The Silent Wife

Beginning: Meet Me at Smith House

“I, Justin Smith-Montemayor, take you, Jo—”

“Joanna! Wake up already!”

I jolted upright, heart pounding and completely disoriented. My forehead instantly met the palm of my hand when the dizziness hit me from getting up too fast. Ugh. Not the dream again.

“Girl, it's your first day at work and you're out here drooling like a toddler? It’s already seven o’clock!” Katastrophe’s voice was half annoyed, half amused.

Wait.

Seven. O. Clock.

My eyes widened in pure panic. I threw off my blanket and practically launched myself into the bathroom. The sound of water filling the bucket was the only thing calming my nerves for a second.

Still half-asleep, I grabbed the dipper and poured water over my body without testing the temperature.

“WHAT THE—!”

I hissed through my teeth. Cold. Freaking cold. Of course, it was freezing—it’s Baguio! What was I thinking?

“Stupid, Joanna! You should’ve heated the water first!” I muttered to myself, shivering but determined. I was already running late, so I had to suck it up.

Katastrophe, my best friend-slash-roommate, was the kind of person who'd calmly sip coffee while chaos exploded around her. We’ve been friends since forever—same neighborhood, same schools, same university. Baguio was our fresh start, but I was beginning to regret picking this morning to sleep like a log.

By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, I was a soaked, freezing mess. I dressed quickly in a blouse and the cursed black pencil skirt—yes, that skirt Katastrophe used back in college. It barely fit.

I ran my fingers through my hair, skipped the makeup, and stumbled out of our tiny apartment. Kat was lounging on the couch, coffee in hand, like she wasn’t the one who just yelled me awake.

“Leaving already?” she smirked. “Maybe try setting your alarm next time?”

Instead of replying, I grabbed her coffee and downed it in one go. It was still warm, but I didn’t care.

She gasped. “Joanna, you brat!”

I grinned, grabbed my shoulder bag, and made a run for it. Thankfully, our apartment was along the main road. I caught a jeep after only a few minutes.

On the way to Smith House, my thoughts wandered back to that dream.

It felt too real.

Four years. Four whole years, and he still had the nerve to invade my dreams with that stupid wedding vow scene. Was he doing okay? Did he even—

Nope. Not thinking about him.

I shook my head and focused on the road instead.

Yes, I set my alarm last night. Yes, I ignored it because the dream was that good. Lesson learned. Don’t fall asleep thinking about your ex-husband.

When the jeep stopped, I struggled to get out—because of course, I was wearing the tightest skirt on earth. I had to borrow Kat’s. I hated skirts. Give me slacks and sneakers any day.

I only found out yesterday through email that skirts were mandatory for female staff at Smith House.

Who even does that in 2025?

I’d bet money the company owner is a crusty old pervert who just wants to peek at women’s legs. (Okay, maybe not, but a girl can grumble.)

When I applied here, I thought I was walking into a modeling agency, not a corporate office. The women wore micro skirts, sky-high heels, and makeup like they were auditioning for a pageant. I almost asked where the birthday clown was because it looked like a literal children's party inside. Turns out—they were just the office clerks. Yikes.

As I reached the entrance, the security guard gave me a look.

“Ma’am, can you please wear your company ID?”

“Excuse me?” I blinked.

Focus, Joanna!

I laughed nervously, realizing I was holding up the line. “Right! Sorry, sorry!”

I dug through my bag, found the ID, and slipped it around my neck. The people behind me were already groaning about being late. Great first impression.

I skipped reception because I already knew where I was headed: the thirty-third floor. That’s where the CEO’s office was. I remembered that much from my orientation with HR.

I shoved myself into the elevator. It was packed, and I could feel people eyeing me like I was a lost intern. I ignored them and pressed the button for the top floor.

The silence was deafening. Or maybe I was just paranoid.

Why was everyone looking at me like that?

Ugh. Let it go. I needed to focus.

This was a big deal. My first job in a real corporate setting. I couldn’t screw it up.

