My marriage was for money, his for vengeance

"Five's asking for the extra syrup," one of the girls barked as she passed.

Elira wiped the sweat out from her brow and managed a polite smile as she moved. Her white sneakers were once the very definition of clean, but now they were worn and stained. Not much glamor in twelve-hour shifts.

"On it, thanks." A forced cheerfulness crept into her voice.

She had not been cut out for serving pancakes and refilling coffee cups. Yet, bills needed to be paid, and hers did not come in on time.

Balancing a tray with orange juice and greasy bacon, her cell phone buzzed in her apron pocket.

Unknown Number.

She ignored it.

Let them wait. Three hours into her double shift and five to go. Rent was up, utilities were next, and then her brother needed medication. That one really hurt.

The sun had finally begun to set behind Manju in the west when her shift ended.

Elira wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, the paper towel she had shoved into her apron already wet. Her bright white sneakers, which had been so clean and fresh when she started working here six months prior, now sported syrup, coffee, and exhaustion stains. Her feet ached like they always did this time of day, but her smile—albeit weary—was still plastered on her face.

On it, thank you," she told him, inserting a smile into her tone she didn't possess.

She wove through the narrow aisles of the diner with a practiced air of beauty, sidestepping flailing limbs of children and spilled orange juice as if it was second nature. The orange juice teetered on the brink of disaster. Her breath was taken, but nothing was spilled.

Crisis averted—for now.

Her phone was ringing from her apron. She didn't need to look. Another unknown number.

They could wait.

She placed the food at table seven, smiling at the huge man who grunted a thank you before devouring his food.

She grabbed her pad out of her jacket. Another order. Another refill. Another step towards the end of her shift.

The diner smelled of burnt coffee and syrup, the scent clinging to her uniform like a second layer of skin. Laughter from one table, wailing baby at another. Plates clanged in the kitchen as Marco, the cook, bellowed over the griddle's sizzle.

Twelve hours into the shift, her head pounded with a headache, and her stomach rumbled at her because she hadn't even had half of a banana since 5 a.m.

But the rent was owed. And so was the electricity and the water. And then there was Liam.

Her younger brother's medication was on its last. That one always hit the hardest.

Each of the tablets cost more than what she took home in two hours. This understanding tightened her chest.

Elira glanced at the clock. Three hours to closing.

Her phone beeped once more. She exhaled and stepped into the thin hall next to the freezer. She answered it.

Unknown Number.

Again.

Something told her it wasn’t just a scam call. There was a feeling. Heavy. Unexplained.

She let it ring out.

Back on the floor, she kept her beat, moving through the motions automatically. Clear. Refill. Smile. Repeat. Customers flashed in and out, each of them a blur. Behind the counter, she caught glimpses of herself in the metal coffee pot. Hair sticking out of her ponytail. Eyes drained. Skin pale.

She barely recognized the child who glared back.

The sun dropped lower, casting orange stripes on the tile floors. The corner radio was playing old love songs. There was a couple laughing by the window. A man proposed to her using a napkin ring. The lady cried. People clapped.

Elira smiled weakly. She used to dream about proposals like those. She used to dream about many things.

When the last patron left and the chairs were flipped upside on tables, Elira was a balloon days past her prime—sad and discarded. The night air on the sidewalk outside was a blessing, although it was contaminated with the smell of gasoline and grilled onions.

She took out her phone once more.

Four missed calls. Same unidentified number.

And now… a message.

"We need to speak. Face to face. Immediately. I'll have a car sent. – C.F."

She frowned. Who was C.F. in the world?

Another scam?

But something in the message was troubling her. The tone was too harsh. Too brusque. It sounded. corporate.

She stuffed the phone in her pocket and walked the four blocks home. She couldn't pay for a tricycle ride, and even if she could, she enjoyed the stillness of the night, the thrum of the city slowing.

Her building was as tired as she was. Cracks in the wall zigzagged downward like scars, and the elevator had broken down two years ago.

"Elira!" he smiled, rushing to hug her. His small body slammed into her knees. She unwound.

Hi, champ. You eat?

He nodded. "Ate some of the sardines with Lola Minda.".

"Good." She played with his hair and tried to hide the guilt. He was worthy of better.

She warmed up leftover rice and sat beside him, watching him draw. Her phone rang again.

C.F. is dropping a location pin.

She opened the message.

Makati.

It was nearly midnight.

She stood up and gazed out of the window. Her eyes widened.

There was a black car on the road. Tinted. Sleek.

Not a Grab, definitely. And not from her world.

Her heart was racing. She grabbed a hoodie.

You alright?" Liam asked.

"Yeah. Just. somebody wants to talk to me about a job, I guess."

"Presently?"

"I know, weird, huh? But. perhaps it's better paid. Stay with Lola, okay?"

He nodded sleepily, and she kissed his forehead and hurried out.

The driver appeared as she drew close. Tall. Mute. Professional.

Elira Cruz?

Yes.

He opened the door.

Inside, the car smelled of leather and something pricey she couldn't quite put her finger on. She struggled to ignore looking at the plush seats or the glowing dashboard.

There was nothing else in the car. The driver came back and started to move.

Her phone beeped with another message.

"You’ll understand everything soon."

Her stomach churned.

The buildings flashed by as they sped down EDSA, the city that never actually slept. Billboards and neon lights illuminated the blackness of night, but she hardly saw them.

They pulled into a high-rise. A suited man met her at the door.

"Miss Cruz. This way.

She followed behind. Her sneakers squeaked on marble floors.

An elevator door opened. Thirty-fourth floor.

She emerged into an office—not a penthouse.

Cold. Clean. Modern.

