma’am Rani,” she said softly, head slightly bowed.

“Nina?” I opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and slammed the door with a little more force than necessary.

“Nasa nursery po. Kakatulog lang ni Faisal.”

Of course. The only consistent thing in this penthouse was Faisal. My son. Our son. And that woman couldn’t even bother to come home to him.

I pressed the cold bottle against my temple and exhaled sharply.

“She hasn’t called?” I asked Anna, my voice quieter now, but no less sharp.

“Wala pa rin po, Ma’am,” she said gently.

I nodded once, muttering under my breath, “Of course she hasn’t.”

I knew Lamia. Knew her too well. When she was scared, she vanished. When she was guilty, she pretended she was justified. And when she was cornered?

She fought.

But this time, I wasn’t going to be the one cornered. No. I’d waited. I’d given her three nights. Three. And the next time she walked through that front door, if she ever did again…

She’d have to face me.

Not the diplomatic co-parent.

Not the beautiful trophy wife our families paraded around.

Me.

Rani Hidalgo.

And I don’t lose.

_____

The penthouse was too quiet.

It always was without her. And I hated that I noticed.

The digital clock on the wall blinked 1:17 AM, and the city beyond our glass fortress was still alive, cars moving like blood vessels across Makati’s veins, buildings lit like altar candles to ambition. But inside? Inside, everything was dead still.

I stood in the master bedroom, alone.

Again.

The silk sheets on the king-sized bed looked untouched on her side. Her pillows fluffed. Her scent gone. The air was colder somehow, though the thermostat hadn’t moved. And my robe clung to my shoulders like armor I was tired of wearing.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the vanity mirror, my reflection sharp, perfect and flawless even now. Lips in a deep nude rose, cheekbones high, eyes outlined in defiance. A queen, even when waiting for a ghost.

Because that’s what Lamia had become.

A ghost in this home. An echo in Faisal’s life. A woman who once spat my name like poison but still shared my ring, my roof, and my child.

But not my bed.

Not for three days.

Three days of excuses whispered through her assistant. Of “she’s working late” and “there’s a board dinner.” Lies dressed in professionalism. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew the difference between work and hiding.

And she wasn’t just hiding. She was with him.

Peterson.

The name alone made my nails dig into my palms.

She thought I didn’t know. Thought she could play this little disappearing act while I stayed here, trapped in this penthouse like some ornamented hostage raising our child. But I knew her patterns. I knew the way she moved when she was guilty. Knew the cold, smooth silence she carried like a veil when she’d done something unforgivable.

I stood and walked to the living room, barefoot, letting the cold marble floor ground me. The dim lighting from the chandelier gave everything a soft golden glow, like it was trying to make the loneliness look romantic.

It didn’t work.

Faisal’s nursery was quiet. I checked, as I always did. He was asleep, one tiny hand curled against his chest, his breathing steady and perfect. He looked peaceful, oblivious. And for his sake, I was still here. Still married. Still pretending.

I brushed a finger across his chubby cheek and whispered, “Someday, anak… you’ll understand why Mama Rani stayed.”

I closed the door behind me and walked back to the living room, only to hear it…

a soft click.

The door.

I froze.

That heavy, signature click of our penthouse door sliding shut.

I didn’t move. Just stood there in the soft glow of the lights, arms crossed over my robe, chin high.

And then came the sound of footsteps. Familiar. Confident. Expensive.

I turned slowly.

Lamia Al-Gadaffi finally walked in, wearing a cream blazer over a sheer black blouse, cigarette trousers that hugged her long legs, and heels that could crush egos. Her sleek dark hair was tied into a low, perfect ponytail, not a strand out of place. Her makeup? Still on point, even at this hour.

Too put-together for someone coming from “the office.”

Her eyes flicked up, saw me standing there, and for a split second, just a flash, guilt flickered across her face like a crack in the marble.

Then it vanished.

She placed her clutch on the console, slowly took off her blazer, folded it over her arm like we were in a damn boardroom.

And said, calm as ever “Gising ka pa?”

I stared at her.

My mouth curled into a cold smile.

And I whispered, like venom “Tatlong gabi ka nang hindi umuuwi… at ‘yan lang ang tanong mo?”