When the elevator finally stopped at my floor, I was the only one left. I half-walked, half-ran through the quiet hallway. The entire floor belonged to the CEO—talk about rich people problems.

I had only been here once, when I was introduced to Mrs. Thompson, the current secretary—well, the retiring one. She’s around sixty-five, apparently served three generations of Montemayors. Talk about loyalty.

I reached the massive double doors, heart thudding, and pushed them open.

Mrs. Thompson was already at her desk, looking like she’d swallowed a lemon.

“Good morning, ma’am!” I chirped, hoping my awkward smile could melt some of her frost.

She didn’t return the smile. Just a death glare.

Okay. Cool. Starting the day strong.

I shuffled closer. “Sorry I’m five minutes late. Traffic and—uh—life. Sorry again.” I added a sheepish peace sign for extra sincerity.

She rolled her eyes. “Fix yourself, Miss Cruz. Mr. Montemayor is expecting you.”

I blinked. “Mr. Montemayor?”

She stared at me like I had three heads.

“Don’t tell me you forgot the name of your boss already.”

“No! No, of course not!” I lied. “Just... double checking.”

“You were oriented, right?”

I nodded so hard my neck almost cracked.

I remembered the dos and don’ts. I memorized her entire binder of instructions. But that name—Montemayor? Why didn’t it ring a bell?

She sighed like I was the biggest disappointment since instant noodles went soggy. Then, without warning, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the CEO’s office.

Her grip was surprisingly strong for someone who probably collected pension.

And just like that, the heavy doors to the CEO’s office swung open.

Time slowed.

The air shifted.

And there he was.

Behind the sleek glass desk, wearing a crisp navy suit, looking more refined, more powerful, and more heartbreakingly handsome than ever.

My heart dropped.

No. Freaking. Way.

He looked up.

Our eyes met.

I forgot how to breathe.

“Miss Cruz,” he said, voice smooth, deep, and too damn familiar. “We meet again.”

My knees wobbled.

I knew that voice. That face. That smirk.

Holy. Crap.

JUSTIN SMITH-MONTEMAYOR… WAS MY EX-HUSBAND?!

“Sir.”

Mrs. Thompson called the man seated in the large silver swivel chair, his back turned to us as he stared out through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooked almost the entire city of Baguio.

The Smith House building stood on the highest point in downtown, offering a clear view of the city’s iconic spots—Burnham Park, the Rose Garden, City Hall, the famous cathedral, and even the mountain ranges that framed the outskirts of the city.

I couldn't keep still. I was a bundle of nerves, about to meet my boss for the very first time. I had tried to search online for what the CEO of Smith House looked like, but all I found was John Smith, from the second generation of CEOs. Ms. Claire had mentioned that my new boss was from the third generation, and apparently, he hated having any information about him released publicly.

Slowly, the swivel chair turned until his face came into full view. I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper, and my knees felt like they were made of jelly. Good thing I was near one of the visitor chairs or I might’ve collapsed right there.

My heart pounded so loudly, I thought it might rip out of my chest. Was it because of the dream I had about him last night? Was my mind playing tricks on me? But no—there he was, expressionless, looking directly at me.

Was he really the CEO of Smith House? Was he… my boss?

I blinked. Then rubbed my eyes. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I hadn’t really woken up yet, and I was still stuck in that dream. So I subtly pinched my side—and winced. Nope. Definitely awake.

When I looked back up, I caught him staring straight at me. Oh no. So I wasn’t dreaming. My stomach twisted, like I’d just eaten a full plate of expired sushi. What was I even doing here? Should I just run? Hide?

“Joanna, are you listening?” Mrs. Thompson’s sharp voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. I snapped out of it and nodded rapidly, even though I had no idea what she had just said.

Had she introduced me to him already? I had no idea. The man—my boss—hadn’t reacted at all. He just sat there, poker-faced, staring. Mrs. Thompson said something else to him, but I couldn’t focus anymore.

To be continued...