And there by the window, his back turned to her, stood a man in black.

Her breath caught.

He slowly turned.

Tall. Handsome. Distant. Dangerous.

Caelan Ferrer.

The name hit her like a tidal wave.

CEO, Ferrer Group. Billionaire. Elusive. Ruthless. And…

A fellow she used to know.

Elira stiffened.

His voice was relaxed. "Elira. Haven't seen you in a while.".

Her lips opened, but she remained silent.

He drew nearer.

"I need a favor."

Her legs nearly buckled.

"What… what kind of favor?"

His eyes drilled into her. "A marriage. To me. One year. No strings. In return, I'll settle your debts, pay for your brother's treatment, and provide you with enough to begin anew."

She blinked.

Naturally, it must be a dream. A trap. Both.

Why?" was all she could manage.

His teeth clenched together. "Because it's better for both of us. I get what I require. You get what you require.".

"And what do you need, Caelan?"

The clatter rang out louder than it should have. Perhaps because it was well after midnight, and the diner was half-full, caught in the awkward hush between late-night crowds and early morning regulars.

Elira Cruz flinched as the spoon clattered across the tile floor. She stooped hastily to pick it up, cursing under her breath to no one in general. Her knees hurt, not because she was elderly—twenty-four wasn't elderly—but because she'd been standing since three o'clock in the afternoon, and the only respite she'd taken was a ten-minute doze in the supply closet with an unopened box of paper napkins serving as a pillow.

She stood up in time to be noticed by the man in booth five.

He hadn't blinked at the noise.

Of course he hadn't.

He'd walked in thirty minutes prior—dark coat wet at the seams from the rain, no umbrella, no smile. Only this unobtrusive, bone-deep quiet that managed to even put the fluorescents above him into a dimmer light. Now, he sat with a cup of black coffee he hadn't touched, fingers lying idly on the edge. Observing.

Not in a creepy way. Just… observantly.

"Sorry for the disturbance," Elira said, trying a weak smile as she walked past his stand again.

He didn't respond. Just nodded slightly in her direction. The kind that people gave bodyguards or taxi drivers. Not waitresses.

Elira shrugged it off and returned to the counter. Another dish was done. Table two's double cheesed tapsilog. She placed it on a tray, stabilized it with practiced fingers, and rushed—she was still two orders and three coffees behind. But she found herself glancing over there again, toward booth five.

Still gazing.

Not eating. Not drinking. Not staring at his phone.

Just… present.

It had been one of those weeks—soggy, long, cantankerous. Rumors of flash floods in the north. Rice price increases. The neon lights at the diner flashing more frequently. Folks came in quieter these days, as if their spirits had been soaking too long in something denser than rain.

Behind the counter, Mang Isko, the chef, looked out the pass-through window. "That guy's been sitting with one coffee thirty minutes. Magpapabayad ba 'yan or magpaparamdam lang?"

"He paid already," said Elira. "Cash. Big tip."

Isko arched an eyebrow. "Siyempre. Big attitude, big tip. Either may guilt or may pinaglalaban."

Elira didn't answer. The doorbell above the entrance jingled once more as a couple burst in, laughing, umbrella dripping on everything. She switched to autopilot—menus, water, soothing tones. Her smile was muscle memory now. She didn't have to feel it.

When she glanced back once more, booth five was vacant.

Coffee untasted.

A napkin, folded over the mug. Intrigued, Elira pulled it out. One sentence, written in sloping ink:

"Some things are louder in silence."

She scowled.

Mysterious. Perhaps pretentious. Certainly strange.

She slipped it into her pocket.

---

The rain intensified again at 2:07 AM.

Elira was clocking out, coat zipped up to her neck, hands throbbing. She considered walking home—her normal path was only five blocks—but the clouds were poised to tear the sky in two. Still, her feet propelled her forward, borrowed umbrella from the staff rack, until she took the alley off the gas station shortcut.

That's when she spotted him again.

Booth Five.

The same man, leaning against a lamppost as if rain touched him not. Soaked sleeves, not moving.

Elira came to a stop.

He glanced up. Their gazes crossed.

And then he did the unexpected thing.

He said, "You lost your key."

She blinked. "What?"

He stepped forward, arm outstretched, palm open. Her apartment key rested in it, gleaming with wetness.

How—?

She looked in her pocket. Must've fallen out when she opened the umbrella.

Still.

She narrowed her eyes. "You just notice everything, huh?"

"I try."

He wasn't grinning. But there was no ill will in his tone either. Just… awareness.

"Thanks," she said, grabbing the key back. "You always stroll through alleys by yourself at night?"

"I don't always eat in diners either."

"Touché."

They stood there for a moment in the low, flickering streetlight, the rain now falling softer, like it had exhausted itself.

Then: "You seemed like you were bottling something up," he said, more curiosity than criticism.

"What are you, a shrink?"

"No. But I've known enough silences to identify the heavy kind."

Elira's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

He paused. Then shrugged fractionally, as if weighing something.

"There's a volunteer initiative. Relief coordination. We need logistics heads. And individuals who can deal with chaos without disintegrating."

Her laugh was brief, incredulous. "You learned all that watching me clean floors and juggle orders?"

"Yes."

She blinked.

You can absolutely say no," he added. "But if you want something more—something that counts—it's at the Ferrer Foundation. Third floor. Ask for Caelan."

And with that, he turned and disappeared into the next block, coat already soaking wet once more, as if he hadn't just given her a whole alternate reality.

Elira remained, apartment key gripped tightly, rain dripping through the borrowed umbrella.

Ask for Caelan.

Right.

Who the devil was Caelan?