Chapter 6

Rani’s Point Of View

The chandeliers in the Al-Gaddafi dining hall always looked like they belonged in some European palace, where queens plotted and poisoned their rivals over roasted duck and whispered insults behind gilded fans. I wasn’t far off.

I stepped into the massive space wearing an ivory silk dress that shimmered under the chandelier’s light, flawless, poised, and ready for war. If I was going to sit beside Lamia tonight, I needed more than heels and hairspray. I needed armor.

The long mahogany dining table was already set, fine bone china, gold-rimmed glasses, and silverware that probably cost more than my first condo. The room smelled of lamb korma, saffron rice, and freshly baked baklava. Classic Al-Gaddafi display, opulence for the sake of power.

Lamia sat two chairs away from mine, clad in a deep emerald ensemble that clung to her body like it was made just for her. It probably was. Her hair was swept up in a sleek bun, her neck bare except for the thin gold chain she always wore. She didn’t look at me when I entered, and I didn’t offer her the dignity of a glance either.

Petty silence had become our shared language.

Across the table sat her parents, tita Victoria in a lavender abaya with eyes sharper than any blade, and tito Jazed, the patriarch whose very presence could freeze the air. He barely spoke, but when he did, even walls straightened. Faisal sat in a baby high chair at the corner near Nina, who was gently feeding him mashed vegetables like nothing tense was happening between the adults.

To the left sat Luqman Omar, the eldest, dressed in a crisp navy thobe with a Rolex peeking from his sleeve, always the loyal eldest son and quiet observer. Meanwhile, the twins Lameel and Latif were bickering about something on their phones, typical Gen Z chaos clashing with the gold-trimmed elegance of their surroundings.

Tita Victoria’s voice cut the air like a thread of silk. “Rani, hija, you’ve lost more weight again. Are you not eating? You should eat. A wife must look healthy. Especially with a child.”

I smiled politely, the kind of smile that said, I’m not in the mood but I’ll perform. “I eat just fine, mama. Must be the stress of raising a child while running an empire. You know how it is.”

Across the table, Lamia’s fork scraped her plate. Savage subtlety.

tito Jazed finally spoke, voice like thunder cloaked in velvet. “How is your company doing, Rani?”

I sat up straighter. “Profitable as ever babba. We’re finalizing a new expansion in Singapore. I’ve signed a joint venture with Kevin Aguas’ group.”

At the mention of Kevin, I felt Lamia’s eyes shift slightly. I didn’t look at her, but I felt it. The energy. The silent spike of attention.

Tito Jazed gave an approving nod. “Good. Al-Gadaffi women must not be idle. We do not raise housewives.”

My lips twitched upward. “Don’t worry, babba. I wouldn’t know how to be one even if I tried.”

Luqman chuckled quietly, amused. Lameel and Latif barely looked up.

And Lamia?

She still hadn’t said a single word to me.

Not one.

Typical.

We’d been like this since the wedding, performing, pretending, and parading as a married couple because our parents decided love was optional if legacy was on the table.

I glanced toward Faisal. He babbled happily as Nina cleaned his mouth with a soft towel. He was the only light in this whole mansion full of porcelain smiles and diamond-sharp intentions.

“Lamia,” tita Victoria said suddenly, her voice too light, too deliberate, “don’t you think Rani’s done such a wonderful job balancing everything? I told you, anak, you married a strong one.”

Finally, Lamia looked up. Right at me.

She gave a sweet, deadly smile.

“Yes, Mama,” she said smoothly, lifting her wine glass. “Strong… and very ambitious. I just hope she remembers she’s still part of a family.”

My nails dug gently into the tablecloth. “I never forget,” I replied with equal sweetness. “But sometimes I wonder if some people remember which family they’re loyal to.”

The tension snapped like a string.

tita Victoria blinked. Tito Jazed sipped his wine slowly.

And Faisal? He let out a tiny giggle at the silence, waving his chubby hand as if he knew he’d just lived through the softest war in Metro Manila.

“Girls,” Mama interrupted, trying to calm the air like it wasn’t already heavy with tension. “Please, not at the dinner table.”

The twins exchanged looks. Luqman Omar, always the silent observer, leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. Nina, seated near Faisal’s high chair, continued feeding him mashed carrots, acting as if she wasn’t within earshot of a passive-aggressive war.

