Chapter 35

Rani’s Point Of View

The city skyline outside my office windows looked exactly the same, but something inside me had shifted.

It was 6:00 AM and the tower floor was still quiet, just the low hum of central air, and the mechanical sound of the espresso machine hissing in the kitchenette outside. I’d arrived an hour earlier. No fanfare. No soft comeback. Just the weight of reality slamming down like an old curtain after a ruined act.

I leaned back in my Italian leather chair, arms crossed over the white silk blouse I paired with high-waisted, camel-colored slacks. My blue eyes were ringed with fatigue, but the full face of contour and matte lipstick made sure no one would ever know. The heels clicking beneath my desk were my armor, and the tight bun on my head was my crown.

Rani Hidalgo was back.

And she was going to make the whole damn building feel it.

I stared at the steaming cup of black coffee on my table, untouched. My inbox had over 600 unread emails. Elise, my ever-loyal secretary, had tried to warn me that maybe I shouldn’t come in today. But when she saw the glint in my eyes at the airport when I told her to “clear my damn calendar and bring me all urgent files,” she didn’t say another word.

Because everyone knew one thing about me by now:

When Rani’s heart is in chaos, she works.

And I wasn’t going to cry. Not for her.

The glass door to my office suddenly swung open without a knock, only one person in the world ever did that and survived.

“Jesus Christ, Rani,” Queen said, tossing her luxury tote bag onto the guest chair in front of me. “You’re insane. You just landed at what… ten PM? And you’re already in full corporate diva mode like you didn’t just storm out of Dubai with a baby and heartbreak.”

I gave her a dry look, leaning forward, elbows resting on my sleek desk. “Queen, darling, the world doesn’t stop turning just because my wife turned out to be a selfish idiot.”

Queen rolled her eyes and flopped onto the chair, crossing her legs in that effortless model-off-duty way that made even her sweatpants look runway. She studied me.

“You look like war,” she said. “You smell like Byredo and vengeance.”

“Good,” I replied coolly, tapping a red-lacquered nail on my tablet. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

She sighed. “Okay, so are you gonna tell me what the hell happened? Last I saw on Instagram, you were riding yachts and eating gold-covered tiramisu. And then the next thing I know, Elise tells me you’re back in BGC with Faisal in your arms like you just escaped from a telenovela.”

I exhaled, tossing the pen I was holding onto the desk. “Zaki showed up with roses, asked Lamia on a ‘friendly’ dinner, she went out until eleven, came back drunk. Smelling like God knows what. She told me I was overreacting. So I booked the earliest flight I could and left before sunrise.”

Queen blinked. “She let you leave? Just like that?”

“Oh no, she didn’t let me,” I said, with a bitter smirk. “She was still hungover when I carried my son out of that mansion. I didn’t even leave a note.”

Queen groaned, burying her face in her hands. “This is why I hate beautiful people in complicated marriages. It’s always drama, betrayal, tears in luxury bathrooms…”

“She picked him,” I said, my voice tightening. “Even if it was just for one night. Even if she says it meant nothing. She knew how I felt, Queen. And she still chose to go.”

Queen sat up straighter. “Do you think she regrets it?”

I paused.

A hundred memories from that trip flashed behind my eyes, Faisal’s first steps on her jet, Lamia laughing with her grandparents, whispering promises on the yacht… and then the way she brushed off Zaki’s invitation like it was no big deal.

I swallowed hard. “I think she doesn’t know how to protect what matters.”

Queen leaned forward, lowering her voice. “So what now?”

I clicked on my screen, opening spreadsheets, reviewing supplier invoices like it would erase the tremor in my chest. “Now? I work. I rebuild.”

“And Lamia?”

I gave her a withering look. “Lamia can choke on her imported whiskey.”

Queen burst out laughing. “God, I missed you.”

I smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach my eyes. The truth was, I missed me too. The version of me before Lamia. Before the arranged marriage, before the slow-burning softness, before I foolishly started believing in something real between us.

I had forgotten how to stand alone.

But today?

Today I remembered.

My phone buzzed beside me. A new message.

Lamia Al-Gadaffi
Rani, please pick up. We need to talk. I’m on my jet going back to Manila.

