Bound by Honor (Montenegro Series 1)

Prologue

(Andra’s POV)

Truth is loudest when spoken in silence and at the exact moment everyone else chooses to stay quiet.

That line echoed in my head the moment I stepped into the hall. Isa ako sa mga unang dumating.

As expected, the Montenegro Group of Companies never did anything halfway. Lahat ng nasa paligid ay sinadyang magpabilib. From the towering chandeliers dripping with light to the gilded hotel walls na tila kumukutitap sa bawat flash ng camera, every corner of the five-star venue in Makati screamed one thing—power.

Even the music, a refined classical piece playing softly in the background, felt orchestrated not for ambiance but for control. This wasn't just a press conference. This was theater. This was a performance. And this was my moment.

I adjusted the press badge hanging around my neck, the weight of it reminding me of my purpose. Sa kamay ko, mahigpit kong hinawakan ang recorder—my weapon. My pulse beat faster, not from intimidation, but because of one singular reason I came here today.

Mr. Theodore Zayne Montenegro.

The name alone carried an empire. Kilalang-kilala sa corporate world—powerful, untouchable, and ruthless enough to silence both rumors and people. He was the golden heir of the Montenegro legacy. Pero hindi ako ang tipong madaling patahimikin. I wasn't here to flatter. I wasn't here to be another friendly voice in the media crowd.

I was here to uncover. Uncover the truth that thrives in the shadows.

Sa unahan ng function hall, isang sleek stage ang nagpapalit ng isang towering LED backdrop na nagpapalit ng Montenegro Group of Companies: Strategic Vision 2030. The bold slogan glared back at me: A Brighter Future, A Stronger Legacy.

Legacy, brighter, and stronger. Such beautiful words. But whose future? And at what cost?

"Journalists and members of the media, thank you for joining us today," the PR representative began, her tone polished, rehearsed. "We'll begin shortly. Mr. Zayne Montenegro will be with us in a few minutes."

Around me, the room buzzed with frantic preparation. Cameramen adjusted tripods, live-stream crews tested feeds, veteran reporters compared notes. Faces I recognized from business magazines, lifestyle sections, and even entertainment outlets. But I wasn't here to blend in. I was here to ask the question no one else would dare speak aloud.

Then the lights dimmed. The music stilled. And there he was. Theodore Zayne Montenegro.

He emerged from the shadows like he owned not just the stage, but the entire city outside its glass walls. Naka-black tailored suit, no tie—the picture of effortless confidence. Tall and composed. Every step deliberates, and every glance commanding. The kind of presence that made people straighten their backs without realizing it.

"Magandang umaga sa inyong lahat," his voice rolled low across the hall—smooth, deep, and dangerous. "Thank you for being here as we unveil the next decade of the Montenegro Group's expansion."

Polite applause echoed, a scripted formality. But I didn't clap. I studied him instead. The precise cadence of his speech, the way his hand rested lightly on the podium, the ease with which he commanded silence, it was like watching a statesman on a campaign stage. Calculated and controlled.

"We believe in sustainable progress, inclusive growth, and building a future where innovation meets tradition," he added.

Beautiful promises. Empty words.

When the floor opened for questions, the usual chorus began.

"Mr. Montenegro, how will this impact employment rates?"

"Are you planning to expand outside the Philippines?"

"Can you give us last quarter's figures?"

Predictable. Safe. PR-fed. I rose to my feet. My voice cut through the air, firm and clear. "Ms. Andra Enriquez, from The Daily Truth."

Dozens of heads turned. Murmurs rippled. I had just shifted the air in the room. Mr. Montenegro's gaze snapped to mine. For the first time that morning, something flickered across his face. Recognition? Annoyance? Curiosity? Whatever it was, he didn't hide it.

"Yes, Ms. Enriquez," he said slowly. "You have a question?"

"Yes." My grip tightened around my recorder. "You mentioned inclusive growth. Can you define that in relation to the recent displacement of multiple families in North San Pascual, where one of your commercial centers is being built? Ang ilan po sa kanila ay wala pa ring relokasyon hanggang ngayon."

Silence. The kind that claws through the air. The PR team stiffened. Cameras shifted.

And in that silence, my thought returned like a strike of thunder... Truth is loudest when spoken in silence and at the exact moment everyone else chooses to stay quiet.

Zayne Montenegro didn't flinch. But I saw it in the minute clench of his jaw, the sharp glint in his eyes. He leaned closer to the mic, his tone steady but laced with steel.

"We are aware of the situation in San Pascual. We are coordinating with the local government units and housing agencies. All our projects comply with legal protocols," he clarified.

"Legal, yes," I countered, my voice cutting sharply. "But ethical? Do those families count as part of the 'inclusive growth' you're promising today?"

Gasps broke through the hall. Reporters exchanged startled glances. The PR assistant rushed to cut me off, but he raised a hand, stopping them. His eyes never left mine.

"Would you like a one-on-one interview after this conference, Ms. Enriquez?" His lips curved not in kindness, but in challenge. "You seem... passionate."

It's not a compliment. It's a provocation.

"Only if you're willing to answer the real questions, Mr. Montenegro," I fired back.

"I never run from questions, Ms. Enriquez," his voice dropped, velvety and dangerous. "But not all answers are black and white."

"Neither are the consequences," I added.