But the war didn’t stop.

Lamia stood abruptly, walking around the table to pick up Faisal, who instantly gurgled with delight and reached for her. She smiled down at him, brushing her nose against his, the softest gesture I’d seen from her in weeks.

“You’ve always had that touch, anak,” Mama cooed, smiling at Lamia. “He’s so calm with you.”

I didn’t move. But my smile faded. Just a fraction. Enough to feel it.

“He’s just a sweet boy,” Lamia said gently, rocking him slightly.

I stood too, folding my napkin with calm elegance. “If you’ll excuse me, Mama, Babba. I need a bit of air.”

Mama reached out toward me as if to stop me, but I was already stepping away.

“I’ll be fine,” I said sweetly, the way a woman lies when her pride is bleeding.

I walked out to the grand veranda, the night air cool against my skin, the view of the city stretching far beneath the marble balustrades. I placed both hands on the stone, exhaling slowly.

Inside that room, they all loved her. The favorite daughter. The mother of their heir. The perfect Al-Gadaffi.

And me?

I was the woman forced into this family by a signature on a marriage contract.

I stared up at the stars, cold and distant.

Let Lamia cradle Faisal like the perfect mother. Let Mama and Babba eat up every sweet lie she told.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was the truth.

The night outside the Al-Gadaffi estate was quiet, too quiet for a woman like me, who lived off the rhythm of busy boardrooms and blinking city lights. I gripped the cold marble of the balustrade, the city below glittering like fallen stars. My breath fogged slightly in the air. Or maybe that was just the heat I was trying to let go of.

Inside, they’d probably gone back to eating without me. Mama, ever the composed matriarch, pretending everything was just fine. Babba nodding along, satisfied that his two daughters-in-law hadn’t caused an explosion tonight.

But I knew better.

Because I had seen the way Lamia looked at me.

And I had seen the way she looked at Faisal.

The clack of expensive heels echoed from behind me.

I didn’t need to turn.

Of course it was her.

I closed my eyes for a second, gripping the railing tighter. “You’re not exactly quiet when you’re trying to be subtle.”

Behind me, Lamia’s voice came, soft and venom-laced. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

I turned around slowly, leaning my back against the railing, arms folded across my chest, the silk of my dress catching the faint moonlight.

Lamia stood just a few feet away, arms crossed as well, her emerald dress trailing lightly behind her like some soap opera villainess. Her dark hair was still in that perfect bun, her lips set in a curve that wasn’t quite a smile but far from neutral.

“Well?” I said, tilting my head. “Come to scold me for leaving dinner early? You’re their golden girl now. You can carry the show without me.”

She shrugged. “I came to make sure you didn’t drive off and crash somewhere dramatic. You’re the type.”

I scoffed, low and bitter. “Please. If I ever crash, it’ll be into your bank account.”

A flicker of amusement passed her eyes. “Then it’ll be a fatal accident. Try me.”

We stared at each other, two statues sculpted from sarcasm and spite.

Lamia stepped closer, her voice cooler now. “You didn’t like what Mama said, huh?”

I laughed, but it came out sharp. “Oh, I loved it. I especially loved the part where she praised you for doing the bare minimum. Holding a baby. What an achievement.”

Her jaw tightened.

“And don’t even get me started,” I added, stepping away from the railing, “on you playing house in front of them like everything’s perfect. Like there isn’t a picture of you and Peterson hidden somewhere in the penthouse.”

There it was.

Her pupils narrowed. Her shoulders tensed. Just slightly.

Ah.

Bullseye.

“Don’t start, Rani.”

“Oh, darling,” I purred, voice thick with mockery. “I’ve already started.”

“I didn’t come here to fight.”

“No,” I said, stepping closer to her now, our heels clicking against the tile like a metronome of hate. “You came here because you knew you got caught. And now you want to pretend you care.”

She stared at me for a long beat. Her eyes were dark, deep, haunted, beautiful in that maddening way she always was.

“Do you want to ruin everything, Rani?” she whispered, voice dropping lower now. “You think Babba will let this go if he finds out? If he even smells something about Peterson…”

“I should let him find out,” I interrupted, my breath sharp. “He deserves to know his precious daughter still has feelings for some man-child who couldn’t keep a job or his hands to himself.”