I stared at the screen, heart clenching.

Queen peeked over. “That her?”

I nodded, locked the phone, and stood up. “I need to go down to floor seventeen. Elise said the new boardroom table’s delayed and I want to personally scream at whoever’s responsible.”

Queen whistled. “Classic.”

“I’m back, Queen,” I said, fixing my collar in the mirror behind my desk.

I left my office, heels echoing with the same conviction I was trying to convince myself I still had. But the ache in my chest whispered otherwise.

Because deep down, despite everything…

I wasn’t sure I wanted her to stop chasing me.

My heels echoed like thunder through the polished marble floors as I stepped out of my office, head high, jaw clenched. My assistant Elise had just arrived at the reception desk, her sleek ponytail bouncing as she jumped to attention the moment she saw me coming down the hall like a storm in full form.

“Elise,” I said, not breaking my stride, “Did you get in touch with logistics? I want that boardroom table delivered today. I don’t care if they have to fly it in from the moon.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she nodded, clutching her tablet as she tried to keep pace with me. “Also, the Bangkok investors are on the line again asking if you’re available for a Zoom this afternoon…”

“Push them to tomorrow morning. I need this day to remember who I am.”

I wasn’t lying.

I needed every second, every inch of my day to be filled with things that had nothing to do with Lamia Al-Gadaffi. Because if I gave my heart even one second of stillness, I was terrified I’d unravel completely.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped in, Elise hesitating.

“I’ll walk from here,” I muttered, my voice clipped, and she got the message.

I leaned back against the elevator wall and let my eyes flutter shut. For a moment, the hum of the elevator softened, and I remembered the way Lamia had held Faisal the night before she left for dinner. The kiss she gave me on the forehead before walking out in a silk blouse and her signature cologne. How I’d stood by the window, watching her car drive away, knowing I’d already lost something I couldn’t put into words.

I’d known.

That was the worst part.

Somewhere between the yacht, the diamonds, and the dinners with her grandparents, I’d let myself believe we were safe. That we were becoming something real. That maybe, just maybe, the universe didn’t make a mistake with us.

But love built on borrowed time never lasts.

The elevator dinged and I walked out onto floor seventeen like nothing had happened, like I hadn’t just remembered what her voice sounded like in the dark, whispering my name like a prayer. I walked past my design team, who greeted me with a mix of respect and fear, God, I missed being feared and stepped into the empty boardroom where the new table still hadn’t arrived.

I dialed the supplier directly and let loose.

Every sharp-tongued, diamond-edged piece of me that Lamia had spent a year softening came back in full force. And it felt good.

And yet, somewhere in my gut, there was a throb of something I couldn’t name.

By 11 a.m., I had stormed through three meetings, made a junior exec cry, and approved two campaigns. Queen had left for an audition but texted me an article about “how to emotionally recover after dating a Sagittarius” with about fifteen laughing emojis.

But still… I couldn’t shake the weight.

And then, it happened.

My phone buzzed again. Another message from her.

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
Rani. Please. I’m sorry. Kausapin mo na ako.

This time, a photo came attached.

It was Faisal in Dubai. His curly head against Lamia’s chest, her eyes tired and swollen but so heartbreakingly sincere.

And there it was again… that tug.

That impossible, infuriating, damn tug that made me want to scream and cry and kiss her all at once.

I locked my phone and pressed it against my lips for a moment. I stood at the glass window of the boardroom, looking out over BGC, clean, modern, efficient. A city that didn’t care how badly your heart ached.

I could feel it, her flight was probably already booked. I knew Lamia. She was impulsive in the worst ways and relentless in the best. She’d show up. She’d cry. She’d kneel if she had to. And part of me was already bracing for it.

But I wasn’t ready to forgive her.

Not when I gave her everything.

I stayed late in the office that night. Queen called, offering to come over with tequila and a playlist, but I told her I needed space. Elise tried to get me to approve the rest of the Q3 budgets. I ignored the request.

All I did was stare at my phone.

Stare at the last message Lamia had sent. At the picture of her and our son. The family we had built without ever meaning to.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, I stood in my penthouse kitchen at 2:30 a.m., wearing one of Lamia’s old button-downs she’d left behind months ago, too big on me, smelling faintly of cedar and spice, and poured myself a glass of wine I never touched.

