Chapter 5

Rani’s Point Of View

The signature of my name had begun to blur.
Not on the paper, but in my mind.

I dropped the pen for the fifth time in the last hour, let my fingers flex, and stared blankly at the stack of documents on my desk. They seemed endless, like a tide that kept returning no matter how much I tried to push it back. Contracts. Approvals. Expense reports. Investor updates. My life in black ink and fine print.

The office smelled faintly of jasmine and printer toner. My assistant had left hours ago. I hadn’t even realized night had fallen until I glanced out the tall glass windows and saw the city lights blinking like restless stars.

This was the dream, right? My own company. My own name on the glass door. Rani Hidalgo, Founder & CEO.

I leaned back in the leather chair, one I’d splurged on after the Series A round closed, now barely able to tell if it was comfort or just habit that kept me in it for twelve hours straight. My shoulders ached. My lower back was screaming. I hadn’t eaten since noon. Again.

A knock on the door jolted me out of the fog.
No one. Just a gust of wind from the cleaning crew opening the stairwell.

“Get a grip,” I muttered to myself.

I pulled the next file toward me and signed without really reading only to stop halfway, eyes scanning the words again. This one mattered. A new supplier. A deal that could shift the cost structure for the next quarter. I forced myself to slow down, to care again. To remember what all this work was supposed to lead to.

But somewhere between the lines, my thoughts slipped.

Lamia. I hadn’t seen her in days.

We texted, sure. Sent the updates for our son when she’s baby sitting it. I told her I was fine.

I lied.

Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t know how to say I’m burning out. Not when I had fought so hard to be here. Not when I had built this entire thing from nothing but grit, fire, and sleepless nights. Not when the world already looked for cracks in a woman like me.

I sighed and scribbled my signature across the last page, barely noticing the tremble in my wrist. Another file done. Another win, maybe.

Still, I felt nothing but tired.

I closed my eyes for a second. Just a second.

The pen clattered on the desk as I leaned back, eyes closed, finally considering the absurd fantasy of sleep. Ten minutes, just ten to shut off my brain. I barely had the thought before…

A soft knock.

I didn’t open my eyes. “If it’s not coffee or a raise, I don’t want it.”

The door creaked open anyway.

“Ma’am Rani,” came a familiar voice, Elise, my secretary. Her tone held just enough tension to pull me upright. “There’s someone here to see you.”

I arched a brow. “Is it my sanity? Because I’ve been waiting for her to show up all damn day.”

She hesitated.

I already didn’t like this.

“It’s… Sir Kevin Aguas.”

I froze.

Then blinked. Then blinked again, slowly, dramatically, as though I were on the cover of Vogue and not buried in invoices.

“Kevin Aguas?” I repeated, my voice smooth but laced with venomous disbelief. “Tall, arrogant, always smells like new money and desperation?”

Elise nodded, trying not to smile.

“Tell him I’m busy.”

“But Ma’am Rani. You told me to never turn him away without…”

“That was three years and two billion in valuation ago. Now I’m a queen. Queens have gates. And guards. And very selective taste in visitors.”

Elise stood there, waiting.

God, fine.

I stood up deliberately. Straightened my cream silk blouse and ran a finger under my eyes to sweep away any signs of fatigue. My heels clicked softly on the marble floor as I walked over to the mirror by the door, fixing my curls and smoothing my lipstick.

A diva never appears weak. Not even on hour twelve of a workday.

“Send him in,” I finally said with a sigh. “But if he says one word about how tired I look, I will fire him from existing.”

Elise laughed, then slipped out.

I walked back to my desk, sat down, crossed one leg over the other like I was posing for a feature in Forbes, and waited.

Because Kevin Aguas might be handsome. Might be rich. Might still want me.

But I was Rani Hidalgo. And I never gave anyone the satisfaction of thinking I wanted them back.

Not Kevin.
Not Lamia.
Not anyone.

The door opened with the kind of subtle elegance that told me Elaine was trying very hard not to roll her eyes.

And then came Kevin Aguas.

Same jawline. Same tailored suit. Same smug little smile that used to make interns swoon and me… yawn.

“Rani,” he said, voice dipped in the kind of charm that tried too hard. “You look incredible, as always.”

I didn’t stand. I didn’t even flinch. I simply tilted my head, gave a smile so polished it could’ve cut glass, and said, “I know.”

He laughed, like it was a joke. It wasn’t.

Kevin walked in like he owned the building. I resisted the urge to remind him I did. He stopped just in front of my desk, hands in his pockets, the glint of some designer watch peeking from his cuff.

“You’re hard to catch these days,” he said, eyes scanning my office like he was already imagining what it’d be like to sit behind my desk.

I gave him a long, slow blink. “That’s because I’m busy. You know, running a company. Employing two hundred people. Building an empire. Normal Monday things.”

He chuckled again. Always chuckling. Like he was trying to soften me up.

“I came here with an opportunity,” he said, shifting his tone, slipping into that fake-casual voice he used with investors. “Your company and mine. Pwedeng mag-partner on a logistics venture. I’ve got contacts, you’ve got the infrastructure. It’s a win-win, Rani.”

