Chapter 9

Rani’s Point Of View

The Hidalgo Grand Hall wasn’t just a venue, it was a legacy.

Built by my grandfather in the seventies, expanded by my father in the nineties, and currently curated by my perfectionist mother like a shrine to capitalism itself, the hall stood in the center of Makati’s financial district like a jeweled crown surrounded by lesser royals.

Its marble floors had seen everything, from merger signings to scandal cover-ups, champagne-soaked contract victories, and quiet backroom betrayals in designer gowns.

And tonight?

It was glowing.

Crystal chandeliers rained down soft golden light over polished wood and velvet. Round tables draped in silk bore nameplates of surnames so wealthy, they didn’t need introductions. Waiters in all-black moved like shadows between CEOs and government officials, balancing wine and silence with equal grace.

And in the middle of it all… me.

Rani Hidalgo.

The daughter. The diva. The heir to a fortune built on steel and beauty products and strategic ruthlessness.

I didn’t walk into the room. I arrived.

Every pair of eyes flicked my way the moment the doors parted. The train of my custom black beaded gown kissed the marble as I stepped forward, heels clicking like punctuation. My hair was pulled into a low bun, elegant, sharp, and my lips were the exact shade of blood.

Power didn’t need an introduction.

And I didn’t need to smile.

A camera flashed from one corner, probably one of those media snakes my PR team warned me about. I let them have their photo. Let them caption it later however they wanted. “Rani Hidalgo commands the room once again.” They always did.

Kristof found me first, striking, and already holding two glasses of champagne like he was born to be my shadow.

“You’re late,” he teased, looping his arm with mine as he handed me a glass. “That gown was not.”

I smirked, taking it. “Darling, punctuality is for people who need to be noticed. I don’t. I’m the goddamn chandelier.”

He laughed. “You’re not wrong.”

Patricia was already halfway across the room, whispering something to a senator’s assistant and making him blush, while Queen stood near the media panel in a flaming red suit that made most of the men in the room look invisible.

This was our domain.

These were our people.

Predators dressed in pearls and ambition.

“Your mom’s looking this way,” Kristof murmured as we passed the Hidalgo family table. “Shoulders up. Chin high. She likes you more when you’re impossible to reach.”

I did exactly that.

Because he was right.

And this was the summit.

Where every empire sent their brightest to show face, show force, and make deals over steak tartare and lies disguised as compliments.

And I?

I was here to remind them why Hidalgo remained a name you didn’t dare outshine.

Even if I had a wife at home sleeping beside the scent of someone else’s cologne.

Even if I had secrets balled up in my throat like pearls too painful to swallow.

Even if I was tired.

I was still Rani Hidalgo.

And the show didn’t stop just because I was bleeding under the sequins.

——

Kristof had just left me with Patricia and Queen near the crystal bar, where we were pretending to sip our champagne while actually people-watching like professionals, when the hairs at the back of my neck stood up.

The air shifted.

That disgusting sixth sense I’d developed after years of dealing with fragile egos in designer shoes kicked in.

Then came the voice.

“Rani.”

My jaw tightened before I even turned.

That voice. That smug, trying-to-be-suave, overcompensating confidence.

Kevin Aguas.

And just like always, he was overdressed, overconfident, and overwhelmingly annoying.

Tonight, it was a navy blue suit, no tie, two buttons undone like he thought he was on a yacht in Monaco, not in a hall built by generations of actual power. He held another bouquet. Red roses, again. How original.

And that grin?

Too polished. Too forced. Like a car salesman who thought he was Casanova.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pretend to look impressed.

“Wow,” I said coolly, swirling the champagne in my flute. “You wore cologne this time. What’s the occasion? Bribing someone into marrying you?”

Patricia choked on her drink. Queen covered her mouth dramatically. I didn’t even blink.

Kevin’s smile flickered, but he pushed through it like he didn’t just get smacked in front of half of Forbes’ Top 100.

“I just saw you and thought I’d say hi. You look… amazing.”

“Of course I do,” I said, turning slightly so the light hit my cheekbone perfectly. “This isn’t a charity gala. I don’t dress for pity.”

His mouth opened again, but I didn’t give him the chance.

“If you’re here to offer more roses, don’t. I’m allergic to redundancy.”

I plucked one from the bouquet anyway and handed it to a passing waitress without looking.

“Give that to someone who hasn’t made a name for herself yet.”