I wasn’t crying.

But my chest ached.

Maybe I was foolish for leaving. Maybe I was brave. Maybe it was both.

But the thing was…

Even if she chased me across oceans…

I didn’t want Lamia to just say sorry.

I wanted her to choose me.

Every time. Always.

Even when it wasn’t convenient.

Even when I was difficult.

Even when I was Rani.

And until she did…

I wasn’t opening the door.

——

The morning haze barely lifted from the BGC skyline as I walked through the quiet corridors of my firm. The faint scent of coffee and glass cleaner lingered in the air, familiar, controlled. My heels echoed against the tiles like a ticking metronome, one that helped me keep time against the chaos sitting just beneath the surface of my skin.

I’d slept three hours. Maybe less.

My hand clutched my venti Americano tighter.

Faisal was still asleep when I left this morning. I gave him a kiss on the head, whispered I’d be home early, a lie I told myself more than I told him. Because being home meant silence. And silence meant Lamia wasn’t there.

By 7:04 a.m., I was already seated at my glass desk, desktop powered up, moodboard open on my screen for the upcoming luxury rebrand we’d been preparing for months. I slid my fingers over the trackpad, opening the file folders one by one. Fonts. Visuals. Decks. Projections.

Routine. That was my protection. That was my armor.

Until…

A soft knock on the glass door.

I glanced up and saw Elise, standing in her usual crisp white blouse, holding something in her arms. Her brows were arched high and her lips parted slightly, unsure whether to look impressed or disturbed.

She stepped inside without waiting for permission, because she knew I hated it when she hovered.

“Ma’am… May princess charming na nagbabalik po para sainyo” she said, her voice dropping to that amused pitch she only used when things were getting juicy. She gently placed the enormous bouquet in front of me on my table. “It’s from… well, read the card.”

I blinked.

Orchids.

Not roses. Not tulips. Not lilies.

But thick, pristine white orchids cascading like velvet waterfalls out of a massive clear vase, no plastic, no fillers, just elegance. Opulence. I could smell them before I even reached forward. It was intoxicating and clean, like something that came from a palace garden.

And then I saw it.

The embossed cream card wedged inside a gold-lined envelope nestled within the petals.

I hesitated. Just for a second.

My perfectly manicured fingers plucked the card out like it was a snake coiled in a garden. I flipped it over and read the familiar ink.

To my Rani,

You said I had to choose you, even when it’s hard.
So here I am, not with words. But with intention.
This is from me. Not as your wife. Not as Faisal’s mother. Not as a granddaughter trying to please a bloodline.
But as Lamia.

–Monique

The signature made my throat tighten.

Monique.

The name I’d only recently discovered, the one her family called her when she was still innocent and free, before the pressure of legacy wrapped around her like steel. It was the name she never let the world use. But she gave it to me now. On this card. On this declaration.

“Elise,” I murmured, eyes still glued to the neat cursive.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Where did it come from?”

She pulled her tablet closer. “Sabi po ng delivery rider galing daw po sa Al-Gaddafi Oil and Gas Ventures. The guy looked terrified. I tipped him for emotional labor.”

I smirked despite myself.

Of course. Lamia would go that far.

It wasn’t even the flowers that got me. It was the audacity to send it here, to my battlefield, my kingdom, where I ruled with sharp heels and sharper words. She’d dared to walk her heart into my fortress.

I looked at the orchids again.

They weren’t a peace offering.

They were a challenge.

Elise was still lingering, eyes glittering. “Should I… uh, Itatapon ko po ba?”

“Neither,” I said, voice cool but tight. “Have someone move them to the executive lounge. I don’t want them here while I’m reviewing the Q3 plans.”

“Copy po.”

She lifted the vase with a grunt, the thing must’ve weighed like a baby elephant, and made her way out, leaving me alone again. But the silence felt different now. Like it wasn’t mine anymore.

Lamia was making a move.

And worse?

It was working.

Because my hand was still holding that card… and my lips were trembling. Not with anger.

But with something dangerously close to hope.

——

It was exactly 5:02 PM when I pushed the door open to the penthouse.

