Chapter 8

Rani’s Point Of View

There’s a moment when the city finally exhales. When the traffic lights stop looking like enemies and the sky goes black without feeling suffocating. For me, that moment always came after a long day of work, when the blazer was off, my heels were sky-high, and I was finally surrounded by people who weren’t trying to emotionally assassinate me over dinner.

The neon glow of Verve Bar hit me like a kiss from freedom.

I stepped inside, hips swaying in my white satin midi dress that hugged every curve like it knew its job. My lips were a bold red, my perfume Tom Ford, floating like expensive revenge.

And there they were.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with her royal presence,” Kristof called out, raising a glass of gin and tonic, his nails freshly painted in matte black.

“You mean Her Diva-ness?” Patricia chimed in with a smirk, her lashes fanned out dramatically as she slid over in the booth to make room.

Queen, in all her blonde-haired, tiny-waist glory, let out a whistle. “Teka lang, girl. Who are you trying to seduce tonight? Si Lamia? O sarili mo sa mirror?”

I dropped my clutch on the table and slid in like a star returning to set.

“Neither,” I purred, grabbing Kristof’s drink and taking a sip before he could stop me. “I’m seducing peace.”

They all cackled.

“Work was hell?” Patricia asked, signaling the server.

I tossed my hair over my shoulder and exhaled like the weight of the whole week was in that breath. “Honey, I signed more papers today than Lamia’s signed divorce settlements in her dreams.”

Queen leaned forward, eyes glinting. “So… the witch still sleeping outside the penthouse?”

I gave them a look, lips tightening. “Try in other men’s beds.”

Kristof’s jaw dropped. “Oh. My. God. Spill. Everything. Now.”

I took a deep breath, propping one elbow on the table, tracing my finger along the rim of my glass as if I was sipping scandal.

“It’s been three nights. She didn’t come home. She thinks I’m stupid. I know she’s with Peterson,” I said, my voice low and sharp, like a knife dressed in velvet.

Patricia let out a hiss. “Not the ex? The scandalous ex?”

Queen’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t there rumors they’re back together?”

“Always were,” I muttered, downing the rest of the gin and tonic. “She thinks I don’t know. But the thing is…I do know. I just don’t want a scene. Not for me. For Faisal.”

Kristof reached over and squeezed my hand. “You’re a better woman than she deserves.”

I gave a bitter laugh. “I’m not doing it for her. I’m doing it so my son doesn’t grow up watching his moms tear each other apart in court. I’m tired, guys. And I’m angry.”

Queen sat back, twirling her straw. “You need a rebound.”

Patricia gasped. “Kevin.”

Everyone stared.

I rolled my eyes. “Yuck.”

Kristof grinned. “He’s rich, hot, and crazy about you.”

I sighed dramatically, then smirked. “Let’s get another round. If I’m going to keep pretending I’m not seconds away from burning that penthouse down, I need tequila.”

And as the music pulsed and the drinks kept coming, I let myself be Rani Hidalogo, the diva, the boss, the untouchable.

Because the wife?

She was tired.

And the woman?

She was breaking.

Two more rounds in and I was floating.

Not drunk, of course. I don’t get drunk. I glow. I twirl. I smirk at exes from across the bar like they’re lucky to have even been in my presence.

Kristof had loosened his tie and was now doing his best Beyoncé impersonation with a napkin as a wig. Queen had climbed up the booth like a drunk fairy, fixing everyone’s lipstick and yelling that we were “manifesting peace and a man with credit.” And Patricia… God bless her, was scrolling through her phone like she was ready to submit my love life to the nearest reality TV casting call.

Me?

I was leaned back in the booth, one leg crossed over the other, swirling the last of my champagne like I had all the answers and none of the problems.

Then my phone buzzed on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I glanced down lazily.

Lamia Al-Gadaffi — 3 Missed Calls

I blinked.

“What the hell…” I muttered under my breath, straightening up.