My voice sliced through the air like a diamond-sharpened blade, soft but merciless. Lamia froze. Just for a heartbeat. Just enough for me to notice. Then, as always, she adjusted, smoothed her expression, hid behind that mask of poise she loved to wear like second skin.

She turned her back to me, slowly removing her heels like she lived here. Like she belonged here. Placed them by the shoe rack. Like this was normal.

As if I wasn’t watching her with rage building in my chest, coiling like smoke in a burning palace.

“Pagod ako, Rani,” she muttered, her tone clipped. “Wala ako sa mood makipagsagutan ngayong gabi.”

I let out a small, humorless laugh and sauntered toward her with the grace of a queen entering a courtroom. “Pagod?” I echoed, tilting my head. “Pagod ka sa ano? Sa kaka-office o sa kaka-‘Peterson’?”

She turned sharply then, eyes darkening, her perfect lips parting in restrained fury. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, honey,” I purred, stepping even closer, “I started three nights ago. Nung una kang hindi umuwi. Nung una kang nagsinungaling sa anak mo. Nung una kong nakita ‘yung…” I paused, gave a dramatic sigh, “souvenir photo ninyong dalawa.”

Lamia’s jaw clenched. Her hands balled at her sides, but she still didn’t speak. Cowardice in couture.

“Well, sa susunod, magdala ka ng ibang damit pang-business, baka mas maniwala ako.” I continued, circling her now like a lioness.

“Wala kang karapatang…” she finally snapped, her voice low but trembling, “You don’t have any rights to question me like that.”

“Oh?” I raised my brow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize being your legal wife came without the privilege of basic respect. My bad.”

She scoffed, stepping away toward the hallway, like she could walk out of the conversation. Like she could walk out of everything, as she always did.

“Hindi mo naman alam lahat,” she said, her voice quieter now, but cold. “You don’t know the pressure. You don’t know what it’s like to constantly be watched, by Mama, by Babba, by the whole damn world.”

I stormed after her, not letting her escape. “At ano? Kaya mo nilalapitan ‘yung ex mo? Dahil nababaliw ka sa expectations ng pamilya mo? Newsflash, Lamia lahat tayo under pressure! But some of us don’t run back to our unfinished business like some pathetic teenage soap opera.”

She turned, furious now, her eyes blazing. “Don’t talk like you’re better than me. You’re just as trapped in this marriage as I am. Wag kang magmalinis.”

I smirked, leaning in close until our faces were inches apart.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I whispered, “I don’t need to be clean. I just need to be smarter than you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, just one cruel, raw moment, I saw it.

Guilt. Fear. Regret.

And then… she turned away. Again. Walked past me. Again. Head high. Again.

“I’m going to shower,” she muttered.

I didn’t move. I just stood there, hands on my hips, watching her retreat into the bathroom. That same scent of her perfume trailing in the air, familiar and maddening.

And for the first time in three nights, she was home.

But we both knew… She never really came back.

_____

The morning sun sliced through the silk curtains like it was punishing me.

Harsh. Blinding. Too honest.

I stirred beneath the thick duvet, eyes slowly blinking open. The other side of the bed was empty, of course. Sheets cold. Pillow untouched. Typical. She might’ve finally come home, but she sure as hell didn’t sleep beside me. As if the bed had become sacred, and she knew she had no right to touch it anymore.

I sat up slowly, brushing my hair back with a manicured hand, exhaling through my nose like I was preparing for war.

Because in this house, mornings weren’t peaceful. Not anymore.

I rose from the bed in my satin nightgown, the hem swishing around my ankles as I walked barefoot across the floor. My steps were soft but deliberate, like every movement I made needed to remind the world and Lamia that I was still in control. That I was still the queen of this penthouse. Even if I was the only one who cared to stay in it.

From the hallway, I already heard the distant clink of plates. The muffled voices of our maids moving around the kitchen like shadows, trying not to disturb the storm they lived with.

I passed by Faisal’s door. It was slightly ajar, as it always was in the mornings. And just as expected, there was Nina, his nanny, cradling him in her arms near the window, gently rocking him while humming some lullaby I didn’t recognize.

“Good morning, Ma’am Rani,” she whispered when she saw me, her smile sweet, exhausted.

I smiled faintly. “He slept well?”