The late afternoon glow filtered through the wide glass panels, painting golden streaks across the hardwood floors and marble surfaces. Manila’s skyline glittered in the distance, unbothered, brilliant… but inside me, everything was still unsettled. I had made it through the day like a machine: meeting after meeting, checking deliverables, pretending I was fine.

I wasn’t.

My pumps clicked quietly as I walked into the foyer, dropping my keys into the gold tray by the console. My bag slipped from my shoulder and onto the cushioned bench as I unfastened the buttons of my blazer, not expecting…

“Rani.”

I froze.

The sound of that voice.

I turned toward the living room slowly, and there she was. Lamia. Sitting on the cream velvet couch in a soft, loose white blouse tucked into high-waisted beige trousers. Her hair was tied in a low, effortless ponytail. No lipstick. Just clear gloss. She looked… different. Like the version of her from Dubai had been stripped of all the steel and titles. Just her. Still. Raw. Bare.

She stood up the second she saw my face, her fingers wringing together. Her eyes searched mine, not with pride, not with ego… but with aching restraint.

“I…” she started, stepping closer. “I didn’t want to text. I didn’t want to call. I wanted to tell you this in person.”

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t ready to give her my voice yet.

“I know you think I betrayed you that night,” she said softly, almost reverently. “And maybe I did. I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t.”

She took another careful step.

“The dinner with Zaki… it wasn’t romantic. I swear, Rani. I went because I thought I could finally end it. Properly. He’s been a shadow following me for years, and if I didn’t go… I knew he would come up again and again and again, just like he did in Dubai. And I’m tired. I’m tired of men thinking I belong to them because I used to care.”

I blinked. My mouth remained a thin line.

Lamia breathed out and looked away, her voice quieter now. “He told me he was still in love with me. That night. Over drinks. And I laughed. I think that made him angrier. Because I told him I wasn’t the girl he remembered. That I was already someone’s wife. And I’m not just your wife… I’m yours, Rani. Even when I don’t always know how to show it.”

That last line made my stomach twist.

She walked closer, closing the distance between us. “I should’ve gone home earlier. I should’ve texted. I know I scared you. But the only reason I stayed out late was because I needed to make it crystal clear to him that he had no place in my life. Not even as a friend.”

I dropped my gaze for a moment, catching the tremble in her fingers.

“Do you know what else I told him?” she asked, stepping even closer. “I told him that you hate roses. That you’d probably start World War III over one red petal in our kitchen. I told him that my son is being raised by the most powerful woman I’ve ever met, and that she could destroy a man without lifting her voice.”

My eyes flicked back to hers.

“And then,” she added, voice cracking just a little, “I told him I’d never forgive myself if I made you feel like second choice.”

It was that line. That line.

The dam inside me cracked. I didn’t cry. Not yet. But my shoulders fell. The wall I’d been keeping up since that night in Dubai, since the moment I felt her slipping, gave way to something softer.

Something raw.

I whispered, “Why didn’t you just say that before?”

“I didn’t know how,” Lamia replied honestly. “I’ve always known how to win deals. How to lead meetings. How to conquer shareholders. But you? Loving you scares the shit out of me. Because I can’t out-negotiate you, Rani. I can’t charm my way out of your silence. And when you hurt, I feel like I’m drowning.”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

Silence stretched again. Our breaths were the only thing between us now.

And then I stepped forward.

I reached out slowly, my hand brushing over her wrist. Her skin was warm, like she’d been waiting for my touch all day.

“I booked a flight back because I thought I’d lost you,” I admitted, my voice barely audible. “I thought you’d rather flirt with memories than fight for us.”

Lamia’s lips parted, her expression breaking into guilt. “No. Never. I want us. Always. I’m sorry it took me this long to figure out what it meant to really fight for you.”

Her hand cupped the side of my face, fingers gentle but urgent.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I didn’t answer her right away.

Instead, I leaned forward, just enough to press my forehead against hers. My hands slid around her waist as she held me like a tether, like I was something she had no intention of letting go again.

And for the first time since that night, I let myself believe it.

Maybe this wasn’t the end.

Maybe it was the beginning of us learning each other the right way.

