روايات بقلم Sylpha Inyx

HANA'S POV Tatlong taon. Tatlong taon ang lumipas simula nang lisanin ko ang Pilipinas nang duguan ang puso at wasak ang pagkatao. Sa loob ng tatlong taon na iyon, ang Dubai na dating naging impyerno sa akin ay naging saksi rin sa aking pagbangon. Sa tulong ng isang matandang designer na nakakita sa aking talento sa ospital noon, unti-unti kong binuo ang aking karera bilang isang kilalang interior designer sa ibang bansa. Ngunit higit sa lahat, sa loob ng tatlong taon na iyon, ang aking anak na si Ianna ang naging sentro ng mundo ko. Si Ian, na ang mga mata ay kasing-talas ng kay Sebastian, ngunit ang ngiti ay kasing-tamis ng pag-asang ibinigay niya sa akin. "Mommy, are we going to see Lolo?" tanong ng maliit na bata habang hila-hila ang kanyang maliit na maleta sa loob ng Ninoy Aquino International Airport. Napahinga ako nang malalim. Ang hangin ng Pilipinas—mainit, malagkit, pero amoy tahanan. "Yes, baby. Pupuntahan natin si Lolo. Pero kailangan nating mag-ingat, okay?" B

Hindi ko alam kung saan nanggaling ang lamig na nararamdaman ko ngayon. Habang nakatingin ako sa salamin, hindi ko na makilala ang babaeng dati ay umiiyak dahil sa pag-ibig. Ang pitong buwan kong pananatili sa Dubai, mag-isang hinaharap ang hirap ng pagbubuntis ay talagang nakapag pabago ng emosyong nararamdaman ko. Nang pumasok si Sebastian sa sala ng villa ni Ahmed, hindi ako tumayo. Nanatili akong nakaupo, nakadekwatro, habang dahan-dahang humihigop ng tsaa. Ang maluwag kong suot na Abaya ay sapat na para itago ang aking tiyan na pitong buwan na. Sa paningin niya siguro, tumaba lang ako dahil sa ganda ng buhay dito. "Hana," tawag niya. Kung ipapaliwanag ko ang boses ni Sebastian, ito ay tila basag at puno ng pangungulila. Tumingin ako sa kanya ng walang ni isang kislap sa mga mata ko. Walang galit. Tanging kawalan lang ng pakialam. "Ano pang ginagawa mo rito, Mr. Valderama? Hindi mo ba nakikita? Busy ako." "Hana, pakinggan mo ako," lumapit siya, sinubukan niyang hawakan

Pitong buwan na ang lumipas simula nang talikuran ko ang Pilipinas at ang lahat ng sakit na dulot ni Sebastian. Sa pitong buwan na iyon, natutunan kong bumangon sa gitna ng init ng Dubai. Hindi naging madali ang magsimula nang mag-isa, lalo na’t bitbit ko sa aking sinapupunan ang bunga ng isang gabing puno ng kasalanan at pag-ibig. Ang aking tiyan ay malaki na ngayon. Ayon sa doktor, isang malusog na baby girl ang dinadala ko. Sa tuwing sumisipa siya, naaalala ko ang mga mata ni Sebastian, matapang at puno ng buhay. Ngunit mabilis ko ring iwinawaksi ang isiping iyon. Hindi na siya bahagi ng buhay namin. "Hana, you're daydreaming again," isang malumanay na boses ang bumulaga sa akin. Si Ahmed. Sa loob ng pitong buwan, hindi niya ako iniwan. Siya ang nag-ayos ng aking trabaho bilang administrative assistant sa isa sa kanyang mga kumpanya. Hindi siya nagtanong nang marami tungkol sa nakaraan ko, bagaman alam niyang may malalim akong sugat na dala. "Pasensya na, Ahmed. Napagod lan