I walked around my desk and sat on the edge, arms crossed, one brow raised.

“So, no deck? No numbers? Wala man lang email? You just walked in here dala lang ang yabang mo and expected me to say yes?”

He blinked. “I thought we had history.”

I laughed. “History is for museums, Kevin. And I don’t do nostalgia.”

“Teka lang Rani, don’t act like we didn’t have something real.”

“Kevin, mahal ko ang sarili ko. That’s the only real thing that happened.”

He opened his mouth. I raised a hand.

“And FYI, I’m married.”

“I know,” he said, his smile creeping back. “To that woman.”

My eyes narrowed.

“She’s not exactly your type though, di ba? Hindi ba arranged lang ‘yun?”

I stood up again, slowly this time, letting the silence wrap tight around his throat.

“Careful, Kevin,” I said, voice low and sharp. “Wala kang karapatang banggitin ang buhay ko as if it’s your business. My marriage may be complicated, but it’s mine. And you? You’re just a footnote.”

His smile dropped for good this time.

“Now,” I said, walking back to my desk and sitting like the CEO I was born to be, “if you don’t have a formal proposal, you can leave. Elise will validate your parking. But not your ego.”

Kevin didn’t leave.

Of course he didn’t.

Men like him never take the first no. They think the world is just playing hard to get.

He stayed there by the door, pretending to admire the artwork on my wall, some abstract piece I bought during a charity auction just because Lamia hated it.

“Alam mo,” he started again, voice trying to sound casual, “you haven’t changed.”

I snorted, not even bothering to look up. “I’d be offended if I had.”

“Still fierce. Still sharp. Still gorgeous.”

I finally looked up, my eyes cool, bored, and already half-done with him.

“And still not interested,” I said, crossing my legs slowly, letting the sound of my heels tapping against the floor punctuate the silence like a ticking bomb. “Ano ba talaga gusto mo, Kevin? Say it straight. You didn’t come here to play guessing games.”

He took a step closer, both hands in his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, like we were still those two twenty-somethings in power suits sneaking drinks in Makati rooftops.

“I want in,” he said, serious now. “On you. On this company. On your future. Rani, this empire you’re building? I believe in it. I’ve believed in you since day one.”

I tilted my head, let my stare sharpen. “You believed in me the moment the valuations got juicy. Cute. But darling, belief doesn’t pay rent in my world.”

He laughed too quickly, too forced. I could see the crack forming.

“Let’s be real,” he said, trying to recover. “You’re not in love with her.”

I froze. Not a blink. Not a twitch. Just that slow kind of stillness that means the storm is coming.

“Excuse me?” I said, voice calm, but it was too calm.

“Lamia. I know the whole story, Rani. Everyone in the circle knows. It’s arranged. You’re straight. She’s straight. You two can’t stand each other. So why stay in it? Why not walk away and let yourself be free?”

I stood again, not quickly. Not dramatically. Just enough for Kevin to notice that I was no longer speaking to him as an ex, or a businessman, or an old friend.

I was speaking as the woman he would never be allowed to touch again.

“Let me explain something to you,” I said, walking toward him with each word laced in glass. “Just because I don’t parade my love life in press releases doesn’t mean you get to write your own story about it.”

“But you don’t even like her…”

“And so?” I snapped. “You think I stay because of feelings? What makes you think I have the luxury of making every decision based on what’s comfortable? My family’s name is tied to this. Faisal’s future is tied to this. My business, my image, my reputation, everything. And you think I’d throw it all away just because you suddenly remembered I was worth chasing?”

He looked stunned for half a second.

And for a man like Kevin, that was everything.

“I’m not in love with Lamia,” I continued, voice lower now, almost a whisper, but the kind that burned. “But I’m loyal. And loyalty? That’s something you never understood. Which is why you’ll never be on my level.”

He opened his mouth again, probably to say something stupid.

So I shut it for him.

“Leave, Kevin.”

“But Rani…”

“Lumabas ka.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, he nodded. Walked out the door with whatever pride he had left. I didn’t watch him go. I turned back to my desk, sat down, and opened the next folder like nothing happened.

Because nothing did.

He was noise.

I was the signal.

The office door clicked shut behind Kevin, and for a full minute, I didn’t move.

I just stood there, staring at the glass walls of my empire, watching the city glitter beneath me like it owed me something. The silence after a confrontation always tasted like power, but this one… it had bitterness underneath. Like an aftertaste I didn’t ask for.

I turned slowly, walked back to my desk, and sank into my chair with all the elegance of a woman who owned every inch of the space she occupied. I didn’t let out a sigh. Divas don’t sigh, we breathe deliberately.

I picked up my pen and went back to signing, reviewing, deciding papers flying, screens blinking, assistants messaging me with questions I answered while barely glancing at them. Every motion was muscle memory now. I moved like a machine made of lipstick, silk, and steel.

But even as I worked, my mind wandered.

Lamia.

