PROLOGUE

LYARA’S POINT OF VIEW

Sampung taon pa lang ako noon, pero ang alaala ng araw na iyon ay parang isang sariwang sugat na hindi kailanman naghilom. I was standing at the top of the grand staircase of the Castellano mansion, clutching my tattered teddy bear, watching the world I knew crumble beneath the weight of a single announcement.

The mansion was suffocating. Every corner was draped in expensive white roses, their scent so cloying it made my stomach churn. My mother, Elena Castellano, was glowing. For the first time since my father died, she looked alive—but it was a frantic, desperate kind of life.

“Lyara, baby, come down here! Don't be shy!” her voice trilled, echoing against the marble walls.

Dahan-dahan akong bumaba sa mahabang hagdan, my small shoes clicking rhythmically. At the bottom of the staircase isang lalaki na may asul na mga mata ang taimtim na nakatitig sa akin.

"Lyara, I want you to meet someone very special,” my mother said, her hand trembling as she reached for the man's arm. “This is Death Roosevelt. He’s… he’s going to be my husband. Your new Papa.”

The name itself felt like a curse. Death. I stopped three steps from the bottom, placing us at eye level. He wasn't the "Papa" I expected. He wasn't old, kind, or fatherly. Death Roosevelt looked barely twenty-five, a man in the prime of his youth. His suit was charcoal black, bumagay sa matipuno niyang katawan at ang mala-niyebe niyang balat.

But it was his eyes that trapped me.

They were a piercing, unnatural blue—the color of a frozen lake just before the ice cracks. They didn't hold the warmth of a greeting. Instead, they scanned me with a terrifying intensity, from my messy curls down to my trembling knees.

“So, this is the little Castellano heiress,” Death said. His voice was a low, melodic baritone that sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't a question; it was a cold observation.

“Mag-hello ka naman, Lyara,” bulong ni Mommy, her eyes pleading.

I didn't say hello. I couldn't. My throat felt like it had been swallowed by shards of glass. “Bakit ang bata mo?” I blurted out instead, the innocence of a child masking the growing fear in my heart.

My mother gasped, but Death merely smirked. It wasn't a kind smile—it was the look of a predator fascinated by its prey.

“Age is just a number in business, Lyara. And your mother is the most beautiful 'merger' I’ve ever entered,” he said, his gaze never leaving mine. He stepped closer, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. His fingers were ice-cold. “We're going to be a very close family. I promise.”

Dahil sa sinabi niya ay mabilis akong tumakbo palayo sa kanila. Naririnig ko pa ang malakas na sigaw ni mommy sa pangalan ko subalit mas minabuti ko na lamang na magtago sa silid ko.

~~

I spent fifteen years in London. I grew up in boarding schools and cold dormitories, funded by an anonymous Roosevelt account. I became a woman who knew how to hide her emotions, how to blend into the shadows, and how to survive. I had almost convinced myself that I had forgotten him.

Until isang mensahe ang sumira sa tahimik ko ng buhay. Kahit fifteen years na ang lumipas hindi ko parin napigilan ang mga luhang bumagsak sa mga mata ko, kasabay ng mga kamay kong nanginginig dahil sa kadugtong na salita sa mensahe.

“Your mother is dead. Go home. Now.”

The Manila heat was a physical weight on my shoulders as I stepped off the plane. I was twenty-five now—the same age Death was when he ruined my life. I walked through the airport with my head held high, my black dress hugging a body that had long since shed its baby fat.

The funeral was a grand, somber event—isang sosyal na pagtitipon imbes na burol ng namatay kong ina. Puno ang simbahan ng mga “kaibigan” na hindi naman kinausap si Mommy sa loob ng sampung taon. I stood at the very front, nakatitig lang sa saradong mahogany casket. My eyes remained dry; tila ba lahat ng luha ko ay natuyo na. Sino bang iiyak sa oras na ito kung ang sarili mong ina ay inabanduna ka ng mahigit labing-limang taon?

Dahil nasilayan ko naman si mommy, hahakbang na sana ako patalikod ng marinig ko ang baritono at pamilyar na boses na ‘yon.

“You have her face. Pero ang mga matang iyan... they are still the same defiant eyes of that ten-year-old girl.”

Napakislot ako sa malalim at baritonong boses na 'yon, fifteen years na ang lumipas simula ng marinig ko ang boses na 'yon. My heart skipped a beat, bago ito mabilis na tumibok na dinig na dinig ng dalawang tainga ko.

I turned slowly.

Death Roosevelt had not aged. If anything, he looked more lethal. His hair was still dark, his jawline more pronounced, and his presence even more suffocating. But it was his eyes—those ice-blue eyes—that paralyzed me. They were roaming over me, taking in my transformation with a hunger that made my skin burn.

“Death,” sabi ko. Ni minsan ay hindi ko siya kinilalang ama o tinawag na Papa dahil hindi siya ang ama ko. Siya lamang ay isang taong sumira sa relasyon namin ni mommy.

“It’s 'Papa' to the public, Lyara,” he murmured. Lumapit siya sa akin hanggang sa maamoy ko na ang mamahalin niyang pabango. Pabangong tumatagos sa baga ko, hindi pa rin pala siya nagpapalit ng pabango.

“But to me, you are simply Lyara.”

He reached out, and his thumb lightly grazed my lower lip. It was an intimate, possessive gesture na tila isang tahimik na pag-angkin sa akin.

“You've grown up beautifully, Lyara Castellano. Too beautiful.”

“I told you I'd come for you if I didn't forget you. And as you can see… I have a very long memory.”

“A-Ano?” nauutal kong tanong pabalik dahil hindi na maganda ang nararamdaman ko ngayon habang kaharap siya. Hindi ko maipaliwanag ang mga tinging pinapakita niya, hindi iyon ang tingin ng simpleng ama sa anak.

Kakaiba.

Nakakatakot.

“Welcome back to the Roosevelt estate, little bird,” he whispered, dahan-dahan siyang lumayo sa akin at ang kanyang mga mata na nakatingin na sa akin ngayon ay lalong tumalim bago sinambit ang salitang nagbigay ng matinding takot sa akin. “This time, the gates are locked for good.”