Lamia stepped closer, now chest almost brushing mine. “And then what, Rani? We get torn apart? Faisal gets passed between court hearings while our parents drag each other into another dynasty-level scandal? Is that what you want?”

I didn’t answer.

Because no, it wasn’t what I wanted.

But I was tired of being the one who stayed silent. The one who buried every wound and let her look like the victim in front of Mama and Babba while I played the wicked stepwitch in pearls.

Lamia exhaled shakily, looking away toward the skyline. “I never asked for this. This whole marriage. This…”

“You think I did?” I snapped, stepping beside her now. “You think I woke up one day and said, ‘Wow, I’d love to be stuck in a penthouse with a woman who hates me but shares my closet and child’?”

Silence again. But heavier now . The breeze picked up.

Faisal’s laughter drifted faintly from inside the dining room.

Lamia’s eyes flicked back to me. “You’re not the only one who gave up something, Rani.”

I looked at her, her perfect face, her cold elegance, her secrets.

And for a moment, just a second, I saw her not as my enemy.

But as a prisoner too.

In this whole, twisted, beautiful cage we’d both been forced into.

Then I turned and walked past her, back into the house.

Because if she wanted to play the part of a perfect wife tonight?

Fine. But I would be the one who owned the stage.

The moment I stepped back inside, the warmth of the dining room hit me like a wave, rich fabrics, soft chatter, and that unmistakable scent of Mama’s cooking lingering in the air. Babba’s eyes flicked toward me, sharp as ever, but he said nothing. I returned his gaze with a smile that was all ice and steel.

Lamia was now holding Faisal, her arms steady and gentle. The twins were whispering something behind their hands, probably giggling at the drama that we both refused to admit was front and center. Luqman Omar sat quietly, his usual unreadable expression hiding whatever he was thinking.

Mama’s gaze softened when she looked at Faisal, but when it shifted to me and Lamia, the unspoken question hung heavy: When will this ceasefire end?

I took my seat again, eyes locking with Lamia’s across the table. The unsaid words crackled between us like static electricity. We both knew this charade couldn’t last forever, nor would either of us let it.

But for now, the show had to go on.

“Mama, Babba,” I said smoothly, raising my glass, “thank you again for this wonderful dinner. It’s always a pleasure to be here… even if the company can be a bit challenging.”

A delicate laugh escaped Mama, but Babba just nodded, signaling the maids to clear the plates.

Lamia’s eyes glimmered with that familiar fire, and I mirrored it with my own sharp smile.

No matter the battles, no matter the secrets, we were stuck together.

For Faisal. For the families. And for the twisted ties that bound us.

___

The sleek black Rolls-Royce purred as it glided down the winding roads of Forbes Park, the city lights spilling through the tinted windows like distant stars. I sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, eyes locked on the blur of passing trees and street lamps. The ride was smooth, almost too silent.

Lamia had one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily near the gearshift. Her long fingers tapped idly, betraying the calm on her face. Her hair, which she’d untied before we left the house, now cascaded down her back in silky waves, dark as night and just as cold.

She hadn’t said a word since we left Mama and Babba’s mansion.

And neither had I.

The silence between us wasn’t peaceful, it was loaded. Electric. Like standing on the edge of a cliff during a storm.

She glanced at me for a moment, her eyes still rimmed with the smoky makeup she hadn’t bothered to touch up. “You always walk out of things when you don’t get your way, huh?” she said, finally breaking the silence, her voice smooth but sharp.

I let out a low, fake laugh, turning slightly to face her. “Please. If I walked out every time you got on my nerves, I’d be halfway to Paris by now.”

Lamia’s jaw flexed. “Don’t tempt me. I’d buy you the plane ticket.”

“Great. I’ll fly first class, courtesy of your guilt.”

The car slowed at a red light. She turned her head just enough to glare at me, the city glow painting her face in harsh gold.

I smiled sweetly. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?” she muttered, eyes forward again. “Because last I checked, you couldn’t even tell when someone was done with a conversation.”

“Oh no, darling,” I purred, shifting slightly so my diamond earrings caught the light. “I can tell. I just don’t care.”

The car began to move again, weaving into the steady current of traffic along EDSA. Inside, the tension grew thicker. Even the smooth leather seats couldn’t soften the weight pressing down between us.

I stared out the window. “They still think we’re in love, you know. Your parents.”