Where was she now? Probably still at her tower of glass and concrete, managing her clients with that ice-cold precision she wore like perfume. She never came home early, not unless it was to pick up Faisal. And even that, she scheduled like a board meeting.

I rolled my neck slowly, letting the tension crack along my spine. My fingers flexed as I closed the last document of the day. Time, 9:42 PM. My phone buzzed once it’s a message from my driver.

I stood up in one graceful motion, grabbed my bag, and draped my coat over one shoulder like I was walking a runway and not just heading for the elevator. Every step echoed like a soft warning, Rani Hidalgo is off the clock now. Pray for whoever crosses her next.

Forty Minutes Later I arrived at Hidalgo-Al-Gadaffi Penthouse, Bonifacio Global City

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the private foyer that led into our penthouse. The hallway lights flickered on automatically as I stepped inside, heels clicking against the imported Italian marble I had chosen myself.

The place was spotless. Silent. Too perfect.

I toed off my stilettos carefully, lined them up with the other dozen pairs beside the entrance like soldiers in formation, and shrugged out of my coat, letting it fall across the velvet armchair in the hallway without a second glance.

“Lamia?” I called out, though I already knew.

No answer. Of course not.

I walked into the living room, my hand brushing along the back of the leather sofa, eyes catching the faintest scent of vanilla diffusers and money. Faisal’s toys were neatly packed into a corner, his nanny must’ve tidied up after he was put to bed.

No baby crying. No footsteps. No Lamia.

I walked slowly toward the open kitchen, turned on a soft pendant light above the counter, and poured myself a glass of sparkling water. I didn’t even drink it… I just held it. Something about having something cold in my hand helped me feel less… empty.

I leaned against the counter, eyes drifting toward the glass doors that led to the balcony. City lights blinked outside. Somewhere out there, Lamia was still in her office, probably closing deals or chewing through another investor who underestimated her.

I tilted my head, staring at the skyline like it owed me answers.

We lived in the same house. Shared the same child. Slept in the same bed… technically.

But we were galaxies apart. Two stars forced to orbit the same space, burning bright and cold.

And tonight, like most nights, I came home to a penthouse, not a partner.

I sipped my water. Not because I was thirsty.

But because swallowing silence is easier when your mouth isn’t dry.

It started with silence. Not the comforting kind, not tonight. This one was cold, calculated, like the universe itself had stepped back, waiting to see what I would do next.

I crossed the living room in a slow, barefoot glide, the softness of the rug muted beneath me, but my steps were precise like a runway walk even in exhaustion. I needed distraction. I needed something to break the noise in my head.

That’s when I saw it.

Peeking out from between two design books stacked neatly on Lamia’s untouched reading table one of those places she thought I never paid attention to.

Curiosity or maybe fate tugged my fingers toward it.

And there it was.

A photograph.

I blinked once, slowly. Then again.

Lamia and Peterson.

Together. Her hair was longer in this one, curled softly over her shoulders, and she looked… alive. Like someone else entirely. Like someone who didn’t carry the weight of our marriage, our name, or our son.

And Peterson?

He was grinning like a man who knew he had her. His hand wrapped around her waist like she belonged there. And the way Lamia leaned in, just slightly, head tilted, eyes on him.

She wasn’t posing.

She was remembering.

I sank into the nearest chair as if the air had been knocked out of me. I stared at the image, eyes hard, lips parted slightly as if I was about to say something, to whom, I didn’t know. The silence buzzed in my ears.

She still loved him.

That much was obvious now. This wasn’t just a memory tucked away in some folder. This wasn’t some buried past. This was kept. Preserved. Protected.

My thumb brushed over Lamia’s face in the photo, then snapped back like I’d touched fire.

I stood, too fast, too sharp. My hand gripped the edge of the marble counter, steadying myself.

“She still loves him,” I whispered aloud, almost in disbelief. “She’s still in love with him.”

And I, Rani Hidalgo was living under the same roof, sharing the same bed, raising the same child, while my wife’s heart was somewhere else. Not just away from me.

But with him.

The diva in me flared like a spotlight, my chin lifting, lashes fluttering once as I looked down at the photo with a bitter smile.

“She married me, but her heart’s still wearing his name. How pathetic this woman can be.”

I picked up the picture, held it up to the light, watching how the gloss shimmered like it mocked me.

Then, slowly, I slipped it into my designer clutch. Not to throw away. Not yet.

No.

This wasn’t over. This was the beginning of something.

Let her come home late again tonight. Let her try to walk past me like nothing’s changed.

Because Rani Hidalgo doesn’t get played.

She rewrites the game.

The clock glowed a soft, irritating 11:17 PM.

I was still awake, curled into one corner of the L-shaped velvet sofa in the living room, wrapped in a silk robe the color of crushed wine, one leg crossed over the other like I was posing for a magazine spread I didn’t even want to be in.

The only light in the room came from the city beyond the glass. Manila was still awake. So was I.

Faisal had been asleep for hours. I checked twice. Kissed his forehead once. It was the only real moment of peace I’d had tonight.

The penthouse was quiet.