Queen snorted.

Kevin shifted awkwardly, bouquet still in hand, like he hadn’t planned past this moment.

“Rani, I just thought maybe we could talk. Somewhere quiet…”

I stepped in close, just enough so he could smell my perfume and know I was dangerous.

“Kevin,” I said, voice velvet, “You want quiet? Buy a condo. Hire a therapist. I’m not your diary.”

He looked like he wanted to say something brave. But instead, he nodded, tried to chuckle it off, and walked away, flowers clutched like his dignity.

I turned back to Patricia, who was still wheezing from the brutality.

“Girl, I swear,” she said, fanning herself, “you don’t just kill men. You cremate them.”

“Please,” I said, lifting my glass. “He’ll probably post a cryptic story later with ‘Trust No One’ in Helvetica.”

We laughed.

And just like that, I was back in the room.

Untouchable. Divine.

And very much not in the mood for men who mistook persistence for relevance.

Because I didn’t come here to play.

I came to remind the world that I didn’t need a scandal to be unforgettable.

The soft clink of silver against crystal signaled it.

Every whisper faded.

The room obeyed in unison, a synchronized hush from CEOs, tycoons, socialites, and self-made millionaires dressed in silence and satin.

The summit had begun.

I sat at the front, center table reserved for the Hidalgo Group and its inner circle, my name engraved on a gold plate, as if I needed help being recognized. The air in the hall shifted from glamour to tension, the kind that felt like a velvet rope around the throat. The men straightened their ties. The women sharpened their smiles.

My mother sat beside me, immaculate in a champagne terno with hand-embroidered beads that caught every light like she was born beneath a chandelier. She nodded to the stage, where the keynote speaker was being introduced, some oil magnate whose surname I didn’t care to memorize.

“He’s been eyeing our shipping line,” she whispered to me, her voice low but laced with steel. “Smile when he talks. Look interested.”

I smiled.

Because I was trained to.

But behind the gloss of my lipstick, I was counting how many times these men used the word “innovation” when they really meant “conquest.”

The oil magnate droned on.

He spoke of sustainable futures while wearing a watch that could fund a small province. He smiled about “collaborations,” but we all knew this was a gladiator pit wrapped in white linen. Every word was a knife behind a handshake.

My eyes wandered. From table to table. Empire to empire.

The Sysons were here, old money in mining and monopolies. The De Leons, pharmaceuticals and private hospitals. Even the Garcias, tech bros turned political funders, with their eyes constantly scanning the room for the next deal they could pretend was charity.

And then me.

Rani Hidalgo.

The only woman in the room who didn’t bring her wife’s name for credibility.

Because I never needed a woman or man to open the door, I bought the building.

I felt Patricia’s hand rest lightly on my shoulder. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. We all knew how this game worked.

The keynote ended to polite applause.

Then came a series of speakers, some too polished, some too desperate. I nodded where I had to, smiled when I was being watched, and kept my ears sharp when the important figures spoke in veiled language about mergers, energy expansions, political influence disguised as “philanthropic outreach.”

This was the real country.

Not the one on the news.

This room ran the bloodline of every deal, every scandal, every sudden decision that shaped the lives of millions who never even knew these names.

And I?

I was the youngest voice at the table.

But they listened.

Because I had their attention.

Because even if I was juggling scandal, heartbreak, and a marriage glued together by a baby’s laugh, I never let my crown slip.

I leaned in when the mic passed to me for the panel.

Took a breath.

And smiled.

“We talk of innovation,” I began, voice steady, clear, and made for headlines, “but we forget the simplest truth, power doesn’t change. It evolves. And evolution isn’t polite… it’s strategic.”

The room held its breath.

I continued.

“Let’s not pretend this summit is about vision. It’s about who’s smart enough to play the long game… and still look good doing it.”

Polite laughter.

But they knew.

I saw it in their eyes.

Respect.

And fear.

Exactly where I liked them.

——

My phone buzzed.

I almost didn’t look, because no one had the audacity to disturb me during a summit. Not here, where names were currency and every blink was a transaction.

But when I saw Nina’s name light up my screen, I snatched it off the table with the reflex of a mother who had no time for diplomacy.

Nina Santos
Ma’am, si baby Faisal may sinat po. Mga 38.7°C. Pinainom ko na po ng paracetamol pero umiiyak pa rin.

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

Not panic…no. I didn’t do panic.