Hindi ako mapakali sa loob ng penthouse. Lakad ako nang lakad habang hinihintay ang pagbabalik ni Sebastian. Ang lakas ng ulan sa labas, parang nakikisama sa kaba na nararamdaman ko. "Sebastian, huwag kang pumunta nang mag-isa," pakiusap ko sa kanya bago siya umalis. Nakasuot siya ng itim na jacket at seryoso ang kanyang mukha. "Kailangan kong umalis. Hawak ni Marcus ang buhay ng tatay mo," sagot niya habang hinahawakan ang mukha ko. "Dito ka lang. Ligtas ka rito." tango lang ang tanging naisagot ko kahit pa kitang kita sa mukha ko ang takot at pag-aalala. "Paano kung may mangyaring masama sa iyo?" hindi ko na napigilan ang bigat na nararamdaman ko kaya naitanong ko na lamang bigla ang mga ito. "Babalik ako, Hana. Pangako," huling sabi niya bago siya tuluyang lumabas. --- Dumating si Sebastian sa isang abandonadong simbahan. Doon, naghihintay ang pinsan niyang si Marcus. Hawak ni Marcus ang isang remote. Isang pindot lang, mamamatay ang tatay ni Hana sa ospital dahil mat

Nagising ako sa isang malamig at matigas na semento. Ang ulo ko ay parang binibiyak sa sakit dahil sa kemikal na naamoy ko kanina, at ang paligid ay nababalot ng amoy ng kalawang at napanis na tubig-dagat. Sinubukan kong igalaw ang aking mga kamay, ngunit mahigpit itong nakatali sa isang bakal na inuupuan ko. Ang bawat paggalaw ko ay nagdudulot ng hapdi sa aking mga pulso dahil sa gasgas ng magaspang na lubid. "Gising na ang munting prinsesa ni Valderama," isang boses ang bigla kong narinig sa katahimikan ng madilim na bodega. Dahan-dahan kong iniangat ang aking paningin. Sa harap ko ay nakatayo ang tatlong lalaki. Ang isa ay may hawak na kutsilyo, habang ang isa naman ay tila may tinitingnan sa isang laptop, ang liwanag ng screen ay nagbibigay ng nakakatakot na anino sa kanyang mukha. "Anong kailangan niyo sa akin?" paos kong tanong. Tuyot na ang lalamunan ko at halos hindi ako makapagsalita. "Simple lang, Hana. Isang daang milyon kapalit ng video mo at ng kalayaan mo. Pero ha

Ang bawat segundo matapos matanggap ang mensaheng iyon ay parang paghila sa akin patungo sa ilalim ng lupa. Ang katahimikan sa loob ng penthouse ay nakabibingi. Nakatitig si Sebastian sa screen ng cellphone ko, kitang kita ang pag igting ng kanyang panga hanggang sa makita ko ang mga ugat sa kanyang leeg."Sebastian, anong gagawin natin?" nangangamba kong tanong. Hindi talaga ako mapakali kaya naisip ko na lamang kausapin si Sebastian. "Kapag napanood ni Tatay ang video... mamatay siya sa sama ng loob. Hindi niya kakayanin at hindi ko rin kakayanin." Hindi ko na mapigilan ang pag agos ng tubig sa mga mata ko. Humarap siya sa akin. Wala na ang malambot na Sebastian na yumayakap sa akin tuwing gabi. Ang nakaharap ko ngayon ay ang bilyonaryong walang awa, ang lalaking kayang sunugin ang buong mundo makuha lang ang gusto niya. "Walang makakaalam, Hana. Titapusin ko ito," malamig niyang sabi. Kinuha niya ang kanyang sariling telepono at may tinawagan."Anong wala? May nakaalam na ng

They moved fast. This was something I hadn’t anticipated about him. When the parameters were clear and the timeline compressed, Drake Javier became a different kind of force. Not panicked. The opposite: focused to a point so fine it was almost surgical. I had seen him in social settings and in the quiet of the apartment, but this was the third version—the professional one—and it was extraordinary to watch. He called Eleanor Park within twenty minutes of the text. He called his head of communications. He called a private security firm and had someone at the building within two hours. Then he sat at the dining table with his phone, laptop, and a legal pad, moving through the situation with the systematic precision of a man who had spent his career managing risk. I sat across from him and worked. Not on photographs this time. On the text—the source, the angle, what they knew, what they could deduce. I’m good at this: translating information into narrative, understanding how a story i

