Prologue

My arms were crossed over my chest as I looked outside. Traffic crawled along EDSA, headlights unraveling into ribbons of red and white. Brake lights flickered like restless fireflies. In the reflection on my office window, the city melted into colors.

Red. Blue. Yellow. Green.

They shimmered through the blinds, scattering fractured patterns across my desk.

Christmas was coming, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t feel it.

Day bled into night, and night blurred into day. A routine that felt like a cage.

Wake up, work, go home. Over and over. Without end.

I couldn’t stop. Because if I did, the past might return—the feeling that I was never enough. Those days when I had to keep reminding myself that I was.

So since then, every move I made became a quiet scream tha I can do this. One day, I’ll be enough too.

But in the deepest, quietest corner of my mind, a whisper said—maybe I’ll never be.

The intercom snapped me out of it.

“Ma’am Aya, it’s already 6 p.m. Do you want me to order dinner for you?”

Lana’s tone was careful.

I stacked my papers and closed my laptop.

“No, I’ll eat at home. You can go ahead. Thanks, Lana.”

I left the office and went straight to the parking lot. The guard nodded slightly as I passed.

When I sat in the car, I took a deep breath. My hands rested on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the empty space ahead. I took the envelope from the dashboard, slipped it into my laptop bag, and finally drove home.

When I arrived, the smell of sinigang and the sound of Manang Belen’s voice greeted me.

“Good evening, hija. We prepared dinner since Zed arrived.”

I almost dropped my bag.

“Zed…?”

“Mm. He arrived around five. Said he needed to review something near the plant. He’s upstairs now.”

I nodded, though my heart began to pound fast, like a drum.

Zed never stayed here. He was always at his penthouse in Makati—far from here, far from the home I tried to build.

Why now?

“I’ll just change,” I forced a smile.

My steps quickened as I climbed the stairs, tired but carrying a trace of excitement I couldn’t hide. I shook my head and slowed a bit.

There you go again, Aya… getting your hopes up.

When I opened the door, he was the first thing I saw.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on his legs, the sleeves of his white polo shirt rolled up to his elbows. The blue glow of the screen traced sharp lines across his face, highlighting his quiet focus.

Work. Always work.

He looked up briefly—barely a second—then returned to his laptop.

“I see you’re home,” I said lightly.

“Yes.”

Just one word. But better than silence.

I took a quick shower. When I came out, he was still there—unchanged, eyes locked on the screen.

“I’ll have dinner. Do you want coffee?”

He looked up quickly, then back to his laptop.

“Yes, please. The usual.”

“Okay.”

I smiled faintly and went downstairs.

While eating, I opened my emails—campaign proposals, client follow-ups—until I could barely taste the food.

Thirty minutes later, I went to the kitchen. Manang Belen was there, as if waiting for me to finish.

“I’ll take care of that, apo,” she said, reaching for my plate.

“Thanks, Manang. I’ll just make coffee for Zed,” I replied softly.

I went to the cupboard and took a mug. I added two teaspoons of ground coffee, poured boiling water from the kettle, and the smell spread—bitter, strong, yet warm like an embrace. Slowly, I stirred it and let the steam brush my face before closing my eyes briefly.

No milk, no sugar. Just plain and straight. Like the answers that are never said aloud.

I carefully placed the mug on a coaster, set it on the tray, wiped the edges, and carried it upstairs. When I reached the door, I took a deep breath before deciding to open it.

Suddenly—

“Ow!”

The doorknob hit my hip, the tray slipped, and the hot coffee splashed onto my leg. I let out a sharp gasp before I could stop it. Coffee spread across the rug, seeping dark like a wound.

I rushed to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. Cold water ran down my skin, hissing against the burn. My breath came out in fragments as I blew on the sting.

In the blurred reflection of the mirror, I saw him. Silent. His jaw tightened, eyes sharp.

“Why—?” My voice cracked.

He didn’t answer. In one swift motion, he lifted me. The world tilted, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the bitter steam.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Hush.” His tone was low, deliberate. Almost gentle.

“Don’t bring me coffee again. Next time, I’ll get it myself—or I’ll ask Manang.”

He placed me back on the bed, disappeared for a moment, then returned with a medical kit. Kneeling, he opened an ointment and squeezed some onto his fingers.

The sharp scent of camphor and alcohol filled the air. His cool touch brushed against my skin—steady, precise, almost clinical.

I bit my lip, gripping the sheets to stop my hands from trembling. He didn’t look at me. Only at the wound.

When he finished, he closed the cap, stood up, and went back to his side of the bed. The warmth went with him.

Manang entered quietly, worry in her voice.

“Oh, apo, that must hurt! Are you okay?”

I shook my head and forced a small smile.

“I’m okay, Manang.”

She nodded, sighed, and cleaned the spilled coffee on the floor.

“Just rest now, hija,” she said softly before leaving.

Then silence returned—heavier than before.

I turned my back and pressed my face into the pillow. Tears soaked into the fabric before I could stop them.

Another night. Another silence.

I should have listened to my parents. I shouldn’t have insisted. I shouldn’t have ended up here—in a marriage without a name.

I woke around four. Went downstairs, cooked his favorite American breakfast, and asked Manang to serve it before going back to bed.

When I opened my eyes again, it was 6:30. He was gone.

As I was getting ready, Manang greeted me.

“He ate well this morning,” she said with a smile.

I smiled faintly.

“That’s good.”

When I arrived at the office, Lana greeted me right away.

“After your lunch meeting with the client, you have an interview for WMN magazine, Ma’am.”

“Okay.”

My phone buzzed, but I ignored it.

I was used to interviews—controlled smiles, rehearsed answers, never too much.

Especially when it came to my personal life.

No one had to know.

Not even the press.

That I’m married.