Chapter 11

Rani’s Point Of View

The boardroom was cold, pristine, and utterly mine. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched behind me, offering a dizzying view of BGC’s towering skyline, glass and steel monuments to ambition, power, and the kind of hunger I lived for. Sunlight streamed in through the blinds in disciplined lines, casting sharp shadows across the polished walnut table.

My stilettos clicked in sharp rhythm as I paced the room, the echo purposeful. I knew the effect I had in this room, the confidence, the silk blouse tailored to power, the scent of control. My assistant had placed the dossiers just the way I liked: aligned, crisp, nothing out of place. Like me.

Across the table, a trio of investors from Seoul murmured to each other, flipping through our quarterly reports with the slow reverence of men who’d clearly come to play hardball but knew they were in my arena now. I caught one of them watching me over the rim of his glasses. I gave him a look that said: Try me.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t need to. My presence did the work.

My voice cut through the murmurs like a scalpel. “Gentlemen, I didn’t bring you here to waste your time with conservative proposals and safe projections. If you’re looking for predictable, you’re in the wrong city and the wrong boardroom.”

I clicked the remote in my hand. The screen behind me shifted to a sharp, sleek presentation, numbers, graphs, targets all surging upward like they were chasing the sky. My voice stayed cool, but my heart beat steady beneath it. This was where I belonged. Not in petty domestic fights. Not in Lamia’s drama. Here. In command.

“Our projections for Q3 outpaced industry standards by 27%. And that’s without touching the ASEAN expansion model, which,” I turned, locking eyes with the older man across the table, “is what we’ll be dissecting today.”

He nodded, leaning forward.

The room smelled faintly of expensive coffee, leather, and freshly printed paper. No diapers. No baby lotion. No betrayal.

For the next two hours, there would be no Faisal. No Lamia. No Peterson. No heartbreak lodged under my ribs like a shard of glass.

Just me. My empire. And the billion-peso game I came here to win.

I walked them through every number, every curve on the projection graphs, every bullet point like I had written the economy myself. Because in a way, I had. I didn’t just build this company I carved it out of nothing with blood, strategy, and stilettos sharp enough to draw blood. These men came here expecting a polished pitch from a pretty face. What they got was a goddamn masterclass.

One of them raised a hand mid-sentence. Mr. Han, the cautious one. I stopped immediately and faced him, arms casually resting on the edge of the table.

“Yes, Mr. Han?”

He adjusted his cufflinks, his accent thick but precise. “Your numbers are aggressive. And expansion this fast, with no acquisition safety net, some would call that reckless.”

I smiled. Not the charming kind. The kind that meant I’ve already won and I’m being polite about it.

“Reckless,” I repeated, stepping closer to him. “If men did it, it would be called visionary. Let me remind you, this company survived three fiscal waves, two economic dips, and a scandal from a former partner that would’ve drowned weaker brands. And we didn’t just stay afloat. We dominated.”

The younger man beside him chuckled softly and nodded. Mr. Han leaned back, clearly intrigued now, not threatened. Good.

My assistant knocked once and opened the door halfway. “Ma’am, Mr. Velasquez from PR is waiting for your signature on the Manila rollout.”

I lifted a hand without taking my eyes off the table. “Have him wait. I’m in the middle of securing thirty million dollars.”

The assistant disappeared. I turned back to the table, my tone sharper now.

“Gentlemen, I didn’t become the youngest CEO in this district by asking permission to lead. I’m not inviting you to play it safe. I’m offering you a seat on the fastest moving bullet in the Southeast Asian market.”

Then I clicked to the final slide.

“Our exit model for Year Five. Triple return. Minimum.”

The room went silent again. And this time, it was the kind I liked, the quiet before agreement. The sound of minds flipping over, recalculating everything they assumed about the woman in front of them.

Finally, Mr. Han set his pen down and smiled, eyes gleaming. “You’re not what we expected.”

I took my seat, crossed my legs, and tilted my head. “That’s how I stay dangerous.”

One by one, they nodded. A handshake here. A signed commitment there. Done. Just like that. Power, sealed in paper.

But as I reached for my phone to text my assistant about clearing the next hour, I saw the lock screen light up.

1 Missed Call – Unknown Number
1 New Message – Lamia Al-Gadaffi

My heart stumbled. A pause I didn’t ask for. The message preview blinked like a loaded gun:

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
I’m outside.

And suddenly, the boardroom didn’t feel so cold anymore.

——

The elevator doors hissed open and I stepped out like I owned the whole damn building which, to be fair, I practically did. The heels of my Louboutins clicked like gunshots across the marble lobby as I walked, spine straight, jaw locked, heart hammering behind my ribs.

And there she was.

Lamia Al-Gadaffi. Leaning against one of the marble pillars like she was gracing the floor with her presence. Dressed head to toe in black like she was attending the funeral of our marriage, fitted trousers, silk blouse, and a pair of oversized sunglasses she didn’t even bother taking off indoors. Of course not. Lamia didn’t enter rooms. She made entrances.

She looked up the moment she heard my steps. A slow, amused smile curled on her lips.