Not the peaceful kind, more like the kind of silence that lingers before a disaster. I sat like a queen in exile, legs draped over the arm of the couch, silk robe wrapped around me like armor, one heel dangling from my foot just to remind the world I didn’t need to be fully dressed to destroy it.

And there it was. The photo. Hidden in my robe pocket like a knife.

My fingers brushed over it again and again, like I needed to remind myself it was real. Lamia and Peterson. Her laugh, his hand, that closeness they didn’t bother hiding. I saw it all. I felt it like acid in my throat.

She still loved him.

And here I was, stupid enough to pretend like we were in a partnership instead of a business merger with diapers and hate sex sprinkled on top.

Then I heard the sound.

The lock clicked.

Keys.

She was home.

I didn’t move.

The door opened, and there she was, Lamia Al-Gadaffi, in her expensive blouse, those stiff black slacks she probably ironed with her personality, and that bun scraped so tight it could snap her temper if you looked at it wrong. She looked like Anntonia Porsild, but with more shadows behind her eyes and less soul behind her smile.

Her heels tapped softly across the marble, then she kicked them off like this place belonged to her. As if she earned comfort.

She didn’t even see me at first. Of course she didn’t. She never noticed anything unless it affected her bank account or her reflection.

Then her gaze landed on me.

Her brows arched. “Still awake? Shocking.”

I smiled without warmth. “I’d say the same, pero mukhang hindi ka rin mapalagay sa kama ni Peterson, hmm?”

That stopped her cold.

Her face didn’t change, but her body betrayed her. A slight shift. A stiffness in her shoulders.

Gotcha.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she snapped, walking in farther like she hadn’t just been gut-punched.

I stood up with exaggerated grace, the robe slipping slightly off one shoulder, because even in war, a diva stays flawless. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photo like it was evidence in a trial where she was already guilty.

“This,” I said, stepping closer, holding it between us. “You left it in our living room, Mrs. Al-Gadaffi. Bit careless for someone so obsessed with control.”

Her face didn’t move. But her silence? That was loud.

“You went through my things?” she asked, voice sharp.

“No, your trash just happened to fall into my lap. How poetic,” I snapped, pushing the photo into her chest. “Want it back? Or is it too hard to admit you’ve still got Peterson’s leash wrapped around your icy little heart?”

She yanked it from my hand and turned away, but I didn’t let her retreat.

“Oh no, sweetheart. We’re not done,” I said, following her like a storm dressed in silk. “You’re gonna stand there and tell me why the hell you’re still clinging to him while playing house with me and our son like this marriage means anything to you.”

She turned then, eyes blazing.

“It doesn’t mean anything to you either,” she hissed. “Don’t act like you’re some innocent wife. You hate me.”

I smiled wide, venomous. “Of course I do. I’d rather get hit by a luxury SUV than fall in love with you. But I’m not the one hiding old boyfriends in the furniture.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re predictable,” I fired back, crossing my arms. “At least when I lie, I don’t use other people’s faces to do it.”

She stepped forward, matching my stance, chin high.

“Careful, Rani. You’re one tantrum away from throwing that pretty little glass you’re holding.”

I glanced at the empty wine glass on the table, then back at her with a slow, elegant shrug.

“Who said I wouldn’t?”

The photo was no longer between us but the damage it carried had already sunk its claws deep.

Lamia stood across from me like a statue carved from ice and stubbornness, shoulders squared, jaw locked, that stupid little vein on her neck pulsing like she actually had feelings to manage.

I tilted my head, arms crossed tightly under my chest, silk robe clinging to my body like it knew this war wasn’t over.

“So,” I said slowly, eyes dragging up and down her face, “rumors pala weren’t just rumors, hmm?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What rumors?”

I gave a bitter, airy laugh as I turned away from her, one hand on my hip as I walked toward the edge of the couch. I leaned down slightly, the movement graceful, deliberate. “Don’t play dumb with me, Lamia. That role doesn’t suit your couture.”

She didn’t reply right away, which only meant one thing… I was right.

“I’ve been hearing it for months,” I continued, twirling around to face her again, voice like velvet over glass. “You and Peterson. Reconnecting. Late-night business meetings, private calls, that little reunion in Singapore you tried so hard to keep quiet. Want me to continue?”

Lamia took a step forward, arms now crossed too, her body mirroring mine in some sick, hateful symmetry. “You believe everything you hear? How original.”

“I don’t need to believe rumors when the truth is literally framed in my house,” I hissed, pointing toward the kitchen counter where the photo had sat earlier, like a curse I couldn’t shake.

“You went looking for a fight,” she snapped, her voice lower now, more dangerous. “And congrats, Rani. You got one.”

I stepped closer, toe to toe with her now. Our bodies nearly touched, but it felt like we were standing on the edge of a cliff. One gust… one word, and we’d fall off it with claws and fury.

“You are such a damn coward, Lamia,” I breathed, eyes locked on hers. “You parade around with your ice-cold stare, pretending you’ve moved on, pretending this marriage is beneath you, pretending like you’re so in control. But deep down, you’re still pining over a man who left you. Twice.”

