Chapter 10

Rani’s Point Of View

It’s been two days.

Forty-eight hours of silence. Forty-eight hours of sleeping alone on a side of the bed that still smelled like her perfume. Forty-eight hours of pretending I’m fine in front of Faisal, when every time he reaches for something in the air and giggles, I wonder if he sees her in some invisible place I can’t reach.

Lamia Al-Gadaffi is gone.

Again.

And I’m still here, chasing a woman I claim to hate, just because I refuse to let our son grow up in chaos.

Because no matter how many times I’ve said I’d rather claw my own eyes out than kiss her good morning… I’d still rather keep this family together than watch it shatter.

I’ve gone to her mansion twice. I’ve texted her ten times. I’ve even spoken to Lameel, her younger sister, pretending it was about a dress fitting just to fish for updates. Nothing.

No one knows.

Or maybe they do.

But they’re all doing what the Al-Gadaffi clan does best, hide the cracks under gold-plated silence.

Her mama and babba? Still clueless. Babba even called me yesterday, asking if Lamia would bring Faisal to their family mansion next week.

I lied, of course.

I said, “Oh yes, Babba, she’s just working overtime, you know how she is, always on top of her company.”

What was I supposed to say?

“Actually, Babba, your perfect daughter packed her bags and disappeared like a spoiled little coward who couldn’t handle the fact that she’s a mother and not some tragic lover in a telenovela?”

No. I couldn’t.

Because I know what Tito Jazed Al-Gadaffi is capable of. I know that if he finds out Lamia’s been sneaking around with Peterson again, it won’t be a scandal… it’ll be a war.

And despite how much I want to slap her sometimes, I won’t let her drown.

Especially not with Peterson. That man was always a siren call to her worst decisions.

So I chase.

Because someone has to.

Because I already lost my pride the moment I stepped into that hallway and saw them kissing.

Because I’d rather look pathetic trying to fix this than stay still and watch our son grow up visiting his mothers on alternating weekends.

Even our maids are pretending nothing’s wrong. Manang Sally still irons Lamia’s bedsheets like she’ll be home tonight. Anna still sets two mugs in the morning.

And Nina?

She looks at me sometimes like she knows.

Like she sees past the diva smile and blood-red lipstick and sees the woman behind it who’s terrified of being the one left behind.

Again.

I hold Faisal tighter each night now when I come to the nursery.

And every time he tugs at the necklace Lamia gave me when he was born, I whisper to him “Mama Rani’s here. And Mommy Lamia… she’ll come back. She has to.”

——

I should be in my boardroom. I should be commanding meetings, not chasing a ghost. But here I am again, speeding through the winding roads of Antipolo, my driver sweating behind the wheel because he knows how silent I’ve been the entire ride.

Two days.

Two whole days since Lamia walked out of our penthouse, and the world hasn’t been the same.

Worse? I know where she is. She didn’t go far. She didn’t vanish to Paris or Dubai.

Her own mansion, sitting in its usual arrogant glory atop Antipolo’s hills, surrounded by palm-lined driveways and guards trained not to ask questions. But inside it… buried in the back section of the estate is her personal mansion. The one she moved into even before our marriage, where everything is black marble and white silence.

That’s where she’s been. And I’ve been coming every damn day.

The gates opened with recognition, not welcome. My presence no longer surprised the staff. They bowed, looked away, and let me pass like a raincloud no one wants to acknowledge.

I stepped out of the car, wearing four-inch heels and enough perfume to drown heartbreak. My work phone buzzed inside my Hermès bag, probably my assistant, again, probably something on fire.

I didn’t care.

The door to Lamia’s mansion opened before I knocked. One of her house staff… a girl named Anjel, stood nervously, bowing slightly.

“Ma’am Rani… um, wala po si Ma’am Lamia…”

“I know,” I said coldly, brushing past her. My heels struck the marble with the echo of war drums. “She’s never home. But I’m still going to check.”

I didn’t wait for permission.

I moved through the hallways like I owned them. I passed the cold living room with its untouched furniture, the sweeping staircase I once posed on for a photoshoot. I hated how the memories found me, clinging like smoke.

I walked straight to her bedroom door.

Locked.

Of course it was locked.

Because even now, Lamia Al-Gaddafi chose to be untouchable. Even from me.