“Wow,” she said, sliding the sunglasses down her nose. “Still dramatic, even just walking across a lobby. You should charge admission.”

I didn’t blink. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you showing up looking like a discount Audrey Hepburn.”

Lamia smirked, unfazed. She pushed off the pillar and walked toward me, heels just as loud as mine, like it was some runway battle in a Vogue editorial no one asked for. She stopped a breath away, her perfume hitting me like a slap of nostalgia I refused to admit I missed.

“I’m here because Luqman Omar talked to me,” she said, folding her arms like she was the one in charge. “Said you’ve been playing martyr while dragging my name through every diaper change.”

I gave a sharp, icy laugh. “Oh, he told you that? Did he also mention you haven’t been around to even see Faisal’s first word? But sure, let’s talk about me being dramatic.”

Her jaw clenched for half a second. “Don’t pretend you’re doing all this out of love. You stayed in that penthouse for control. You like being the one who gets to say ‘Look at me, I’m the stable one.'”

“I am the stable one,” I snapped. “You? You ran the moment reality stopped looking like your curated little Instagram fantasy.”

“Oh please,” Lamia rolled her eyes. “You act like I left you for a vacation in the Maldives. I was suffocating in that penthouse with your rules, your routines, your spreadsheets for every hour of Faisal’s day.”

“That’s called parenting, Lamia,” I hissed, stepping closer. “Maybe if you pulled your head out of Peterson’s lap for five minutes, you’d learn how to spell it.”

That hit. Good.

Her lips twitched, either a snarl or a smirk, I couldn’t tell. “You really want to go there?”

I tilted my head. “I live there.”

She took a slow breath, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not here to beg. I came to talk. Luqman made me realize I left things… wrong.”

“Oh, sweetie,” I said, leaning in just enough for her to hear the venom under my voice. “You didn’t just leave things wrong. You detonated the whole damn house and ran off with the lighter.”

“And yet, here I am,” she snapped back, smile ice-cold. “Standing in your precious lobby. Facing the queen of passive-aggressive speeches herself. So tell me, do we talk? Or do you want to keep playing CEO Barbie while our son grows up thinking his mothers are allergic to humility?”

I blinked.

Then I gave her a slow, dangerous smile.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s talk. But you’re not getting any of that humble, teary-eyed forgiveness you’re probably hoping for. I’m not built for that.”

Lamia lifted her chin, cocked her head.

“Neither am I.”

We stood there, two divas in a Mexican standoff, the BGC skyline glittering behind us like we were about to start act two of a designer-clad war.

Let the games begin.

The tension was a living thing between us, chic, venomous, and high-heeled. Every glance was a loaded gun, every word a blade sharpened by years of forced domesticity, press photos, and polite lies.

I crossed my arms, taking her in from head to toe like I was appraising a chandelier I had half a mind to throw away. “So what exactly did big brother Luqman tell you? That I’m a villain? That I’m making your life difficult by actually raising our son while you play Juliet to your washed-up ex?”

Lamia laughed low, sarcastic, insulting. “He told me you were being impossible, which I didn’t doubt. But he also said you weren’t okay. And for some reason, he thinks I should care.”

I gave her a look so flat you could iron silk on it. “Touching. But if you think showing up here like some misunderstood antihero is going to make me fall apart, you’re even more delusional than I thought.”

She took a step closer, chin raised, eyes locked with mine. “I didn’t come here to make you fall apart, Rani. That happens all on its own every time someone doesn’t orbit around your ego.”

“Oh, honey.” I tilted my head with a venomous little smile. “You talk like someone who wasn’t living under my roof, wearing my name, spending my money, and still chasing a man like a thirsty college intern.”

Her jaw tightened. “You think you were doing me a favor? I gave up everything too. My career. My home in Antipolo. My freedom. All to play house with someone who treated me like a PR accessory.”

“And yet here you are, crawling back into the scandal you created,” I fired back, my voice silk-wrapped steel. “So which is it, Lamia? Am I the prison or the safe place you ran to after Peterson couldn’t give you what you needed?”

She flinched, but she didn’t back down. “I didn’t come back for you.”

“Of course not,” I snapped. “You never do. You come back because you don’t want people to think you’re the bad guy. You want to look like the ‘bigger person’ who showed up. Well guess what? No one here is clapping.”

Lamia stared at me for a long moment, her chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. “I came back… for Faisal. He’s my son. And I won’t let you turn him against me.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Then act like his mother for once. Not some ghost that shows up in designer sunglasses and delivers speeches.”

She looked away for a second, just a second, and when her eyes returned to mine, something had shifted. The usual icy confidence had a crack in it. Barely visible. But it was there.

“I miss him,” she said quietly. “Even if you hate me, I’m not going to stay away anymore.”

I clenched my jaw. That was the problem, wasn’t it? I did hate her. And yet hearing that… hearing that made something in my throat tighten.

“You don’t get to just miss him and walk back in like this is a weekend custody fantasy,” I said coldly. “You want to see him? Fine. But you’ll play by my rules.”

Lamia arched a brow. “Oh? And what are your rules, Madame CEO?”