HAUTEA'S POVShe was twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven, with the specific look of someone who had dressed carefully to appear as though they hadn’t. She was standing at the building entrance at eight fifteen AM when I came back from my morning run, still warm and loose-limbed, earbuds dangling around my neck. A woman stepped forward. “Are you Hautea Sinclair?” “Sinclair-Javier,” I said, keeping my breathing even. “Yes.” “My name is Jess Calder.” She said it with the steadiness of someone who had practiced the words. “I need to talk to you about Drake.” I looked at her. The doorman was watching, attentive but silent. I gave him a small gesture—it’s fine—and turned back to her. “Come upstairs.” I settled Jess Calder in the living room, texted Drake—You need to come home. Now. Someone’s here.—then brought two glasses of water and sat across from her. I waited. “How do you know Drake?” I asked. She held the glass with both hands. “We met about two years ago through work. He was consu

She told him on a Tuesday. He was in his study, door open, which she'd learned was the signal for *available* versus the closed door that meant *do not interrupt unless necessary.* She knocked on the doorframe. He looked up. "Yes," she said. He set down his pen. He did not perform surprise, because he was not a man who performed reactions, but she watched something careful unwind in him. "You're certain." "I've been certain since Sunday," she said. "I wanted the extra days because I wanted to be *sure* I was certain, not just certain in a moment." He nodded. "The difference matters." "Yes." She leaned against the doorframe. "I have conditions." "Of course." "No more managed disclosure. Anything relevant to this arrangement — any condition, any clause, any change in the situation — you tell me immediately. Before it becomes a problem." "Yes." "I want a real conversation about what this looks like. Not the contract version. Not the addendum. What the actual day-to-day of this

She walked out of the kitchen. Not dramatically — she didn't slam anything, didn't raise her voice. She simply picked up her coffee, walked to her suite, and closed the door. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the wall. A child, An heir, a human being. She turned this information over in her mind the way she'd turn a photograph — looking for the edges, the composition, what was actually in the frame versus what she'd assumed. She tried to be methodical because methodology was the thing that worked when she was in danger of becoming something other than rational. He'd known. He'd had this information the entire time and he'd structured the conversation, the contract, the eighteen months — all of it — around a condition he hadn't disclosed. She tried to see it from his perspective. She was good at that, the empathetic triangulation of photographic thinking — where is the light coming from, what is the subject actually experiencing, what is true about this moment regardle

Third Person's POV She sat with the text for forty-eight hours before she told him. Not because she was afraid of his response, but because she needed to know what she wanted to do with it herself before his response became part of the equation. The text was a provocation — she understood that. Someone wanted her to either respond and expose herself, or to confront Drake with the information and create a fracture. She did neither. Instead she had the number traced. This was easier than it should have been, which told her she'd spent too much time in this apartment absorbing Drake's habit of having resources and using them. She called Callum's architect friend from the party — Lucas, who it turned out did cybersecurity consulting on the side — and had an answer in eighteen hours. Burner phone. Purchased in cash at a convenience store in Midtown six days ago. Someone had planned this. She sat with that for another day. On Sunday morning — a good time, she'd learned, for convers

Here is the story rewritten in first-person POV from Hautea’s perspective: I was at the benefit on a Thursday evening in mid-December. Nothing unusual about that. I’m at most things—a constant in the social atmosphere of upper Manhattan, like a weather system that drifts endlessly without ever breaking into storm or clear sky. What was surprising was that Lydia Ashworth arrived carrying information. I spotted her across the room before Drake did. I’d developed an almost ridiculous alertness to her, a private frequency I monitored whether I wanted to or not. She wore red, and it suited her the way everything suits a woman who has spent years mastering the art of presenting herself exactly as she chooses. She was speaking to a man I didn’t recognize, but her eyes swept the room with deliberate intelligence, searching. They found me. A small smile curved her lips. Then she started moving. “Hautea,” she said warmly, leaning in for the European double-kiss—impossible to tell whether