But it was something tight, something sharp behind my ribs.

I stood.

Didn’t excuse myself.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t care.

My mother turned to me slightly, lips already parted with that social tone she used for public scolding. I didn’t wait for it.

I was already walking.

The sea of glittering names and hungry eyes parted as I cut through them in my black high-slit gown and six-inch stilettos. The floor dared not creak under me. I moved with purpose, with fire licking at my heels. I scanned the tables, all lined with too much wine and too little truth.

And then I saw it.

The Al-Gaddafi table.

God, they looked like an oil painting. Expensive. Still. Drenched in quiet threat.

Babba sat like a king who didn’t need a throne, Mama beside him like the queen of a country no one voted for. Luqman was mid-conversation with a senator. Lameel twirled her glass of rosé. Latif was trying not to look bored.

But Lamia… she wasn’t at her seat.

Of course she wasn’t.

I pushed forward anyway.

“Excuse me,” I said, my tone smoother than the silk on their goddamn table. “Where’s Lamia?”

Every head turned.

Tita Victoria’s brow arched, slow and sharp like a guillotine rising.

“Rani, anak” she said coolly. “What a surprise. Everything alright?”

I didn’t flinch.

“Where is she?”

Tito Jazed leaned slightly, his eyes like frost under desert sunlight. He didn’t speak.

It was Lameel who finally said it.

“Bathroom, maybe? Or outside for a call?”

I turned on my heel before they could ask why.

Because I didn’t need to explain myself to people who thought discipline meant silence and motherhood was a job for nannies.

I stormed toward the hallway leading to the private lounge areas. Every click of my heels was a countdown. My baby had a fever, and the woman who called herself a mother was nowhere to be seen.

Rani Hildago Al-Gaddafi
You have five seconds to show up, Lamia. Or I swear to God, I’ll drag you out of here myself.

And I meant it.

Because this wasn’t about the summit.

This wasn’t about the war between our families or the lies in our bed.

This was about Faisal.

And no matter how broken this farce of a marriage was,

We were still his mothers.

I stormed down the long marble hallway, the echo of my heels pounding like war drums against the cold floors. My breath was steady, my mind focused… until I saw her.

Lamia.

She was standing near the far corner, her figure bathed in the dim glow of the sconces. She held her phone loosely in one hand, scrolling like she wasn’t carrying the weight of a feverish baby waiting for her. The sight made a cold fury coil tighter inside me.

But then my eyes caught movement beside her.

There.

A familiar shape stepped forward… Peterson.

His hand slid over her waist, pulling her in with a possessiveness that should have been mine to feel. Lamia didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her lips meeting his in a slow, lingering kiss that burned through the shadows.

For a long moment, I just stood frozen, heart pounding, blood roaring in my ears.

And then, like a storm unleashed, every shred of patience shattered.

I cleared my throat… deliberately loud.

Lamia jerked away, eyes wide with shock.

Peterson pulled back too, his smile fading under my glare.

“Enjoying your reunion?” I said, voice icy and sharp as glass, stepping forward with every ounce of diva fire I owned.

Lamia’s jaw clenched. “Rani… it’s not what you think.”

I laughed bitterly, every inch of me dripping disdain. “Oh please. Don’t insult my intelligence. You’re supposed to be here with us, not sneaking around with your ex like some desperate teenager.”

Peterson’s smirk twisted. “Maybe you should worry about your own marriage.”

But I was done listening.

“Don’t test me.”

I turned on my heel, knowing this fight was far from over.

Because even if Lamia still loved him, still chose him,

I wasn’t going to let her forget who owned this battlefield.

I took a slow step toward Lamia, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floor like a warning shot. My eyes narrowed, every inch of me radiating cold fire as I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Lamia,” I said, voice low but dripping with venom, “do you think I’m stupid? That I won’t see through your little games?”

She swallowed hard, her perfect face tight with frustration, but her eyes couldn’t hide the flicker of guilt. She clenched her phone tightly in her hand, as if it were the only thing keeping her steady.

“It’s not a game, Rani,” she spat back, stepping forward to meet my glare, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “You want to act like you own Faisal’s life, like you’re the only one who cares. But where have you been when I’m the one up all night, worrying about him?”

I scoffed, stepping closer, until the space between us felt like a battlefield. “Don’t lecture me about being a mother when you’re out playing house with your ex. That’s not love, Lamia… that’s selfishness. And don’t pretend you don’t still want him.”