I stood there for a minute. One long minute, breathing through my nose, fighting back tears I refused to let fall. Then I turned on my heel and walked back through the mansion like it was a runway and not a battlefield.

Mama and Babba still didn’t know what was going on. They thought Lamia was just “working hard,” and I… ever the flawless daughter-in-law, kept up the act.

Because if they found out she was sleeping over at Peterson’s condo or in this fucking mansion? Babba would rain down hellfire. And Mama? She would die of heartbreak.

So I lied.

I lied to protect the woman I claimed to hate. I lied to keep the walls from falling in. I lied because even if she was slipping away, I needed her to be safe… for Faisal, if not for me.

When I got back to the car, I didn’t cry. I just pulled out my phone and texted her.

Rani Hidalgo Al-Gaddafi
Your son keeps looking for you. But of course, I’m the only one who’s here to explain your absence. Enjoy your fantasy, Lamia. But just remember, your reality has your name on the birth certificate.

I pressed send. Then I threw the phone across the seat, sat back, and waited for Lamia to arrive at her mansion.

It’s been 30 minutes since me and my driver waiting. I can’t take it. I got out of car and came inside her mansion again.

The air was thick with the scent of gardenias as I paced the grand hall of Lamia’s mansion, my heels clicking like gunshots against the polished marble floor. Every minute stretched endlessly as I waited for a sign, any sign that Lamia was here, that she’d finally come home and break the silence. But the only sound I could hear was my own breath, shallow and fast, betraying the storm I was holding inside.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, the heavy wooden door at the far end creaked open.

I turned sharply, heart hammering behind my ribcage.

And there he was.

Peterson.

That smug, infuriating man standing just inside the doorway, looking like he owned the place… which, in a way, he did now, considering what he’d stolen from me.

His eyes locked onto mine, a slow, infuriating smile curling on his lips as if he’d been expecting me all along.

“Rani,” he said smoothly, stepping forward without an ounce of hesitation. “I wasn’t expecting a visit.”

I lifted my chin high, my voice dripping with ice and fire, “Peterson. Funny how you just show up at my wife’s mansion like you have the right.”

He chuckled, stepping closer, but I didn’t flinch. Instead, I paced toward him, every movement calculated, every breath a declaration of war.

“You don’t get to treat this place like your playground,” I said, voice low but razor-sharp, my gaze hard as diamonds. “She’s my wife. I’m still the one who holds the title, whether you like it or not.”

Peterson’s smile widened, amused and smug. “Still the wife? After all these nights she’s been with me? You really think that matters anymore?”

I took a step in, invading his space, my eyes burning holes through his soul. “Don’t you dare disrespect my family. Not here. Not now.”

He raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Or what? You’ll make a scene in front of the Al-Gaddafis? They already know more than you think.”

My fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms, but my voice stayed steady and cold.

“Keep talking, Peterson. You’re only digging your own grave.”

He leaned in, a whisper that was venom. “You lost her the moment you stopped fighting.”

I laughed, a bitter, dry sound. “I’m just getting started.”

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. Lamia appeared at the corner, her face pale, eyes wide with shock and dread as she took in the scene… the tension, the stare-down between the two people who both claimed pieces of her heart.

And in that moment, the fragile facade shattered.

I turned to her, voice softer but no less fierce, “Akala ko matalino ka Lamia”

Her eyes flickered to Peterson, then back to me. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Peterson smirked, the victor in this silent battle for now, but I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

Because no matter what she chose, I was still Rani Hidalgo.

And I was not giving up without a fight.

The second Lamia’s eyes met mine, it was like a spark igniting gasoline. Her expression twisted into a mask of cold fury, not a hint of regret, just pure, unfiltered hate. She didn’t step closer; instead, she planted her hands on her hips, chin raised like she was daring me to try.

“Look who decided to crash my sanctuary,” Lamia sneered, voice dripping with venom as she flicked her perfectly manicured nails in my direction. “What, did the diva queen run out of boardrooms to haunt?”

I smirked, folding my arms, refusing to let her see any crack in my armor. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you, playing house with your ex like you forgot I exist.”

Her eyes narrowed, stepping forward with a dangerous grace, “Don’t pretend you don’t know everything, Rani. You’ve been stalking me like a desperate little shadow. Newsflash, I’m not yours to control.”