Her lips parted like she was going to shout. Instead, she laughed. Once. Sharp and mirthless.

“And you?” she spat, stepping back with a scoff. “You act like you’re some queen, some untouchable diva, but the truth is you’re just a desperate woman stuck in a penthouse she didn’t even buy, raising a child in a marriage she never wanted.”

That one landed.

I smiled, slow and poisonous. “Maybe. But at least I’m not still chasing after someone who clearly didn’t want me enough to stay.”

She flinched. I saw it. Just a flicker but I saw it.

“Faisal doesn’t deserve this,” she said, quieter now but no less cruel. “This mess you keep creating.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically, tossing my hair back as I walked toward the stairs. “Don’t even bring him into this. He deserves a mother who knows who she loves, and isn’t sleeping in my bed while dreaming of another man.”

I turned on the last step, looking back at her.

“You know what the saddest part is, Lamia?” I said, my voice sugar-coated in venom. “I might hate you. I might loathe everything about you. But at least I never pretended to be something I’m not.”

Her silence followed me up the stairs.

I didn’t slam the door behind me.

I just shut it slowly, deliberately.

Because the silence I left behind?

It was louder than anything we’d screamed.

The lights were off in the bedroom, just the soft amber glow from the vanity mirror casting long, tired shadows across the marble floor. I was already curled in bed, one leg tangled in the satin sheets, the other kicking them off with spite. The air was still thick with everything we didn’t say everything I already screamed downstairs.

I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t give her that.

I wasn’t weak.

I was Rani Hidalgo.

But I also wasn’t stupid.

I knew she’d come up eventually. This damn penthouse only had one bedroom. One, because both our mothers insisted we share everything. “Para naman magkabonding kayo, anak.” Bonding. Right.

The door opened.

I didn’t turn.

I didn’t need to.

Her scent walked in before she did. That stupid expensive jasmine perfume she always wore to feel powerful. She moved like a ghost in her own house quiet, calculated, unwelcome.

She paused near the door. I could feel her hesitation like a draft on my skin. Then her bare feet started crossing the floor, slow and soft. I could hear the unzipping of her slacks, the soft rustle of her blouse sliding off.

She thought I was asleep?

Please.

“Don’t expect me to move,” I said without looking at her, my voice flat but sharp. “I’m not giving up the bed just because you want to play innocent tonight.”

She didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t. She never had the guts when it mattered.

She walked past my side of the bed and slipped into her side like she belonged there. The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight. I felt every millimeter of it.

The silence stretched.

Then I heard her voice.

“You don’t have to speak to me.”

I let out a breathy laugh, rolling to my side but keeping my back to her. “Trust me, I wasn’t planning to. Your presence already says enough.”

More silence. Then…

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Good,” I snapped, flipping my pillow dramatically. “Because I wouldn’t believe one anyway.”

She shifted behind me, the bed creaking slightly. “You act like I’m the only one who’s ever lied in this marriage.”

I turned my head slowly, just enough to glare at the edge of her silhouette in the dark.

“You’re right,” I said, voice cool. “We both lie. But at least I don’t lie to myself about who I’m still in love with.”

That landed.

I could practically hear her breathing change.

And I didn’t stop there.

“You’re lucky I’m not filing for divorce.”

She went still.

I waited.

Then I added, slowly, cruelly, “Not because I want to stay married to you. But because I’d rather raise Faisal in this cold, fake house than let him grow up between court hearings and split holidays.”

I rolled back to face the wall, arm tucked under my head, lashes fluttering shut even though my thoughts screamed.

“And I know your daddy would love to hear about you and Peterson. Want me to call him tomorrow? I’m sure he misses your updates.”

The room froze. Her silence said everything. I didn’t speak again. She didn’t either. But neither of us slept. Not really.

Not when war was the only thing we had in common.

Sleep came like a reluctant visitor slow, hesitant, and nowhere near the comfort I deserved. My body finally gave in sometime after dawn, but my mind refused to quiet. Thoughts spun like silk threads tangled in barbed wire.

The silk sheets were cool against my skin, but even they couldn’t erase the heat of the fight burning in my chest.

Hours later, the first hint of sunlight spilled through the sheer curtains, casting pale stripes across the bed.

I blinked my eyes open, muscles stiff and aching, not from exhaustion but from the weight of pretending. Pretending this was normal. Pretending I didn’t hate the woman sleeping less than an arm’s reach away.

I turned my head slowly, catching a glimpse of Lamia’s silhouette curled opposite me. Her breathing steady and calm, the picture of innocence she never deserved.

I pulled the silk robe tighter around myself, sliding out of bed with the grace of a diva who had to keep pretending her life was flawless.

In the bathroom mirror, my eyes looked sharp but tired, like a queen who never really got a break.

I dressed carefully, every piece of clothing chosen to armor me for the day ahead. No one knew about the fight from last night. Not yet.

Downstairs, the penthouse was already waking, Faisal’s soft coos echoing from his bedroom like the only real warmth left in the house.

I smiled bitterly.