Patricia noticed first. “What? What’s that look?”

I tapped my screen, unlocking it. The texts started rolling in.

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
Are you with Faisal?

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
Answer the damn phone, Rani.

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
Where are you?

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
Nina said she’s off-duty. Is he home?

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
Rani, call me back.

My brows furrowed, heartbeat kicking up.

“She’s panicking,” I muttered.

Kristof leaned closer. “Wait. What? Is Faisal okay?”

“I left him with Nina. She said she was staying the whole night since it’s Sunday,” I grabbed my clutch, already standing. “Something’s off.”

Queen sobered instantly, sliding down from her perch. “Girl, you want us to come?”

I shook my head. “No. No. I’m sure it’s nothing. She’s just being Lamia.”

Kristof raised a brow. “Savage Lamia or mother-mode Lamia?”

I paused. Then muttered, “I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

As I turned to leave, Patricia called out, “Text us the second you get home. If she pulls drama, we’ll bring tequila and a lawyer.”

I gave them a quick wave, heels clicking with purpose as I stormed out of the bar into the heavy Manila night.

——

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

As soon as I stepped out into the foyer of the penthouse, my heels echoed like warning bells against the marble floor. The lights were dimmed low…too low. It wasn’t Nina’s style. She usually kept things bright and homey when she was around with Faisal.

I dropped my keys on the tray by the door and paused.

There was murmuring coming from the living room.

And then…

“Rani.”

My heart did a full-body eye roll.

I turned the corner, and there she was.

Lamia Al-Gadaffi. Her hair was in a loose, messy bun. She wore an oversized hoodie, mine, actually. And pants like she hadn’t just disappeared for three damn nights. But it wasn’t her that froze me in place.

It was the two other people sitting on the couch with Faisal bouncing happily in between them.

Mama. Babba.

My stomach dropped.

“Surprise,” Lamia said dryly, arms crossed as she leaned against the kitchen counter like a miserable host at her own intervention. “They wanted to see their grandson.”

My eyes flicked to the couch.

“Mama. Babba.” I gave them the sweetest smile I could fake. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Mama stood up and walked over, hugging me lightly, her pearls gleaming like they always did when she sensed tension.

“Anak, Lamia called us,” she said softly, her voice tinged with concern. “She couldn’t reach you. Nina was already out, she had an emergency. Faisal was alone.”

“He was asleep,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “And he wasn’t alone for more than twenty minutes.”

“Rani,” Lamia said firmly, stepping forward now. “You weren’t answering. I didn’t know where either of you were.”

I turned to her slowly, eyes narrowing. “Wow. The irony. You, of all people, talking about not knowing where someone is.”

Lamia’s jaw clenched. “Can we not do this in front of my parents?”

“Oh, now you care about their opinions?” I shot back, my voice low and deadly. “Funny. You didn’t seem so scared of Babba when you were sleeping with… None.”

The room went silent.

Even the city outside seemed to pause.

Babba stood slowly. “What did you say?”

Lamia’s face turned pale.

I glanced at her and shrugged. “Nothing. Just that I hope whatever late-night business meetings she’s been attending lately are at least… profitable.”

Lamia turned toward her father, voice cracking. “Babba, it’s not…”

But Tito Jazed raised a hand. Calm. Quiet. Terrifying.

“Enough.”

Tita Victoria stepped in between them. “We will talk about this later.”

Lamia said nothing.

I felt like a devil in heels. And I didn’t care.

Until Faisal babbled again, tugging on Babba’s sleeve and smiling like he had no idea a time bomb just went off in the room he calls home.

Then my heart cracked a little.

He didn’t deserve this.

None of it.

“Excuse me,” I whispered. “I need to change.”

And with that, I walked past Lamia, straight down the hall to our bedroom, the scent of my own perfume still clinging to her hoodie as she watched me go.

___

The door clicked shut behind me.