“Opo. Hindi po nalingat kahit isang beses.”

“Good,” I said softly, walking over and kissing my son’s forehead. “At least may isa sa ‘min na marunong umuwi ng maaga.”

Nina pretended not to hear that part, and I respected her for it.

I headed to the dining area, where the scent of garlic and oil hit me instantly. The kitchen gleamed, too bright for how foul my mood was. Manang Sally and Anna were busy laying out the breakfast spread, longganisa glistening in its own oil, crispy daing na bangus, fried eggs sunny side up, garlic rice still steaming. They even made taho on the side, served in fancy little shot glasses like we were in a hotel brunch buffet.

“Morning po, Ma’am,” both greeted with faint bows.

“Where is she?” I asked, not needing to say the name. Everyone already knew who she was.

Manang Sally hesitated, wiping her hands on a towel before replying, “Nasa banyo pa po. Naliligo.”

Of course she is.

I sat down gracefully at the head of the table, legs crossed, flipping my hair behind one shoulder. I picked up my phone, browsed nothing in particular, lips pursed. Just enough to look busy. Just enough to look unbothered.

Then,

Lamia entered, wrapped in a bathrobe, hair wet and slicked back, her face bare of makeup, but somehow still annoyingly photogenic. Her expression was unreadable, eyes flicking to me for a second before she walked toward the seat across from mine.

Neither of us said good morning.

She sat down, reached for a glass of water, and drank slowly, like hydration would wash away her sins.

The maids silently retreated to the side, standing like guards at a cold war table, glancing at each other with unease. Nina walked out of the nursery a few moments later with Faisal in her arms. The second my baby locked eyes on me, he grinned wide, arms flailing.

“Hi, baby!” I cooed, my voice softening for the first time that morning. I reached for him, and Nina gently placed him in my arms.

Faisal giggled as I kissed his cheek repeatedly, smothering him in mama love.

“Can I hold him?” Then Lamia’s voice, tentative but tinged with habit.

I didn’t look at her, but I passed him over like he was a glass I didn’t want to spill. She took him gently, cradling him against her chest.

“Hi, Faisal,” she whispered. “Namiss mo ba si mama?”

My jaw tightened.

I poured coffee into my cup, eyes watching her over the rim. “Sino kaya ang mas namiss niya? ako, o ‘yung mama niya na nawala ng tatlong araw?”

She flinched barely, but I saw it.

Lamia pressed a kiss to our son’s forehead and forced a smile. “He’s too young to understand sarcasm, Rani.”

“Good,” I said, reaching for the longganisa. “Kasi kung medyo mas matanda na siya, I’d have to explain why there’s new perfume na naamoy niya sa mama niya tuwing umaga.”

Silence.

Even the maids stopped pretending to be busy.

Nina, as if sensing the tension might boil over, cleared her throat gently and said, “Ihahanda ko na po ang bite niya,” before retreating with the grace of someone escaping a ticking bomb.

Faisal began babbling nonsense in Lamia’s arms, the only sound left at the table as we ate quietly, her with every bite cautious, and me with every move designed to scream: I see everything. You are not forgiven.

_____

Sundays were supposed to be quiet.

But nothing about this house ever felt peaceful, not when Lamia Al-Gadaffi was in it.

After breakfast, she disappeared into the guest bathroom again like she always did after our little morning cold wars. She was a creature of control, always needing a mirror, a ritual, a routine. I, on the other hand, retreated to the only safe space left in the penthouse, the sunroom by the balcony.

I sat there in a pale lavender wrap dress, legs crossed, the silk fabric hugging my skin like the luxury I deserved. A mug of barako coffee sat untouched on the table beside me while I scrolled absently through my phone, not reading anything. I just wanted to look too busy to care.

From across the room, I could hear Faisal’s giggles, his little hands slapping against Lamia’s cheeks as she tried to keep him entertained on the play mat in the living room. Her voice was soft cooing, even. It irritated me how easy it was for her to switch from ice queen to doting mother.

And yet… I couldn’t look away.

I watched them from the corner of my eye, one arm propped against the armrest, sipping my coffee like it was wine. Lamia sat on the floor, legs folded, her long black hair now in a loose braid down her back. She looked domestic. Normal.

Fake.