I stepped forward, my voice low, dangerous. “No games. No lies. No Peterson. And if you so much as breathe scandal around our son, I will bury you with so much legal firepower your family will think you died twice.”

She smirked.

“Now that’s the Rani I remember,” Lamia said. “Vicious. Overbearing. Hot as hell. But I won’t obey your rules. I’m here for my son, not you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Spare me the charm. This isn’t a romantic comedy. You don’t get the girl in the end.”

Lamia leaned in, just a little, lips curved like she had something wicked to say, but then she pulled back and straightened her blouse.

“Then let’s start with ten minutes. I want to see my son.”

I stared at her. Then slowly, grudgingly, I gestured toward the private elevator.

“Follow me.”

And just like that, the diva war moved to the penthouse once again.

God help us all.

——

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, and we stepped into the penthouse, the battleground we never really left. The scent of fresh baby lotion mixed with the faint trace of jasmine from the diffuser, like some twisted peace treaty between chaos and calm.

Lamia’s heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor, matching my own steps like two predators circling the same prey. Neither of us spoke, but the air was thick enough to slice through.

I led the way straight to the nursery, our son’s sanctuary from this war we refused to end. The door creaked open, and there he was: Faisal, nestled in his crib, eyes fluttering as he stirred in the soft glow of the nightlight.

Lamia’s breath caught. I caught her hand twitch, hesitant, torn between wanting to reach out and wanting to retreat.

I watched her carefully. “You want to see him? Now’s your chance.”

She swallowed, eyes locked on Faisal’s peaceful face. “He’s… perfect.”

“Yeah,” I said, voice low, “he’s perfect. And he’s the one thing neither of us gets to mess up.”

Lamia turned to me, expression softening, just for a flicker. “I don’t want to mess him up. Not like we did to ourselves.”

Her words hit harder than any argument, and for a moment, the penthouse felt less like a cage and more like a fragile truce.

I nodded, barely. “Then don’t.”

She looked back at Faisal, whispering his name like it was a prayer.

And in that quiet room, with the city lights glittering far below, two divas stood not as enemies, but as mothers trying to find a way through the mess we made.

But make no mistake, this was only the beginning.

Lamia’s eyes stayed locked on Faisal, whispering his name like it was a lifeline she’d been cut off from too long. I stood beside her, arms crossed, my heart a fortress, but even fortresses have cracks.

“So,” I finally said, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the tension, “what exactly do you want now? Custody? Photos? Or just a reminder you still exist in his life?”

She glanced at me, that smirk flickering, half playful, half defiant. “Funny you ask. I’m not here to play happy families or pretend this is some perfect story.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Then what? You planning to swoop in, steal our son, and run back to Peterson like nothing changed?”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “I’m not leaving Peterson. Not now, not ever.”

The words hit me like a punch. “So what? You expect me to just… share him? To pretend I’m okay with you having two lives?”

She shrugged, unapologetic. “You think I want this? I’m not a villain, Rani. I love Faisal. I love Peterson. It’s complicated. Welcome to my life.”

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “Complicated? You call betrayal and running off ‘complicated’? You left me drowning in a sea of responsibilities while you chased some fantasy.”

“Don’t act like you had it all figured out,” Lamia shot back. “You’re not the saint here. You just hid behind control and spreadsheets because feelings scare you.”

The silence grew thick, but this time it wasn’t just anger, it was raw, ugly truth laid bare.

She looked at me, eyes softer but fierce. “I’m here because Luqman said I needed to. Because Faisal deserves both of us, even if we can’t be what you want.”

I clenched my jaw. “Then be clear, what are you really here for? Because I’m not giving you an inch without fighting tooth and nail.”

Her smirk turned into a sad smile. “I want a chance. Not to fix us, but to be in his life, without lies, without pretending I’m someone I’m not.”

I met her gaze, feeling the bitter sting of a war that wasn’t black and white. “Fine. But this isn’t some fairytale reunion. It’s a truce. For Faisal.”

She nodded. “A truce.”

Two divas. Two mothers. One impossible future.

And neither of us backing down.

The room hung heavy with that fragile truce, but I wasn’t about to let it soften me too much, not yet. My voice dropped, colder than before, sharp as a diamond edge.

“Listen carefully, Lamia. Tomorrow morning, I want all your things back here, in this penthouse. Every last bag, every shoe, every designer label you’ve got stashed away in that mansion of yours.”

She blinked, caught off guard, but her smirk didn’t waver. “You want me to move back in? Just like that?”

I stepped closer, fixing her with a look that brooked no argument. “I don’t care about the ‘why.’ I care about what’s best for Faisal. And if you want a piece of his life, you get to be present. Not disappear halfway between Antipolo and Peterson’s place.”

Lamia’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, frustration, maybe, or challenge.

“Fine,” she said, voice cool but steady. “I’ll bring my things. But don’t think this means I’m signing up for your rules.”

I shrugged, already turning away toward the nursery again. “We’ll see. For now, just get your act together. Tomorrow starts the new game.”

She laughed, low and sharp. “You always did love playing hardball, Rani.”

I glanced back, a savage smile on my lips.

“And you? You’re just finally coming to play.”