I yanked open the closet, not because I needed clothes, but because I needed something to do with my hands other than slapping Lamia Al-Gadaffi straight into the next tax season.

I slipped off my earrings, placed them with a controlled grace on the velvet tray, and kicked off my heels one by one.

“Rani…”

I didn’t turn. Just rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “Don’t.”

The voice came closer anyway. The soft pad of her bare feet across the floor made my skin crawl. She always walked like a cat, silent, calculated, irritatingly composed.

“I wasn’t with Peterson last night,” Lamia said, her voice low. Controlled. Practiced.

I finally turned to face her.

“Oh, just last night?” I threw my blouse onto the bed, now standing in a silk camisole, arms crossed like I was ready to cross-examine her in court. “So what were the other nights? Rehearsals for how you’d lie to my face?”

Lamia sighed, rubbing her temples. “You don’t get to act like this.”

I laughed short, sharp, and bitter. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t,” she repeated, voice rising now, stepping forward. “You don’t get to throw a tantrum when you’ve made it very clear you hate me.”

“Oh, I do hate you,” I spat, stepping right into her space. “But I hate lies more.”

Her eyes locked on mine. Cold fire meeting wild storm.

“I didn’t lie.”

“You disappeared for three nights, Lamia. Three nights!” I said, gesturing wildly. “No calls. No texts. Just poof! And I’m here, playing house with your son and your secrets while you’re… what? Having nostalgia sex with your ex-boyfriend like it’s high school all over again?”

Her jaw flexed. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough.” I stalked to the dresser, pulled out a hair tie, yanked my hair into a bun. “And I also know Babba isn’t stupid. So congratulations, now he knows too.”

Lamia winced. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

“I didn’t want him to find out like this,” she muttered.

I turned to her again, arms limp at my sides now. Exhausted. “Then maybe don’t cheat on your wife.”

“You’re not my wife by choice!” she snapped.

Silence.

A beat.

A slap from reality.

I swallowed hard.

And then smiled, the kind of smile that hurts when it forms.

“Neither were you.”

She looked away.

I walked past her, brushing her shoulder with mine. “You have no idea how lucky you are that I don’t want Faisal growing up in chaos. Otherwise, Lamia… you wouldn’t be standing in this room right now.”

She didn’t answer.

And I didn’t look back.

I climbed into bed, pulled the silk sheets up, and turned off my lamp.

Let her figure out her guilt in the dark.

___

The bedroom was dark, save for the gentle glow of the city bleeding through the sheer curtains. Manila pulsed in the distance, soft, golden, far away. Almost like it belonged to a different world. One where people didn’t sleep in the same bed with someone they couldn’t trust.

I lay still, my back to her, my breathing even, fake.

But my mind… was roaring.

Even the silence between us had weight. Not the gentle kind, the crushing kind. Like the air was thick with all the things we didn’t say. Like the mattress itself could feel the fault line we both refused to cross.

She was awake.

I could sense her.

Lamia Al-Gadaffi, the untouchable CEO, the storm in a skirt, the ice queen every boardroom feared and yet here she was, in the same hoodie she stole from my side of the closet, curled up like the weight of the world had finally bruised her.

She hadn’t moved since I turned off the lamp.

She didn’t dare breathe too loud.

She was afraid I’d speak first.

Or worse, not speak at all.

And then… it came.

A whisper.

Small. Shaky. Human.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

The words were so quiet I almost pretended I didn’t hear them.

Almost.

But they landed.

Heavy. Personal. Laced with guilt.

I kept still.

My arms were tucked under the pillow, but my fists were clenched beneath the softness. I didn’t want her explanation. I didn’t want her confession. I wanted her remorse. I wanted her to feel the shame, the betrayal, the filth of sneaking around while I stayed behind to sing lullabies and cover for her lies.

Still, she spoke.

“It’s not what you think. Not really. He just… showed up.”

Her voice cracked on the word he and I hated how I still recognized the tremble.