Her eyes blazed, fury matching mine. “I do want him. And if that makes you angry, good. Maybe it’s time you admit you can’t control everything.”

My laugh was sharp, a weapon I wielded well. “Control? Baby, I don’t control you. I just make sure the chaos doesn’t swallow us all. But you? You’re just digging your own grave.”

Peterson, standing a step behind her, smirked again. “Careful, Rani. You’re losing your touch.”

I spun on him, eyes flashing dangerously. “Keep your opinions to yourself, or you’ll regret it.”

Lamia’s voice softened, a dangerous mix of anger and desperation. “We’re done here. Go back to your perfect little world, Rani. Faisal needs his real mother, not a cold queen playing dress-up.”

I took a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the diva in me rise like a tidal wave. “You want a war, Lamia? Fine. But remember… I am the one who never loses.”

I turned and stalked away, my heels echoing down the corridor, leaving her and Peterson standing in the shadows, two ghosts I refused to let haunt my life.

I stopped mid-step.

No. Hell no.

She doesn’t get to walk away like she’s the one who got burned.

I spun around, my hair flicking over my shoulder like a whip as I walked straight back into the line of fire. Lamia turned her head, startled, and Peterson’s smug smile hadn’t even had time to vanish.

“You know what’s pathetic?” I hissed, my eyes locked on Lamia as I stepped right into their little bubble. “That you’re standing here kissing him like some rebellious teenager caught behind the bleachers, while your son is at home, burning with fever. Nina had to text me. Me, Lamia. Because mommy dearest was too busy tongue-deep in nostalgia.”

Lamia’s cheeks flushed, not with embarrassment, no, she was too proud for that. It was fury. It danced in her eyes like fire swallowing a silk curtain.

“Don’t you dare bring Faisal into this,” she snapped, stepping forward, chest rising fast. “You’re using him as leverage because that’s all you have left, your cold, perfect image and your grasping, desperate need to look like the better parent.”

I laughed… dark, loud, and with my chin tilted so high it could cut heaven open. I slowly leaned in, not breaking eye contact.

“You think this is about looking good? No, babe. This is about who actually shows up. I don’t care if I’m tired, if I just closed a million-dollar deal, or if I have heels stabbing through my veins, when our son needs a mother, I show up. You? You’re out here dry-humping your ex.”

Peterson’s face twisted. “Hey, she doesn’t owe you an expla…”

“Shut your mouth,” I snapped, turning my glare on him like a blade. “This doesn’t concern you, Peterson. You’re just a guest star in a drama too big for your ego. Run along before I have you escorted out of the building like the parasite you are.”

He blinked, stunned. Lamia grabbed his arm as if to shield him… which only made it worse.

“Aw,” I sneered, folding my arms, “you’re defending him now? Cute. Truly. Nothing screams ‘class’ like cheating on your wife at a national summit with cameras outside the hall.”

Lamia gritted her teeth, stepping forward until our faces were just inches apart. “Don’t act like you’re some saint, Rani. You think just because you parade around in couture and sit on business panels that you’re untouchable? You’ve made my life hell since day one.”

“And you’ve been an embarrassment since day one,” I whispered with a smile, savoring every word like venom. “I married a spoiled brat playing CEO in her daddy’s empire. And now? Now you’re nothing but a tired scandal waiting to happen.”

Silence dropped between us like a guillotine.

Lamia’s breath came fast. Her fists clenched at her sides. She opened her mouth, but didn’t speak.

Because she had nothing left to say.

I turned one final time, each step away from them like a declaration of war. My phone was already in my hand. I texted Nina as I walked

Rani Hidalgo Al-Gaddafi
I’m on my way. Tell Faisal mama’s coming.

I didn’t look back.

Let Lamia and Peterson stand there in the corner, sweating in their shame.

Because no matter what story Lamia tried to write,

I’d be the one to finish it.

——

The sun filtered through the silk curtains, slicing the shadows in our room into quiet ribbons of light. The warmth touched my skin gently, but it didn’t soothe the dull weight pressing on my chest.

I blinked awake, eyes adjusting to the soft gold hue of morning.

The other side of the bed… cold. Still untouched. For the fourth night in a row.

No Lamia.

Of course.

I sat up slowly, sweeping my legs over the side of the bed, letting my silk robe slip over my shoulders with practiced ease. My hand reached for my phone before my feet touched the floor. No new messages. No missed calls. No apologies.