Our standoff lingered in the silence. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded an acknowledgment of defiance or an invitation to war.

"Noted," he murmured. "We'll speak after this."

The rest of the conference blurred into polite claps and rehearsed smiles, but for me, it was already over. I had drawn my line. And he'd seen it.

When the final question was answered and the applause faded, reporters swarmed the exit, their voices a flurry of excitement. Big scoop, I heard someone whisper. That girl from The Daily Truth—ang tapang n'un ah.

I didn't care. All I could feel was the static in the air, the kind that lingers after lightning strikes. I stayed seated for a while, pretending to take notes. But really, I was watching him. Mr. Theodore Zayne Montenegro.

He stood on the stage, exchanging brief handshakes with partners, smiling that perfectly rehearsed smile. His composure was unshaken, but I'd seen the flicker earlier. The twitch in his jaw. The tightening of control.

He wasn't used to being questioned, and I wasn't used to backing down.

When the crowd thinned, one of the PR assistants approached me. "Ms. Enriquez? Mr. Montenegro will meet you in the media lounge in ten minutes." I nodded, hiding the way my pulse skipped.

Not fear nor anticipation. This was what I came for.

The media lounge was quiet, a stark contrast to the buzz outside. The hum of air conditioning filled the silence. My recorder sat ready on the table, its small red light blinking—steady, and patient.

I checked my notes one last time. Bullet points, timelines, and quotes. I'd done my homework. I wasn't walking into this unarmed.

Then the door opened. Zayne Montenegro walked in with the same quiet authority he had on stage, but here, away from the crowd, he felt different—sharper and more deliberate.

He didn't need the spotlight to command attention. He was the spotlight.

"Ms. Enriquez," he greeted, voice calm, smooth. "I appreciate your patience."

"Of course," I said evenly. "I wasn't sure if the offer was serious."

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "I don't say things I don't mean." Then he took the seat across from me; his movements were precise. He removed his cufflinks and set them neatly on the table—an oddly intimate gesture, like stripping away a layer of armor.

For a moment, neither of us spoke, just a quiet observation. He studied me like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. I returned the favor.

"Let's begin?" I said, pressing record.

"Go ahead," he said.

"Mr. Montenegro, how do you respond to the growing public concern about the displacement issue in San Pascual?"

He clasped his hands together. "Every large-scale project encounter challenges. We follow the law. We coordinate with the agencies. We compensate the affected families fairly."

"Fairly?" I raised an eyebrow. "You call temporary shelters with no running water fair?"

His eyes flickered. "You've done your research wisely."

"That's my job," I replied.

"And you enjoy confrontation," he added.

"I enjoy the truth." Then he leaned back slightly, studying me.

"Truth," he repeated, as if testing the word. "That's a dangerous thing to chase."

"Not as dangerous as hiding it," I said firmly.

His gaze held mine, steady and unyielding. The air between us stretched thin and charged.

"Tell me, Ms. Enriquez," he said quietly, "do you always start interviews like this?"

"Only when the subject has something to hide," I replied.

He chuckled lowly, the sound deep and restrained. "You're bolder than I expected."

"Disappointed?" I asked.

"Not yet," he answered.

Not yet.

There it was again, that subtle undertone of challenge, the way he turned every word into a calculated move like chess, every sentence a piece, and every look a strategy. But I wasn't playing to win his approval. I was here for answers.

"People see the Montenegro Group as untouchable," I said. "Do you think power gives you the right to decide what's best for others?"

"Power," he said slowly, "is a tool. It's what you do with it that defines you."

"Then what defines you, Mr. Montenegro?" I ask firmly.

He paused, then gave a faint smile—almost imperceptible. "Discipline."

"Interesting," I praised.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because discipline can build empires," I said softly, "but it can also bury the truth."

For a split second, something flashed in his eyes, not anger, but something colder and sharper. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You don't pull punches, do you?"

"No reason to," I smirk.

"Most reporters prefer access over honesty," he said.

"Then they're in the wrong field," I added.

Our gazes locked again. The silence thickened, heavy with unspoken words. If he thought intimidation would work, then he was wrong. I'd faced worse than this.

He exhaled slowly, then said, "You remind me of someone."

"Should I take that as a compliment?" I spoke.

He didn't answer. Instead, he glanced at my recorder, its red light blinking steadily between us.

"Off the record," he said.

I hesitated. "Depends on what you'll say."

"Turn it off," he repeated, his tone even but unmistakably firm.

Every instinct screamed Don't, but curiosity won. I clicked the button. The light died. For the first time since we met, he relaxed slightly.

"I admire conviction," he said. "Even when it's inconvenient."

I waited, but he didn't elaborate.

"What's your point?" I asked.

"People with conviction either make history," he said quietly, "or get destroyed by it."

He rose, straightening his cuffs again. "That's all for today."

"That's not an answer."

"It's a warning."

He turned to leave, but stopped by the door. "You'll find what you're looking for, Ms. Enriquez," he said, glancing back. "Just be prepared for what it costs you."

Then he was gone.

For a few seconds, I sat frozen. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence once more. My recorder lay still on the table, its blank screen reflecting the overhead light.

Conviction makes history... or destroys it.

I exhaled, finally releasing the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. If he thought his warning would stop me, he was wrong. This wasn't over. Because behind every polished empire, there's always a truth waiting to surface.

And I intended to find it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