Our son. The only reason I stayed. The only reason I endured.

I headed to the kitchen, coffee brewing as I stared out the window at the bustling city below. Manila was alive, relentless, and unforgiving, just like us.

The morning sun painted everything gold, but in here, the shadows clung stubbornly.

And I knew today would be no different.

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, my one small luxury of the morning. I stood by the counter, gripping my mug like a lifeline, my eyes tracing the faint lines of steam rising like ghosts in the early light.

The silence was almost sacred.

Until the door creaked open.

I didn’t need to look.

Lamia.

She stepped inside wearing one of those expensive, silk blouses that screamed privilege and power, her dark hair pulled back tightly, the faintest crease of exhaustion under her eyes, like even she couldn’t fake perfection all the time.

She paused, as if considering whether to speak or pretend I wasn’t there. Her eyes flicked to me, sharp and calculating, before she slid into the seat across from me at the breakfast table.

“Coffee’s strong,” she said, voice cool but not quite cold.

I took a slow sip, savoring the bitterness. “Like my patience. Not much left.”

Her lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Still bitter about last night?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I let my gaze drift to the window, where the city stretched endlessly, a reminder that life went on even if our marriage was crumbling.

“Maybe,” I said finally, voice low. “But it’s not just last night. It’s every day we pretend we’re something we’re not.”

Lamia folded her arms, eyes narrowing. “And what are we then? Pretend enemies with a kid in the middle?”

I turned to her, the weight of exhaustion and defiance in my stare. “Exactly.”

She stared back, unblinking.

We both knew the truth neither of us dared say out loud.

Then she left the kitchen once again.

The kitchen filled with the soft clatter of silverware and the faint murmur of the city outside, but inside our penthouse, the air felt thick, almost suffocating with the weight of unsaid words.

Manang Sally and Anna were busy tidying up quietly, their movements practiced and careful, as if trying to keep peace in a war zone they could only observe from the sidelines.

From the nursery down the hall came the gentle coos and soft cries of Faisal, our eight-month-old bundle of chaos and fragile hope. Nina, his nanny, was a saint for handling him. I knew she was probably just moments away, ready to bring him to us, the only thing that truly forced us to coexist.

And then she appeared.

Lamia entered the kitchen cradling Faisal in her arms, the baby swaddled in a pale blue blanket, his tiny face calm and trusting in his mother’s grasp. Despite everything, the bitterness, the fights seeing her hold him softened something inside me, even if just a crack.

She settled into her chair, gently bouncing Faisal to keep him soothed. His soft gurgles and innocent eyes contrasted sharply against the cold, calculating woman holding him.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and picked at my breakfast, the silence stretching between us but never truly empty.

“You know,” Lamia said quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “he’s the only reason I’m still here.”

Her voice was low, almost vulnerable, but I could feel the edge underneath, the steel I hated so much.

“Same here,” I replied without looking up. “And it’s why we can’t afford to tear this whole thing apart.”

She nodded, eyes on Faisal. “I hate this as much as you do.”

I finally met her gaze, sharp and tired. “Then stop pretending we’re anything more than what we are.”

The tension lingered, but for a moment, all that mattered was the quiet rhythm of our son’s breathing, the fragile thread keeping us from falling apart completely.

I sliced into the omelet on my plate with more force than necessary, the silver edge of my knife making a sharp clink against the porcelain. Lamia sat across from me, nursing a cup of black coffee while Faisal rested on her shoulder, his chubby little hand tangled in her blouse like he was claiming her, like he didn’t know she was chaos wrapped in couture.

Manang Sally stood by the pantry, pretending to reorganize the spice rack for the third time this week, while Anna wiped a countertop that was already spotless. Both of them watched us from the corners of their eyes, quiet as mice, but I felt their nerves. You could taste the tension in the air with your toast.

Lamia stabbed at her own plate with a fork, calm on the outside, deadly underneath.

“So,” she said, voice deceptively sweet as she popped a small piece of fruit into her mouth, “Kevin dropped by your office again, didn’t he?”

I blinked once. Slowly. A diva’s blink.

“And here I thought you were too busy rekindling things with your ex to be checking my visitor logs,” I said, swirling the coffee in my mug without looking at her.

Anna froze mid-wipe. Manang Sally coughed into her apron.

Lamia smirked without humor, shifting Faisal slightly on her hip as she picked at her toast. “It’s hard not to notice when your name ends up in rumors every time someone breathes near your desk.”

I leaned back in my chair, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, the robe sliding just enough to hint at my silk camisole beneath. “Oh? Then maybe you should spend less time worrying about my desk and more time hiding your framed photographs before your skeletons fall out.”

Her smile dropped for a heartbeat before snapping back into place.

“I don’t have to explain myself to a woman who married me because her mommy said so.”

I gave a slow, theatrical laugh, resting my chin on my palm. “Oh darling, you were the one whose family needed to ‘clean up your reputation.’ I was the upgrade whether you like it or not.”

The silence thickened. Even the air-conditioning seemed scared to hum.