I matched her step for step, voice silky but sharp as a razor, “Control? No, Lamia. I just won’t let you ruin what we have for our son. You can’t have it both ways… petting Peterson behind my back and still expect me to play happy wife.”

She laughed, low and cruel, eyes flashing. “You? Happy? With you? Please. I’ve hated you from day one, Rani. Don’t act like you’re some innocent victim here.”

I took a breath, eyes cold fire. “I’m no victim. I’m the woman who’s been keeping this broken family from falling apart, even when you ran off to your little fantasy.”

Her lip curled. “Fantasy? Don’t flatter yourself. I’m done pretending with you. You want to play diva? Fine. But remember who’s richer, who’s stronger. I’m not the one begging for scraps.”

I leaned in, voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “Begging? Honey, I’m not begging. I’m taking what’s mine.”

The silence between us was electric, two queens circling a battlefield only we knew existed.

Then she spat out, “You think this is about you and me? It’s about me and Peterson. You lost that war the second you let your pride blind you.”

I tilted my head, voice icy. “Keep telling yourself that. But when Faisal grows up, it won’t be your lies he remembers, it’ll be the woman who stayed, who fought, and who never gave up.”

She stepped back, sneering one last time. “We’ll see, Rani. We’ll see.”

And with that, she turned on her heel, leaving me standing alone in the marble hall, burning with fury, aching with something I refused to name.

——

The gravel crunched under the tires of the car as it rolled to a stop in front of the building where the penthouse located. I barely waited for the driver to open the door before I stepped out, high heels clicking against the polished driveway like I was walking into a war zone instead of a home. I didn’t even glance at the perfectly manicured gardens or the stupidly majestic fountain gurgling away like it belonged on a postcard. I didn’t come here to admire Lamia’s taste or her wealth. I came for my son.

Without saying a word to the staff bowing at the entrance, I stormed through the double doors. The air smelled expensive… lavender, pinewood, betrayal. I made a beeline to the elevator at the end of the hallway, ignoring the stares of the maids who had probably been gossiping all morning about my dramatic arrival. Good. Let them talk.

The penthouse was on the top floor, and every second in that damn elevator felt like an eternity. My arms were crossed tightly against my chest, trying to hold myself together. I wasn’t here for Lamia. I didn’t care if she ignored me, slapped me, threw her overpriced wine in my face, I was here for Faisal.

When the doors finally opened with that soft ding, my heels echoed against the marble as I walked through the familiar hallway. It was ridiculous how quickly she moved in, how fast she transformed this place into hers. But the nursery door was still the same, the soft pastel blue paint, the silver nameplate I had ordered myself, FAISAL.

I didn’t knock.

I pushed the door open and stepped in, heart pounding like it was trying to claw out of my chest.

There he was.

Lying in his crib, cheeks flushed with sleep, little fingers twitching in a dream. His soft curls stuck to his forehead, his chubby legs tangled in the baby blanket. Nina, his nanny, looked up from her chair and blinked in surprise, mouth parting like she didn’t expect me to show up so soon… or at all.

I didn’t speak. I just walked forward like I was underwater, like everything around me was muffled and irrelevant. My heels were silent against the carpet now. I leaned over the crib, holding my breath.

“Hey,” I whispered, voice catching in my throat as I reached in and brushed a hand over Faisal’s warm, tiny back. His little body shifted with a soft whimper, and his eyes fluttered open… drowsy, confused, then focused.

“Mama’s here,” I whispered again, the words trembling as I pulled him into my arms.

He didn’t cry. He just sighed and curled into me, his small fingers grabbing onto my necklace like he never wanted to let go.

And God, neither did I.

I pressed a kiss to his forehead, holding him so tightly I thought I’d never let go again. I didn’t care if Lamia walked in. I didn’t care if she had the whole army of her family waiting to drag me out. For now, I had my son. For now, I was home.

——

The night came in cloaked in a storm. Thunder rolled low across the BGC, the sky flashing every now and then like God himself was watching something he didn’t quite approve of. I sat curled up on the velvet chaise lounge in the penthouse living room, a half-finished glass of wine warming in my hand, Faisal already asleep in the nursery. The lights were dim. Too dim, probably. But I didn’t feel like brightening anything, not the room, not the mood, not myself.

Then came the knock. Not loud. But it was sharp.