No secrets.

No shadows.

Just Lamia.

Just me.

Just this.

——

The sun had barely started its descent when we finally entered our bedroom, our room that had seen both war and worship. I closed the door behind me gently, and for once, there was no tension thick in the air. No unsaid things sitting between us. Just the soft rustle of Lamia’s blouse as she moved ahead of me, her back bathed in that soft amber light slipping through the windows.

I stood still for a second, taking her in.

Her dark hair was in a loose, low ponytail, and she’d changed into something simple, a white tank and silk shorts. And yet, there was something almost sacred about how she moved, how she carried herself even without heels or power suits. Lamia was soft like moonlight tonight. But I knew her softness was a choice. Just for me.

She turned toward me and smiled, nervous, maybe even shy. I let my bag fall on the armchair, slipping off my heels as I padded across the plush carpet, the quiet echo of the city far beneath us.

“You okay?” she asked, voice like cotton.

I nodded. “I am now.”

A sigh of relief escaped her as she sat down on the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing over the blanket like it was a piece of memory. Then she looked up at me again, her eyes glassy with something unspoken, longing, guilt, love. I wasn’t sure. But I felt it tugging at me.

I walked toward her slowly, stopping right in front of her knees. I leaned down, brushing my fingers gently through her hair, and whispered, “Move over.”

Lamia let out a soft laugh, relieved, light. She scooted back onto the bed, and I climbed up after her, curling beside her the way I used to during our earliest nights, before we had even liked each other, when all we had was this quiet magnetism that refused to let go.

She lay back, and I rested my head on her chest, our legs tangled like vines, her fingers immediately playing with my hair.

“You scared me,” I whispered into her collarbone.

“I know,” she murmured back, kissing the top of my head. “And I never want to do that again.”

I looked up at her, lifting my chin so I could meet her eyes. “Do you know how hard it is to be a diva and heartbroken at the same time? It’s exhausting.”

Lamia chuckled, the sound vibrating softly against me. “And yet you looked perfect while doing it.”

“I always look perfect. But that’s not the point.”

She tilted her head and gave me that half-smile, the one that always made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. “Then what’s the point?”

“That I love you,” I murmured, feeling my heart do a quiet somersault. “Even when I hate you. Even when you’re difficult. Even when you smell like foreign whiskey and past lovers.”

She froze, then gave a small, guilty laugh. “Never again.”

“You better not,” I said, poking her side. “Or I’ll have your car set on fire.”

“I believe you.”

We both laughed, and the sound felt like wind chimes after a storm. Sweet, airy, a little fragile, but still standing.

Lamia reached for my hand and brought it to her lips, kissing my knuckles one by one like I was something sacred. Her thumb brushed over the back of my hand slowly. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I love you. Not Peterson. Not Zaki. Not even myself.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

She continued, softer now, “I think that’s why I mess it up sometimes. I’m used to controlling everything, every deal, every decision, every room I walk into. But you? You’re the one thing I can’t control. And I don’t want to. I just want to love you right.”

I leaned forward, crawling until I was on top of her, my hands bracing either side of her head. She looked up at me like I was a miracle, and I hated how much I needed that look.

“I don’t want roses,” I said. “I want honesty. I want effort. I want… you. Present. Sober. Here.”

“I’m here,” she whispered.

I dipped down, kissing her slowly, no rush, no hunger, just the soft ache of two souls who had finally found each other again. She kissed me back like she’d been starving. Like she hadn’t slept properly since I left.

We lay there for what felt like forever. No words. Just hands tracing skin, noses brushing, foreheads touching. I could feel her heartbeat against mine, and for the first time in days, I felt peace.

“I missed this,” I whispered.

“Me too.”

“And I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” she said, smiling up at me. “You can be mad while cuddling me. I can handle it.”

I rolled my eyes, then let out a breathless laugh. “I hate how much you know me.”

“You don’t hate it.”

“Fine. I love it.”

She pulled me tighter to her, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for coming home.”

And I knew, in that exact moment, that this, her arms, this bed, this quiet after the storm was where I was always meant to return to. Not because we were perfect. But because we were willing to try. Every time. Again and again.

And this time… I wasn’t letting her go.