And then…

“Excuse po…” Nina’s voice cut softly through the room as she stepped in, her hair tied in a neat bun, warm eyes locked on Faisal as if she hadn’t heard a word of our verbal fencing.

She gently approached Lamia and reached for the baby, whispering, “Ma’am, akin na po si Faisal, baka po ina-antok na siya.”

Lamia handed him over without a word, brushing a gentle kiss to his forehead, the only softness I’d seen from her all week. Nina smiled and cradled the baby expertly, whispering a few sweet nothings to calm him as she exited quietly.

We both stared after them.

“You’re lucky he’s too young to understand any of this,” Lamia said quietly.

I scoffed, taking another bite of my toast. “Lucky? No. Determined not to let him grow up in a mess his parents won’t admit they created? Yes.”

Anna dropped a spoon.

Manang Sally jumped.

And the war continued, one bite at a time.

I bit into a slice of the other disher, perfectly crisp daing na bangus, savoring the salty crunch as if it could distract me from the walking contradiction sitting across the table. Lamia Al-Gadaffi, daughter of oil, dripping in arrogance, dressed like the cover of Vogue Arabia and holding secrets like they were designer bags.

The rich broth of my bulalo had cooled, but the heat in my blood hadn’t. Not after that little stunt of hers last night. Not after that photo I found tucked away like a cheap lie in the middle of our shared closet.

Peterson. Her ex.

The same man she swore she had nothing to do with anymore.

And yet.

As if summoned by my bitterness, Lamia’s phone, gold, of course, like everything she owns began to buzz softly against the mahogany table.

She picked it up with practiced elegance, glancing at the screen. And then she froze.

I knew that look. Her expression didn’t flicker. It tightened just slightly like a woman trying not to wince at a bruise.

I raised one perfectly shaped brow and sipped my coffee. “What’s the matter? Credit card declined?”

She ignored me. Of course she did.

Instead, she slowly stood from the table, phone still buzzing in her hand, and walked away from the table, but not out of earshot.

“Hello?” she said softly, voice dipping into a tone she never used with me. That almost… affectionate register. Her back was to me now, but I saw the slight turn of her shoulder, the way her fingers gripped the phone tighter than she meant to.

My fork hovered over a slice of itlog na pula, but I couldn’t look away.

Peterson.

It had to be.

She murmured something low, then gave a nervous little laugh. Not her usual sultry chuckle, no… this was lighter. Less polished. Younger.

I felt my chest tighten, my grip on the fork like a vice.

Manang Sally peeked from the kitchen doorway, her eyes flicking between me and Lamia like she was waiting for a pot to boil over.

And it was.

Lamia’s voice dropped to a whisper, but I still caught it, just barely

“No, I can’t talk long… she’s here.”

She.

Not Rani. Not my wife.

Just she.

I scoffed under my breath, stabbing into the salted egg like it was someone’s ego.

Lamia turned slightly, enough for me to see the fake neutrality on her face as she glanced over her shoulder, checking to see if I was watching.

Of course I was.

Always.

After a few more seconds, she ended the call with a soft “I’ll call you later,” and slipped the phone back into the folds of her robe like it hadn’t just shattered the fragile peace on our breakfast table.

She returned to her seat without looking at me, picking up her fork like nothing had happened.

But I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

“So,” I purred, voice low and laced with poison, “tell Peterson I said hi next time.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, sharp and defensive but it was too late.

The damage was done.

And she knew it.

_____

The elevator doors opened directly into my private floor like a curtain rise in a theater… and I, of course, was the star.

I stepped out with my signature click-clack heels echoing across the marbled tiles, my beige Max Mara coat cinched perfectly at the waist, sunglasses perched on my nose like armor, and a soft breeze in my blowout courtesy of my Bentley’s sunroof and a carefully calculated hair flip at the valet.

I didn’t walk into my company.

I arrived.

“Good morning, Ma’am Rani,” greeted the receptionist with the kind of forced cheer that usually followed a storm warning. I offered her nothing more than a nod and a flick of my manicured fingers. My mood wasn’t meant for small talk today. Not after breakfast with the devil in Balmain.

My personal assistant, Elise, rushed to match my pace, heels clacking behind me, breathless. “Ma’am, Mr. Aguas is already inside your office po… he insisted he wait.”

I stopped just outside the double glass doors of my corner office. My lashes lowered behind my oversized sunglasses.

“Oh?” I said, one brow arching like it had a life of its own. “Did he bring coffee, or just trouble?”

Elise blinked, unsure whether to laugh or run. I waved her off, pulled off my sunglasses, and opened the doors like I was stepping onto a runway.

And there he was.

Kevin Aguas.

Corporate prince in a navy suit, top two buttons undone like he wanted people to know he worked hard and played harder. He stood beside the floor-to-ceiling windows like he owned the sunrise, holding a ridiculous bouquet of deep red roses the kind of bouquet that screamed, I want to be more than your business partner.

I let my gaze drift to the roses, then to him. “Wow,” I said, dropping my purse on the leather chair beside my desk. “You really committed to the cliché today, huh?”