I froze, eyes narrowing toward the penthouse door. Manang Sally had already gone to bed downstairs. Anna was in the laundry quarters. Nina was probably dead asleep after spending the whole day chasing Faisal around the sunroom. That knock wasn’t staff.

I set the glass down slowly and stood, smoothing out my silk robe… Lamia’s, actually, but she left it behind like it meant nothing. The hall felt colder as I walked toward the door, the faint scent of the baby lotion from Faisal’s room still clinging to my sleeves. I opened the door without thinking.

And there they were.

Luqman Omar stood like a statue carved from stone… tall, broad-shouldered, and with that same brooding face Lamia inherited. Except his had more control. More bite. His arms were crossed over his chest, still wearing his tailored blazer even though it was nearly midnight. His eyes were sharp, calculating. Watching me like I was a suspect in a murder investigation.

Next to him, Lameel, barely twenty, wrapped in a stylish coat with her hair tucked behind her ears, holding a pastry box like she came to visit a friend instead of walk into a broken battlefield. She smiled, soft and sugar-sweet, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

I leaned against the doorframe, arching one brow. “Wow. A surprise from the golden children. To what do I owe this… royal visitation?”

Luqman didn’t flinch. “Is Lamia home?”

“She’s not,” I said simply, folding my arms to mirror his. “She’s probably at some silent spa meditating with her crystals or whatever the hell rich people do to distract themselves from responsibility.”

Lameel’s lips twitched. “We just wanted to see Faisal.”

“Of course you did,” I said, standing aside. “Come in. Don’t mind the mess. I’m only raising a baby alone in a cold mansion filled with resentment.”

They stepped in, the silence dragging behind them like chains. Lameel’s perfume wafted in a fresh, expensive scent. Luqman walked ahead, his shoes muffled against the floor. He didn’t look around, didn’t admire the art or the decor. He went straight to the nursery like he had memorized the place. Typical.

I followed slowly, arms still crossed, watching them like a hawk. Lameel stopped by the living room table and set down the pastry box with a sheepish look.

“I brought those mango tartlets Mama likes,” she said softly, as if saying the word Mama would summon Lamia out of thin air. “Naisip ko kase baka gusto mo.”

I looked at the box but didn’t touch it. “You brought them for her, not me.”

Lameel looked guilty. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No one ever does,” I replied flatly, and then turned toward the hallway where Luqman had already disappeared into the nursery.

I found him standing by the crib, looking down at Faisal the way only an Al-Gadaffi could… quiet, reverent, and dangerously protective. He didn’t touch him. Just looked. I stayed by the door.

“He’s sleeping,” I murmured.

“I can see that.”

There was a pause. He turned slightly, his jaw set tight. “You shouldn’t have run off with him.”

I met his gaze with fire. “She left us. I’m just making sure my son has some form of stability.”

“You’re not his only parent, Rani.”

I stepped into the room slowly, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Tell that to your sister.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he looked back at Faisal, and for the first time in forever, his voice softened. “He looks like Lamia when she was a baby. Same stubborn eyes.”

I swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “But I hope to God he ends up nothing like her.”

The air in the nursery felt heavier the moment Luqman spoke again, his voice low and cutting like the distant rumble of thunder outside.

“I already know what Lamia did.”

I stood still near the door, my hand brushing against the edge of the changing table. My stomach twisted but I didn’t flinch. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone bearing the Al-Gadaffi name.

I gave a short, dry laugh. “Do you? Congratulations. That puts you ahead of your parents.”

Luqman didn’t rise to the bait. His eyes were locked on Faisal, but his words were meant for me. “She told me everything last night. About Peterson. About why she left the penthouse. About you.”

I felt something ice-cold crawl down my spine, but I squared my shoulders. “And let me guess… you’re here to defend her honor? To scold me for being the villain in her sob story?”

He finally turned to face me, his expression unreadable. “I’m not here to pick sides. I’m here because I have a nephew who needs both his parents, and right now, both of you are too busy trying to destroy each other to even see what that’s doing to him.”

I stepped closer, not breaking eye contact. “Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m the problem. I’m the one who stayed. I’m the one feeding him, rocking him to sleep, making sure he doesn’t wake up crying because his mother decided to vanish again.”

“I’m not excusing her,” he said tightly. “I’m just saying you don’t get to erase her either.”