Lamia exhaled through her nose. “That’s the point.”

I turned to her sharply. “Is it? Because pretending to love someone and cheating behind their back are two different plays, Lamia.”

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

I leaned in closer, voice low and dangerous. “How long, Lamia? Before the photo? After? Or did Peterson never really leave?”

“Stop,” she snapped, voice like cracked ice.

But I didn’t. I never do.

“You think you’re scared of Babba finding out? Wait ’til I decide to stop pretending I care about saving your face.”

The car jerked slightly as she pressed harder on the gas, but she said nothing. Her silence was louder than a scream.

I sat back with a sigh, brushing invisible lint from my lap. “Relax. I won’t. Not for you. For Faisal. He deserves peace even if it means I have to swallow every ounce of pride just to keep this nightmare from becoming a circus.”

That shut her up.

Good.

The rest of the ride was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional honk from a restless driver. Our skyscraper home loomed into view, its penthouse lights like a lighthouse pulling us into harbor.

Lamia turned into the private garage, the car sliding into its usual reserved space. She shut off the engine, but neither of us moved for a moment. We sat there, both staring ahead.

“We’ll keep playing pretend,” she muttered finally, her voice sounding tired for once. Human. “But don’t test me.”

I opened the door with a flourish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The garage door thudded shut behind us as we walked in silence toward the elevator. Lamia walked a step ahead, her heels clicking on the concrete floor like a metronome counting down to the next round.

And me?

I smirked as I stepped inside the lift, the cold mirrored walls catching my reflection.

I wasn’t just playing pretend.

I was playing to win.

The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open to our floor. The quiet hush of the penthouse welcomed us like a velvet glove, luxurious, distant, cold. The crystal lights above shimmered like frost as we stepped into the vast living area, the echo of our heels lost against the high ceilings and marble floors.

Lamia said nothing as she strode past me, straight toward the bedroom hallway, her gown swishing behind her like the cape of a queen escaping her own coronation. I didn’t follow.

Not yet.

The silence of the place only emphasized how fake everything had become. This wasn’t a home. It was a beautiful prison built by obligation and status and held together with the weakest thread of a child we both loved more than we could ever admit.

I took my heels off by the foot of the long sofa and sank into it, the rich velvet swallowing my body like quicksand. I tossed my earrings onto the glass coffee table with a soft clink and leaned my head back, staring at the chandelier above me.

Even the light looked tired.

A few minutes passed before soft footsteps tiptoed from the hallway. I turned my head slowly. Nina, who was with us carrying baby Faisal, his cheek resting sleepily against her shoulder.

“Miss Rani,” she whispered, offering me a tired smile. “Gising pa po siya.”

I reached my arms out automatically, and Nina gently transferred him into my arms. Faisal smelled like baby powder and warm milk, his tiny fingers curling into my necklace like he always did. My heart ached, as it always did, with the weight of loving something so small and perfect while being stuck in something so ugly.

“Thank you, Nina,” I whispered, not looking at her.

She bowed her head slightly and left us alone, heading back to the nanny’s room without another word.

I held Faisal tighter, rocking him slowly as I looked down at his peaceful face. His long lashes fluttered, the tiniest smile playing on his lips in his sleep.

“My little king,” I murmured, brushing a kiss on his soft forehead. “You deserve better than this mess.”

The faint sound of running water echoed from the master bathroom. Lamia was probably already halfway into her shower, rinsing off her mother’s expectations and my accusations.

I stood, still cradling Faisal, and walked barefoot across the penthouse floor to his bedroom. The second room in our home, the only one that actually belonged to someone.

His crib sat beneath a canopy of clouds and stars, the custom ceiling lights we had fought over gently glowing blue above. I laid him down softly, adjusting his blanket with practiced hands.

Just before turning away, I lingered.

“He’s all I care about,” I whispered, almost to myself. “And I’ll be damned if I let you or your lies mess him up.”

With that, I turned off the lights, closing the door behind me as softly as a secret.

In the hallway, I could hear the faint click of the bathroom door opening. Lamia’s silhouette appeared under the glow of the bedroom lights, wrapped in a silk robe, her damp hair trailing down her back like a storm waiting to break again.

We didn’t speak.

Not tonight.

I walked past her, brushing her shoulder with mine just enough to remind her that I was still here.

Still fighting.

Still winning.