Peterson.

The ghost between us. The memory she couldn’t let go.

“He reminded me of who I was before all this. Before I had to play perfect daughter, perfect executive, perfect—”

She stopped herself, but I knew where the sentence was going. It hovered in the air like cheap perfume.

Perfect wife.

I rolled onto my back slowly, the silk sheets sliding over my skin like water.

I didn’t look at her.

But I finally answered.

“You’re not the only one who lost a version of herself in this marriage.”

And that was the first true thing I’d said to her in weeks.

Because I had.

The Rani I used to be, the one who never cried unless it was in a bathroom at a gala, the one who could flirt her way out of a hostile takeover, the one who swore she’d never let love or duty chain her down… she was gone.

Buried beneath milk-stained shirts, strained smiles, and a diamond ring that never stopped burning on my finger.

I closed my eyes and listened.

But Lamia didn’t reply.

Not right away.

I wondered if she was crying. But that didn’t seem like her.

No, Lamia didn’t cry.

She suffered in silence. Quiet. Controlled. Like someone who was taught emotions were weaknesses you hide beneath silk blouses and perfect hair.

I opened my eyes to the ceiling, my throat tight.

I hated her.

I hated how beautiful she looked even in regret.

I hated how she held our son like the only thing she ever believed in.

I hated that I knew her.

Every tick in her jaw. Every silence that meant “I’m hurting.” Every glance that meant “don’t make me say it out loud.”

But worse?

I hated how much it still mattered.

I hated that, even when she was wrong… I understood her.

Because Lamia wasn’t a villain.

She was just another girl who got trapped in the same golden cage I did.

And the only thing more cruel than hating each other was realizing we were both just surviving each other.

I didn’t move.

Neither did she.

But in the darkness, we both heard it,

The sound of everything we never said, screaming louder than any fight ever could.

___

Morning crawled in slow.

It didn’t come with joy or sunlight, it came with that dull headache that sat behind your eyes when you’ve spent the whole night thinking too much and feeling too loud.

The penthouse was still quiet when I stirred, the pale glow of sunrise pressing gently through the cream-colored curtains like it was afraid to wake us.

I blinked toward the ceiling, disoriented for a second.

Then I felt the weight beside me.

Lamia hadn’t moved.

She lay on her side, turned away, her back stiff, one arm draped over the pillow like she hadn’t meant to sleep at all. Her hair was a mess, long dark strands tangled and spilling over the pillow like ink.

Her breathing was soft, but not deep.

She wasn’t really asleep.

Just pretending.

Like me.

I sat up slowly, careful not to stir her, even though a wicked part of me wanted to yank the duvet off her legs just to spite her. But I didn’t. I didn’t need to. We had already said everything last night without really saying it.

I slid out of bed and padded across the floor, each step making the floorboards groan beneath my bare feet. I reached for my robe, the white silk one embroidered with my initials on the chest and tied it tightly around my waist like it was armor.

I didn’t look back at her.

Not once.

Because if I did, I’d remember how human she looked last night. How small. How broken.

And I wasn’t ready to see Lamia Al-Gadaffi as anything other than a threat.

The kitchen was empty.

Faisal’s giggles echoed faintly from his bedroom, and I could hear Nina humming some tune as she changed him. Probably “Twinkle Twinkle” or some other lullaby that made everything feel gentler than it really was.

Manang Sally greeted me as soon as I entered the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Good morning, Ma’am Rani. Kape po?”

I nodded, sinking onto the stool at the island counter, trying not to look like I hadn’t slept in years. “Yes please, Manang. Strong.”

She chuckled, pouring the thick barako coffee into my favorite mug, the pale lavender one Kristof had gifted me last Christmas. “Knew it,” she said under her breath.

A plate clinked softly beside it… tapsilog. The scent of garlicky rice and sweet beef rising into the air like a bribe to my exhaustion. Anna must’ve been up early again.