“She erased herself,” I snapped. “The moment she crawled back to her ex like nothing else mattered. Like Faisal didn’t matter.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

From behind Luqman, Faisal stirred in his crib, letting out a soft murmur that cracked the air like glass. We both paused. I looked down at my son, his tiny face calm again, lips parted in peaceful sleep.

When I looked back up, Luqman’s eyes had softened, but only slightly. “She’s messed up. I won’t deny that. But she’s still Faisal’s mother. And you… Rani, you’re many things, but spiteful isn’t who you are.”

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms again, leaning against the wall now. “You clearly don’t know me well enough.”

“I know you care more than you want anyone to see,” he said, stepping toward me, his voice quieter now. “That’s why you’re here in BGC, locked in a penthouse you hate, waiting for a woman you supposedly can’t stand.”

I scoffed, looking away. “You sound like Lamia.”

He gave a humorless smile. “I sound like someone who doesn’t want his nephew growing up in the middle of a silent war.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because deep down, even through all the anger and exhaustion and bitterness, I knew he was right.

But I wasn’t going to say it out loud. Not yet. Not while Lamia was still out there pretending the truth didn’t matter.

——

The clink of cutlery echoed across the long marble dining table, a sound too elegant for the tension simmering beneath it. The BGC skyline glittered through the penthouse windows behind Luqman and Lameel, a perfect backdrop for what was definitely not a perfect dinner.

I sat at the head of the table, legs crossed, stabbing half-heartedly at a grilled salmon that Manang Sally cooked before heading to bed again. Lameel was nibbling on one of those mango tartlets she brought, because of course she was. And Luqman? He ate with soldier-like efficiency, as if he were fueling up for another round of emotionally charged negotiations.

Faisal was asleep in the nursery, the baby monitor silent on the console beside me. I wished I could be in there with him instead. But here I was, sitting across from Lamia’s siblings, talking about the woman I hated most in the world.

“So,” I muttered, swirling my wine, “did Lamia give you the whole dramatic retelling? Or just the parts that make me look like a jealous witch?”

“She didn’t sugarcoat anything,” Luqman said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin like he was hosting a board meeting and not dissecting his sister’s affair. “She admitted it. That she saw Peterson again. That it wasn’t the first time. And that she lied about ending it.”

“She didn’t just lie,” I snapped, setting my wine down a little too hard. “She made me feel crazy for suspecting it. Gaslit me, avoided me, disappeared on me. And then she packed her bags and left like she was the victim.”

Lameel glanced between us, her expression uncertain. “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I gave a bitter laugh. “That’s the Al-Gadaffi family motto, isn’t it? ‘We didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’“

Luqman leaned forward, elbows resting on the table now. “She’s scared, Rani. She doesn’t know how to face Babba. She knows what this will mean when the truth comes out.”

I scoffed. “She should have thought of that before crawling back to her high school flame like a bored debutante.”

“She’s not bored,” Luqman said sharply, eyes flashing. “She’s confused. Miserable. And yes… guilty. That doesn’t erase what she did, but it doesn’t mean she’s unredeemable.”

I stared at him, then slowly sat back in my chair, folding my arms.

“Gusto mo na patawarin ko siya?” I asked quietly. “Kaya nandito kayong dalawa ngayon?”

“No,” Lameel said softly, brushing a crumb from her lip. “We’re here because Faisal needs peace. And maybe… maybe so do you.”

I looked at her then, really looked at the girl Lamia used to protect so fiercely, the little sister she always talked about with fondness I never understood. And suddenly, I hated that these two knew Lamia in a way I never could. Knew the parts of her that maybe weren’t monstrous. Maybe weren’t mine to judge.

But I couldn’t soften. Not yet.

“You want peace?” I said, voice low. “Tell your sister to stop running. Tell her to come back and look me in the eye. Then maybe we’ll talk about peace.”

The room fell into silence again. Outside, the wind howled faintly between the buildings. Luqman slowly pushed his plate forward and stood, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer.

“We’ll tell her,” he said. “But you’d better be ready when she does.”

I watched them both leave the dining room, the sound of their footsteps growing distant down the hall. I stayed there, alone at the table, the untouched wine still waiting beside me.

I didn’t know if I was ready.

But if Lamia was finally going to stop running, then maybe I had to stop hiding too.