Pathetic.

I tied my robe tight around my waist and headed out of the bedroom, the hallway still dim with early light. The penthouse was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that felt… hollow. Even Manang Sally wasn’t humming in the kitchen. No clattering pans, no soft giggles from Anna. Even Faisal’s little babbles weren’t echoing from the nursery.

That was what made my steps pick up speed.

When I turned the corner toward the living room, I froze.

There were two unfamiliar men by the entrance, both in dark polos and jeans, wheeling in empty luggage bags. Behind them is Manang Sally, flustered, wringing her hands. And then Anna, holding Lamia’s silk blouse as if it were on fire.

My eyes snapped wide open.

They were packing.

Lamia’s things.

Her heels. Her perfume bottles. Her gowns. The drawer we pretended we didn’t fight over, now wide open and stripped bare.

“What the hell is going on here?” I demanded, my voice slicing through the silence like a whip.

Everyone froze.

Manang Sally rushed forward, already shaking her head. “Ma’am Rani, pasensya na po akala namin tulog pa kayo, si Ma’am Lamia po… nag iwan po ng utos kagabi. Pa-pack na daw po lahat ng gamit niya.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there in the soft light of morning, robe clinging to me like armor, staring down at the disaster I hadn’t seen coming.

“She what?” I asked, voice deadly quiet now, because I only got louder when I was calm.

Anna stepped forward nervously, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ma’am, umalis po si Ma’am Lamia kaninang madaling araw. Ipapakuha nalang daw po niya mamaya ang mga gamit niya.”

My throat tightened. But my face didn’t show it.

No reaction. Not yet.

“And where’s Faisal?” I asked coolly.

“Nasa nursery po, Ma’am,” Manang Sally answered quickly. “Kasama po ni Nina. Wala pong sinabi si Ma’am Lamia tungkol kay baby, kayong dalawa na daw po ni Nina ang bahala.”

Of course she didn’t.

Of course she could leave everything behind… me, this house, even her damn child, as long as she had him waiting for her.

I looked at the bags again. One of the maids had wrapped Lamia’s favorite fur coat in plastic, folding it with precision. Another had carefully placed her gold watch, the one I gave her during that press trip in Singapore into a velvet pouch.

My jaw locked tight.

She was really gone.

Coward.

I turned on my heel and walked straight to Faisal’s room without another word, the sound of her absence echoing behind me.

The second I stepped out of Faisal’s room, after checking his fever was down and pressing a kiss to his tiny, sleeping forehead, I pulled out my phone.

Work emails flashed. Meetings. Site inspections. Lunch with a foreign investor. A press call at five.

All of it?

Cancelled.

With a single swipe and a voice command, my entire day vanished into silence.

Because nothing, nothing, was more important right now than finding Lamia Al-Gadaffi and looking her in the face after what she did.

She didn’t just walk out of the penthouse. She didn’t just send strangers to pack up her life.

She walked away from our war. From Faisal. From me.

And that?

No.

She doesn’t get to run without answering to me.

I changed in less than five minutes… red wide-legged trousers, a sheer black blouse with pearl buttons, oversized shades. A diva didn’t show up to a confrontation in slippers and sadness.

The moment I stepped into the basement garage, the security team snapped to attention. I didn’t say a word. I slid into the back seat of my black Range Rover, slammed the door behind me, and barked at my driver,

“Antipolo. Lamia Al-Gadaffi estate. Now.”

The car surged forward.

The city blurred past us in a whirlwind of noise and sky, but inside the car, I was a storm wrapped in silence.

I stared out the window, my manicured nails drumming rhythmically against the leather seat, mind racing faster than the highway.

I thought about the way she looked at Peterson.

The way she used to look at me… no, scratch that. Lamia never looked at me with love. Not once. Not even during the wedding, when our mothers fussed over our matching veils and our fathers shook hands like kings sealing a treaty.

We were never lovers.

We were a deal. A negotiation. A show.

But somewhere along the way, we built something that resembled a life. A routine. A rhythm. We raised Faisal. We argued. We slept in the same bed, even if it was back-to-back, guarded by silence. She made the coffee strong. I made the schedules tighter. She slammed doors. I threw pillows. She called me cold. I called her cheap.

But it was ours.

And she walked away from it.

Just like that.

When the car finally rolled up the long, winding road to the mansion, a sprawling estate of high fences and brutal silence, I didn’t wait for the gates to open fully.