I took a long sip of the coffee, staring blankly at the marble countertop as the silence wrapped around me again.

It was a new day.

But it didn’t feel like a beginning.

It felt like a hangover from the night before, a night where I’d watched my wife fold in on herself, and still couldn’t decide if I wanted to slap her or save her.

Behind me, I heard the bedroom door open.

I didn’t turn.

I didn’t need to.

I could feel her.

Lamia’s steps were slower than usual. No heels. Just the soft patter of bare feet and regret.

She didn’t speak.

She just entered the kitchen and went straight for the fridge, pulling out the pitcher of water and pouring herself a glass without even glancing my way.

We were inches apart, sharing the same room, same air, same child, and yet somehow it felt like we were miles away.

And maybe that’s what hurt most.

Even our silence was in sync.

The sound of the chair scraping against the marble made my eye twitch.

Lamia sat across from me without a word, holding her glass of water like it was the only thing anchoring her to this reality. She looked like hell. And of course, she still looked expensive while doing it.

Baggy shirt, probably mine. Hair twisted in a messy bun with gold pins peeking out. Lips chapped from sleep, but glossed in the corners. Her face was bare, but her presence wasn’t. She still sat like she owned the room. Because she always did.

She forked a piece of fried egg and chewed like it didn’t take effort.

I sipped my coffee, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re home early,” I said flatly, not even trying to hide the blade in my tone.

She didn’t flinch.

She set her fork down neatly, wiped her mouth with the corner of her napkin like she was at some goddamn gala.

“It’s Monday,” she said, voice smooth but lacking its usual bite. “Figured I’d try this whole domestic life thing again.”

I looked at her over the rim of my mug. “How novel. Want me to call Peterson and tell him to pick you up later?”

The silence that followed was loud.

Even Anna and Manang Sally stopped mid-motion. Anna froze by the stove holding a pan, and Manang clutched a bottle of vinegar like she was scared to breathe.

Lamia didn’t break eye contact.

But her jaw clenched. I saw it.

“You’ve been waiting to use that, haven’t you?” she said quietly, stabbing a piece of tapa.

I leaned in slightly, resting my elbow on the table, voice low and deliberate.

“You didn’t come home for three nights. Want me to believe you were at a conference, Lamia?”

She exhaled slowly, the kind of breath you take before a war starts.

“I don’t owe you an explanation. At saka bakit ba paulit ulit ka?”

I tilted my head. “You’re right. You owe one to your son.”

That one landed.

Her posture stiffened. For a flicker of a second, her composure cracked, and that was all I needed to feel like I won something.

She didn’t reply.

She just glanced toward Faisal’s room, as if saying his name out loud might summon his eyes, his giggle, the way he instinctively reached for her before he even knew what the word “mama” meant.

I picked at my garlic rice, my voice dropping to a murmur.

“You don’t even know what night he started teething again. I had to sing him back to sleep while you were off… playing memory lane.”

Lamia’s fork hit the plate.

A quiet clang.

Not loud.

But enough.

“You think I don’t care?” she whispered, her voice so tight it barely escaped her throat. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you made a choice,” I answered, looking her dead in the eyes. “And I think you made it three nights in a row.”

Manang Sally cleared her throat. Loudly.

Anna busied herself wiping the already clean counter.

I took another sip of coffee, ignoring the heat rising to my face, my chest, my throat. Not from shame. Not from guilt.

Just rage.

That slow, feminine kind, the kind you swallow every morning with your espresso and pretend tastes like peace.

Lamia stood, her plate only half-touched.

She didn’t say anything.

Just walked toward the sink and poured the rest of her breakfast straight into it, like she couldn’t eat anything else with me in the room.

“I’ll be in Faisal’s room,” she muttered. “If you decide to stop being a martyr.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t need to be a martyr.

I just needed to be his mother.

And she needed to figure out whether she wanted to be anything other than a liar.