“Look who’s crawling to Mama,” she whispered to Faisal, who had just successfully scooted toward her, squealing. “Good job, Faisal!”

He let out a victorious laugh, and Lamia clapped softly, kissing his forehead.

I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Congratulations, mama of the year.”

She heard that.

Her head tilted toward me, one brow rising.

“Pasensya na,” she called out casually. “Some of us spend time with our child instead of throwing shade on Instagram.”

I looked up from my phone, giving her a deadly smile. “Well, darling, some of us don’t need to beg for forgiveness with forced quality time.”

She stood, picking up Faisal with ease, her hips shifting with elegance as she carried him toward me. “He’s teething,” she said flatly. “Nina’s getting his teether. You wanna help or you just gonna sip coffee and hate me from six feet away?”

I looked at her, then at our son in her arms. His chubby hands reached for my face, as if he wanted me to stop being mad.

I sighed. “Bigay mo nga siya sakin.”

She handed him over silently, and I adjusted him against my hip like the natural mother I was. I kissed the top of his head and whispered, “My poor baby, stuck between two dramatic queens.”

She chuckled at that, genuine, annoyingly enough. “At least alam mong dramatic ka.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t,” I snapped, walking past her. “I just happen to be better at it.”

I moved toward the nursery, needing a reason to walk away before I threw something glass. Lamia followed behind, arms crossed, watching me.

“So this is what we’re doing now?” she said from behind me. “Passive-aggressive parenting? Cold war on a Sunday?”

I turned sharply, Faisal resting on my shoulder. “Ayoko lang kasi niloloko ako ng asawa ko. Oo, arranged marriage tayo, oo, hindi kita mahal, but girl, have some decency!”

She stared at me for a beat, lips parting like she wanted to say something real, honest, something that maybe didn’t come with claws.

Then she looked away.

“Matulog ka. Magpahinga ka,” she said coolly, brushing past me.

I watched her go, still dressed in her lazy-day robe, looking effortless and expensive.

But as she disappeared back into the bedroom, I felt it again.

That ache in my chest. That ache I hated.

Because no matter how much I hated her… I still stayed.

Not for her. Not for love.

But because chaos wasn’t the world I wanted for Faisal.

And I’d rather suffer in silence than let him grow up in a broken home.

_____

The clock moved like it hated me.

Every hour dragged its nails across the floor of the penthouse, mocking the silence that filled the space between me and Lamia. If it weren’t for Faisal’s babbles, this place would sound like a mausoleum built for two women who couldn’t even look each other in the eye for more than thirty seconds.

After I put Faisal down for his nap, I found myself sitting at the edge of the living room couch, my arms crossed, remote in hand, flipping through Netflix with the kind of blank aggression only a bored woman with unresolved rage could manage.

Lamia was in the open kitchen, barefoot, hair tied in a low bun, wearing those  Ralph Lauren wideleg beige track pants and a faded black shirt that said “Rise and Grind”. The only thing she’d been grinding lately was my nerves.

She opened the fridge, took out a container of leftover adobo, then turned toward me with an eyebrow raised.

“You want some?” she asked, wooden spoon in one hand, tone flat.

I didn’t look at her. “Not if you’re reheating it.”

She scoffed under her breath and turned away. “Fine. Magugutom ka rin dahil sa pride mo.”

I muttered without missing a beat, “At least wala akong kabit.”

The clatter of the spoon hitting the counter made me smirk. Her silence said more than any denial ever could.

Ten minutes later, she joined me in the living room with her plate. She sat at the other end of the couch, as far away as possible, crossing her legs like a runway model with a grudge. The scent of vinegar and soy sauce drifted into my side of the couch, and I almost hated that it smelled good.

We sat there, two gorgeous, angry, emotionally-damaged businesswomen watching some stupid cooking show that neither of us cared about.

“I told Manang Sally to take the day off,” she said suddenly between bites, eyes still on the screen. “Anna too. Nina’ll stay ’til after dinner.”

I turned to her, one brow rising. “Bakit? Para makapaglaro ka ulit ng bahay-bahayan?”

She looked at me then, really looked, her eyes dark and sharp. “Para naman makalaban ka ng patas. Wala ka kasing audience.”