I was already stepping out, heels biting into the gravel, the wind catching my blouse like a cape.

Two guards at the gate scrambled to stop me.

“Ma’am Rani…”

“Move,” I snapped, flashing them a glare colder than steel. “Or I’ll have Babba revoke your last name by sundown.”

They parted without another word.

I marched toward the front doors of the mansion like I owned it. Because part of me did.

“Lamia!” I yelled as I reached the porch, pounding on the door with one sharp fist. “Get your ass down here right now! Don’t make me burn this whole palace down just to get your attention!”

Silence.

But I could feel her.

Inside. Upstairs. Hiding.

She always hid when she was scared.

And that meant… she knew.

She knew I would come.

The thick mahogany doors creaked open just enough for a sliver of shadow to move.

And then, there she was.

Lamia Al-Gadaffi stood on the threshold of her mansion like some porcelain ghost… barefoot, dressed in a loose satin robe the color of wilted roses, hair tousled like she’d just crawled out of someone else’s bed.

Maybe she had.

My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms so hard I almost welcomed the sting.

Her eyes locked with mine… wide, caught, but trying to be unreadable.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she said quietly, barely audible against the wind threading through the acacia trees behind me.

I laughed. Low, sharp, humorless.

“Too late for that, darling. You should’ve thought of that before sending strangers to gut our bedroom like a clearance rack.”

I stepped forward, crossing the threshold without waiting to be invited. She didn’t stop me. Of course she didn’t. She never knew how to stop me.

The doors closed behind us with a heavy thud.

The silence between us stretched like wire, taut and hot and ready to snap.

Lamia stood by the staircase now, arms folded under her chest, eyes refusing to meet mine.

“I needed space,” she said, her voice cool. Controlled.

“Space?” I echoed, pacing slowly across the grand marble floor, heels echoing like war drums. “You left in the middle of the night like a fugitive. And you didn’t even say goodbye to your son. You call that space?”

She flinched, just slightly, but enough for me to see.

I stepped closer. No mercy.

“You left him with me like I’m the maid and not the mother of that boy. And then what? ran back to Peterson?”

Lamia’s mouth opened, then closed. Her jaw clenched.

“I’m not doing this with you, Rani…”

“Oh, but you are,” I cut her off, voice dropping into a venomous whisper. “You think you can just vanish, hide behind your marble walls and satin sheets, and it’ll all go away? You think I’ll just raise Faisal alone while you play house with your ex? Gumising ka nga, Lamia. You’re not sixteen. You’re a mother. And a wife, however much you hate me, ‘yun parin tayo.”

Her chest rose fast, lips trembling before she pressed them tight again.

She turned her back to me, walking slowly toward the grand piano in the center of the room like she needed something to anchor her.

“I never asked for this marriage, Rani,” she said softly, fingers touching the keys without pressing them. “You know that.”

“Neither did I,” I replied, voice steely. “But here we are. And somehow, I’m the only one who stayed when things got ugly.”

She spun back toward me, her eyes blazing now.

“Because you’re good at pretending! You’re always so composed, so immaculate, like nothing ever touches you. I…” her voice cracked, and she turned her head. “I’m tired of pretending.”

“So that’s your excuse?” I said, stepping toward her. “You’re tired? So you kiss Peterson like Faisal’s not real? Like I don’t exist?”

Her voice dropped. “You never existed to me, Rani. Not the way you wanted to.”

My chest heaved.

That stung. More than I thought it would.

But I wasn’t about to let her see that.

“And yet here you are,” I whispered, eyes locking with hers again. “Hiding in the same mansion where we first live together. Wearing the ring you still haven’t taken off. Talking to me like we didn’t build a life, fake or not.”

She looked down at her hand.

Sure enough, the wedding band was still there, glinting like a curse.

I took one last breath, deep and heavy.

“Faisal had a fever last night,” I said quietly. “And you weren’t there.”

Her eyes snapped up again, filled with something that looked too close to guilt.

“He kept crying for you.”

I let that sit in the space between us like a dagger.

“So run. Run all you want, Lamia. But don’t think for one second I’ll let you disappear from his life just because you’re scared of your feelings.”

And with that, I turned, heels clacking hard on the tile as I made my way to the door.

Let her sit with that.

Let her choke on it.

I didn’t need to win the fight.

I just needed her to feel it.