He chuckled, stepping forward and holding out the bouquet like it wouldn’t burn in my hands. “They reminded me of you. Sharp, stunning, and impossible to ignore.”

I took the flowers slowly, running my fingers over a petal. “You forgot ‘deadly.’ Red roses die fast.”

Kevin smirked, his gaze lingering. “I prefer intense over eternal.”

I placed the bouquet on the far end of my desk, where I could pretend it wasn’t there. I turned to face him, arms crossed, my lips barely curving. “So, what do you want, Kevin?”

He stepped closer, voice softer now, almost intimate. “Just wanted to see how you were… after yesterday. And maybe… check if you’ve finally considered what I said.”

My stomach tensed, but I didn’t let it show. Of course I’d considered it. His proposal, both business and the one hidden beneath all the charming grins and concerned glances.

But I had a marriage I couldn’t escape.

And a son I wouldn’t let grow up in the ashes of scandal.

I smoothed a hand over my coat and sat behind my desk like a queen on her throne. “Kevin,” I said coolly, “you keep bringing roses when you know I prefer orchids.”

He leaned on the edge of the desk, eyes dancing. “You didn’t throw them out. That’s progress.”

I smiled… sharp and dazzling. “No. That’s pity.”

And just like that, I turned to my computer and opened my calendar, pretending like my heart didn’t skip once. Or that I didn’t enjoy how Lamia’s name tasted like acid in my throat this morning.

Let her call Peterson.

Let her play house with ghosts.

I had my own games to play now.

And Kevin just might be the perfect pawn.

I tapped a long, glossy fingernail against the glass table in my office, watching Kevin flip through the latest pitch deck like he wasn’t trying to charm the pants off me for the fifth week in a row.

We were now seated in the lounge area of my office, away from the desk where negotiations became more psychological than transactional. I always chose the chair with the best lighting. Power required presentation, and I didn’t get my cheekbones contoured at 6 a.m. to sit in the shadows.

He finally closed the folder and leaned back on the couch, arms stretched lazily across the top, as if this office was his playground.

“Rani,” he said, eyes locked on mine, “this expansion makes perfect sense. Your brand is already dominating in luxury fashion here. Pairing with our regional logistics firm puts you in Singapore and Dubai by Q4.”

I lifted my coffee cup, an espresso in a porcelain Hermes mug and sipped it with deliberate pause. “And what does your end get out of this, aside from bragging rights that your name sits beside mine on the headline?”

Kevin grinned. “Come on. Don’t insult me with that. I don’t need your name to be relevant.”

I gave him a slow, glittering smile and set my mug down with a soft clink. “True. But you need it to be unforgettable.”

His eyes lingered for a second too long, the way men look when they forget the conversation and remember your lipstick.

I stood and walked toward the glass board beside the bookshelf, heels clicking like punctuation. “This move is aggressive,” I said, gesturing at the figures he’d outlined. “You’re asking me to stake part of my private equity line to fund joint branding in markets I haven’t even touched. You think I gamble with my name like that?”

He followed me with his eyes, then rose slowly, hands in his pockets. “You’re not gambling. You’re expanding. You’ve conquered local. Now it’s time to be global.”

“I already am global,” I snapped, then caught myself, voice calm again like silk over steel. “I don’t need you, Kevin. Don’t confuse strategy with desperation.”

He took a step closer, voice lowering. “I never thought you were desperate. I think you’re brilliant. But even brilliant women know when to share the crown. Not because they can’t rule alone, because they choose who they rule with.”

That… gave me pause.

I stared at him, silent.

He always knew how to speak in language designed to pierce, not walls, but pride.

After a long moment, I turned to the board and picked up a marker, sketching a quick revision of his projection curve. “You want me to sign onto this? Cut the risk on my end by ten percent. And I want the Singapore launch under my creative control. I don’t need your branding people anywhere near my team.”

He walked behind me, close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath as he looked over my shoulder. “Done.”

“And,” I added, drawing a star beside one key timeline, “I get veto power on all campaign faces. My label, my aesthetic.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You always were territorial.”

“I’m selective,” I replied, turning slightly, eyes locking. “There’s a difference.”

Our eyes met again, full of ambition and something warmer. Mine, unreadable by design. I’d mastered that look since the day I realized being vulnerable made you prey.

And still, a part of me buried deep under every savage word and cold glance at home, wondered what it would be like to say yes. Not to the deal. But to Kevin.

If only I didn’t already belong to someone I couldn’t even stand.

“I’ll have legal draft it,” I said, moving away, voice cold again. “And I expect your signatures by Friday. No delays.”

Kevin smiled. Not smug but sincere.

“Copy that, boss.”

He didn’t try to kiss me. He didn’t push the moment. He just nodded and walked out, leaving the scent of Dior Homme and tension hanging in the air.

I sat back down, pulling my phone from the desk, and glanced at the last name in my message history.

Lamia.

Of course. No new messages.

Not even a question about Faisal.

Typical.

I sighed, swiping the screen off, and leaned back in my chair.

Let her keep whispering to her past.

Because I? I was building my future.