I snorted, shaking my head as I stood up and walked to the window. The Manila skyline shimmered under the afternoon sun, but it didn’t calm me. It never did. Nothing ever did lately.

“Three nights kang wala,” I said, voice softer now but still bitter. “Three nights, Lamia. You didn’t even bother to lie about where you were.”

She didn’t answer.

I turned toward her, arms crossed. “Tell me, anong excuse mo ngayon? Business meeting? Charity gala? Namatayan ka ba ulit ng hamster?”

She stood up slowly, putting her now-empty plate on the coffee table. Her movements were composed, graceful, like she was performing for an audience even when there wasn’t one.

“I don’t owe you explanations,” she said coolly, walking toward me. “You’re not in love with me, remember?”

“No,” I said sharply, stepping closer until we were almost chest to chest. “But I’m still your wife.”

Her jaw tensed.

“And the mother of your child,” I added, voice lowering like venom curling around a knife. “So if you’re gonna sneak around with your ex, do it with a little less insult to my intelligence.”

She flinched.

For a second, just a second, I saw guilt in her eyes. But just like that, it vanished behind that Al-Gadaffi wall of apathy.

“I don’t know what you think you saw,” she said, brushing past me.

“I saw enough,” I hissed. “And I can smell him on you every time you walk through that door.”

Lamia froze at that, one hand on the edge of the dining table.

I didn’t push further. I didn’t need to.

Instead, I turned, walked back toward the nursery, and peeked in. Faisal was still asleep, curled like a tiny angel, his thumb in his mouth.

Peaceful. Untouched by the storm of his mothers.

I sat beside the crib, resting my chin on my knees.

And Lamia?

She stood in the hallway, arms crossed, watching me through the door. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Because silence had always been our most fluent language.

_____

The sun dipped below the skyline, casting long orange streaks across the penthouse floor as night wrapped around the city. In another life, this time of day might’ve felt sacred, warm, still, intimate. But in this one? It was a setup for another cold war across the dinner table.

Manang Sally was gone. Anna, too. It was just me, Lamia, Faisal, and Nina, who was moving around the kitchen in her soft slippers, checking on the rice while Faisal babbled in his high chair like he didn’t sense the tension thick enough to slice through.

Dinner was simple but rich, sinigang na baboy, steaming white rice, fried tilapia, and a side of ensaladang mangga with tomatoes and bagoong. Comfort food. The kind that made you pretend, even for an hour, that your life wasn’t quietly burning to the ground.

Lamia sat across from me at the long, dark wood table, hair freshly brushed, now wearing a gray knit sweater that swallowed her frame. She looked demure. Quiet. Fake.

I spooned rice onto my plate with the grace of a queen pretending not to be insulted, then added extra sinigang broth, because at least that was honest.

She didn’t look at me. Not once.

Instead, she reached toward Faisal with that perfect mother act again, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin like we weren’t circling each other like lions.

“Masarap ba, baby?” she asked sweetly, touching his chubby arm.

He slapped the tray with delight, shrieking.

I raised an eyebrow. “Biglang nagpaka-nanay.”

Lamia met my gaze, slow and sharp. “At least hindi ako nanay na ginagamit ang anak as emotional shield.”

Nina, God bless her, suddenly found the rice cooker very fascinating.

I smirked, took a bite of tilapia, and spoke through my teeth, “Better an emotional shield than an absentee one.”

We ate in silence after that.

The only sounds were the clink of forks, the occasional gurgle from Faisal, and the hum of the city far below us. Nina eventually picked up Faisal and whispered that she’d give him his bath before bed. The second the nursery door closed behind them, I leaned back in my chair.

“Three nights,” I said again. “Just saying.”

Lamia didn’t answer.

She just stood slowly, collected her plate, and brought it to the sink.

And in that moment, watching her move, distant, beautiful, unreadable, I realized what scared me more than the cheating.

It was that I didn’t know when, or if, it would ever stop hurting.

Not because I loved her.

But because I didn’t.

And still. I stayed.

For Faisal.

For the quiet lie we called a family.

As I cleared my plate, Lamia’s voice floated from the sink, cool, tired, resigned.

“Don’t wait up.”

I stopped in my tracks.

“Hindi mo na kailangan sabihin,” I answered, brushing past her.

And just like that, another night began in silence.

Like every night before.