Chapter 02
Hilda's throat constricted as she laid eyes on the man her father intended to sell her to. Vincenzo Truson stood in the Alegre mansion's grand foyer like a grotesque monument to excess and decay. The Italian was a small, rotund man with a gleaming bald head that reflected the chandelier light. His substantial belly strained against his expensive suit, and his dark, mottled skin bore the marks of a lifetime of indulgence and vice.
Even the beggars on the street would reject him, Hilda thought bitterly. She wasn't vain enough to consider herself a great beauty, but the idea of being touched by this creature made her skin crawl.
"I thought you had one pretty daughter," Truson said in heavily accented English, his thick lips curling in disappointment. He licked those lips as he was introduced to Hilda, his beady eyes crawling over her from head to toe like greasy fingers.
The way he looked at her—not as a person, but as merchandise to be evaluated—made bile rise in her throat. She forced herself to remain still, to keep her expression neutral, even as every instinct screamed at her to run.
"If you are satisfied, Mr. Truson, you can take her to Italy immediately," Hector said with the casual tone of someone discussing a business transaction. "We will follow next month for the wedding, after my second daughter recovers from her... condition."
The Alegres had spun an elaborate lie about Alicia being gravely ill, even producing fake medical documents suggesting she was infertile—anything to keep their precious golden child safe while sacrificing the unwanted one. The irony wasn't lost on Hilda. They'd rather invent a terminal illness for Alicia than admit they simply valued one daughter over the other.
Truson had originally wanted Alicia, drawn by her conventional beauty and golden charm. Everyone knew Alicia was more beautiful—it was a fact Hilda had been reminded of daily for the past sixteen years. But now, faced with the prospect of being given to this repulsive old man as a consolation prize, Hilda felt a new kind of humiliation wash over her.
Not pretty enough to keep, but good enough to trade, she thought bitterly.
"The documents will be ready tomorrow," Truson announced, his voice thick with satisfaction. "My private jet leaves at dawn. Make sure she is prepared."
The moment the Italian and his armed entourage left the mansion, Hilda's composure shattered. She fell to her knees before her father, pride abandoned in the face of sheer desperation.
"Please, Father, I'm begging you," she cried, reaching for his legs. "Don't do this to me. I'll work harder, I'll never complain again, I'll—"
"Get off me!" Hector snarled, kicking her away with such force that she sprawled across the marble floor. "For once in your miserable life, you'll actually be useful to this family!"
Esperanza watched from her perch on the sofa, fanning herself with practiced elegance. "Accept your fate, Hilda," she said coolly. "Consider this payment for twenty-two years of charity. We could have thrown you out on the streets, but we kept you fed and sheltered. Now it's time to repay that debt."
Something snapped inside Hilda. Twenty-two years of suppressed rage and pain crystallized into a moment of defiant clarity. She pushed herself to her feet, her violet eyes blazing with an intensity that made Esperanza pause mid-fan.
"If my mother were alive, you would have no position in this house," Hilda said, her voice steady despite the blood trickling from her split lip. "The blood that runs through my veins is the blood of the true owner of this mansion, this company, this fortune you've been squandering!"
She took a step forward, and for the first time in her life, she saw uncertainty flicker in her stepmother's eyes.
"Everything in this house—every piece of jewelry you wear, every designer dress in your closet, every peso you waste—came from my mother's family. It should have been mine—"
The slap came so fast and hard that Hilda's vision went white. Esperanza grabbed her jaw with manicured nails, forcing her to meet those cold, calculating eyes.
"Your mother is dead," she hissed, her breath hot against Hilda's face. "There is nothing for you here. Remember why you're still alive, little girl."
Hilda looked to her father, searching for even a flicker of paternal concern, but Hector simply lit another cigarette, his attention already elsewhere. To him, she had ceased to exist the moment Truson agreed to take her.
"That's enough, Esperanza," he said lazily, exhaling smoke. "Don't leave marks on her. Truson will be here tomorrow, and I don't want him having second thoughts."
The casual cruelty of it—discussing her like livestock that needed to remain unblemished for sale—finally broke something fundamental in Hilda. As Esperanza released her and she collapsed to the floor, she felt the last of her hope die.
"Take her upstairs," Esperanza commanded the servants. "Lock her in. No one goes in or out without my permission."
The servants dragged Hilda up the stairs, their grip unnecessarily rough. They'd witnessed her humiliation and, like pack animals sensing weakness, took the opportunity to assert their own superiority over the fallen daughter of the house.
Once locked in her room, Hilda sank to the floor, her fingers finding the small locket around her neck—the only thing she had left of her mother. Her old nanny had given it to her years ago, the one person who had shown her kindness before being dismissed for that very crime.
"For twenty-two years, I hoped," she whispered to the empty room. "Every single day, I prayed that Father would look at me and see his daughter, not his wife's killer. Even when I wanted to give up, even when I wanted to run, I stayed because I hoped..."
She tilted her head back, forcing the tears to stop. She'd cried enough tears to fill an ocean, and what had it gotten her?
"What do I do now, Mom?" she asked the locket, as if it might answer.
Hilda Alegre—the only child of Hector Alegre and his first wife, the rightful heir to one of Bicol province's greatest fortunes, reduced to a bargaining chip in her father's business dealings.
Her mother had died giving birth to her, and Hector had never forgiven her for it. Her old nanny had told her stories of how deeply Hector had loved his first wife, how her death had driven him nearly mad with grief. For years, Hilda had tried to understand, had even believed she deserved his hatred.
But time had taught her the truth: she wasn't responsible for her mother's death any more than she was responsible for being born. She hadn't asked for life, hadn't asked to survive when her mother didn't. How could that be her crime?
The final confirmation of her father's complete abandonment came with his willingness to sell her to Truson. His own flesh and blood, traded away like a commodity.
Hilda wiped her tears with trembling hands and forced herself to stand. "I'm wasting time feeling sorry for myself."
She moved to the bed and lay down, her mind racing. Italy was vast; she knew that much. Perhaps it would be easier to escape there than here in the Philippines, where the Alegre name carried weight and influence. In a foreign country, she might have a chance to disappear.
Her fingers gripped the bedsheets as she stared at the lampshade on the bedside table, its soft light casting shadows on the wall.
"I won't let them win," she vowed. "I won't let their plan succeed."
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**The Next Morning**
Hilda sat in silence in the back of the luxury car, sandwiched between two of Truson's bodyguards. She kept her expression carefully neutral, but her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird. The Italian sat across from her, his eyes roaming over her with proprietary satisfaction.
The bodyguards were all armed, their weapons visible beneath their jackets. The message was clear: any attempt to escape would be met with force. Fear coursed through her veins like ice water, but she forced herself to look out the window, to appear calm.
Through the tinted glass, she could see Esperanza standing at the mansion's entrance, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief while Hector held her. The perfect picture of grieving parents sending their beloved daughter off to her new life.
The hypocrisy of it transformed Hilda's fear into rage. What was the difference, really, between marrying this repulsive old man and continuing to live in that mansion? Both were forms of hell, just with different devils in charge.
As the car pulled away from the only home she'd ever known, Hilda's hands clenched in her lap. For one wild moment, she considered throwing open the door and jumping out. Better to die on the pavement than live as Truson's plaything.
