The Vows We Never Chose

“Sometimes, love doesn’t arrive with flowers. Sometimes, it begins with a deal.”

Arielle Santos, twenty-four years old, had always believed that life was something you paint for yourself — stroke by stroke, dream by dream. She grew up in a modest home in Quezon City, the eldest daughter of Manuel and Liza Santos, two hardworking parents who did everything to provide for their children.

She wasn’t born rich, but she was born with color.

Her small world was filled with the smell of oil paint, sketches pinned on walls, and quiet afternoons spent chasing sunsets with her brush. To Arielle, art wasn’t just a hobby — it was her language, her escape, her way of finding meaning in chaos.

But that meaning crumbled on one ordinary evening — the night her parents asked her to sit down.

“Arielle,” her father began, his voice heavy, “we need to talk.”

Those words — simple but sharp — made her heart flutter with unease. Her mother sat beside him, eyes soft but nervous. The dinner table was set, but no one touched the food. The silence between them was loud enough to drown the hum of the electric fan.

Her father took a deep breath. “Anak, there’s something we haven’t told you. Our company… we’re in trouble.”

Arielle frowned. “Trouble? What kind?”

“Financial,” her mother whispered. “We’ve been trying to fix things quietly, but—” Her voice broke. “We can’t anymore.”

Her father continued, “We owe a great deal of money to Monteverde Group. They’ve kept us afloat for months, and now… they’ve offered a way to settle everything.”

Arielle’s pulse quickened. “Offered? How?”

Manuel Santos looked her in the eye — the kind of look that carried both guilt and helplessness.

“They want you to marry their son. Evan Monteverde.”

For a heartbeat, Arielle thought she misheard.

“Marry?” Her voice came out almost as a whisper. “You’re joking, right?”

Her mother shook her head, eyes glassy with tears. “Anak, please listen. It’s the only way to save the business — to save our family.”

Arielle’s hands trembled under the table. “You want me to marry a stranger? Para lang bayaran ang utang?”

“Hindi lang siya basta kung sino,” her father said, trying to reason. “Evan Monteverde is the only son of Arthur Monteverde — one of the most powerful businessmen in the country. They can help us. They already have. This is just… sealing the partnership.”

Arielle stood abruptly. “Partnership? You’re talking about my life like it’s a contract!”

Her father’s voice hardened, a mix of shame and pride. “Sometimes, anak, we do what we must. You’ll be well taken care of. You’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Her throat tightened. “Except freedom.”

No one spoke.

Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “You taught me to fight for my dreams,” she whispered. “Why are you the ones asking me to give them up?”

Her mother reached for her hand, voice trembling. “Because sometimes, love for family means letting go of your own.”

That broke her.

She ran to her room, slamming the door behind her. The walls echoed with the sound of her heart shattering into something unrecognizable.

That night, Arielle sat in front of her easel.

The painting she had started that morning — a woman standing before a horizon of fire and gold — stared back at her. But now, she couldn’t finish it. Her brush hovered, the colors on her palette suddenly meaningless.

“Marry him,” she muttered under her breath. “Evan Monteverde.”

The name tasted foreign, heavy, like a sentence she didn’t choose.

She picked up her sketchbook and scribbled instead — messy, angry strokes, until the paper tore. Then she stopped, staring at the hole she had made.

Maybe that was what her life was now — a painting ruined before it was even finished.

The next day came too fast.

She found herself in a limousine beside her parents, heading to the Monteverde mansion in Forbes Park. The world outside looked blurred, as if she were trapped in a dream she couldn’t wake up from.

When they arrived, she felt smaller than she ever had. The marble steps, the grand chandelier, the quiet formality of the staff — it was all suffocating.

Then she saw him

Evan Monteverde — twenty-eight, tall, sharp-featured, wearing a black suit that fit him like armor. He exuded authority even in silence. His gaze was cold, assessing, as if he were reading her like a business report.

Her father extended a hand to him. “Evan, this is my daughter, Arielle.”

Evan gave a polite nod. “Miss Santos.”

Arielle met his eyes. “Mr. Monteverde.”

There was no smile. No warmth. Just a careful exchange between two people who already knew they were trapped in the same cage.

They sat for dinner — a perfectly arranged table, silverware gleaming under crystal lights. But the air was heavy. Arthur Monteverde, Evan’s father, led the conversation with enthusiasm about family ties and business futures. Arielle’s parents nodded along, grateful but uneasy.

Evan barely spoke. His replies were short, clipped, practiced. His eyes flicked toward Arielle only once — when she accidentally dropped her fork from shaking hands. He said nothing, but for a brief second, she thought she saw concern flicker before his mask returned.

Finally, Arthur cleared his throat. “We’re glad you’ve both agreed to this union. The engagement party will be next month, and the wedding soon after.”

Arielle’s breath caught. “Agreed?”

Evan spoke for the first time that night. His tone was steady but tired. “Yes, Father. Whatever secures the legacy.”

Arielle turned to him, startled. He didn’t even look her way — as if he was agreeing to a deal, not a marriage.

When the dinner ended, she stepped outside to get some air. The mansion’s garden was quiet, the night sky heavy with unfallen rain. She hugged her arms, trying to breathe.

Then she heard footsteps behind her.

Evan.

He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets. “You don’t look happy,” he said simply.

She turned, meeting his calm gaze. “And you do?”

He almost smiled — almost. “No. But I’m used to it.”

His honesty disarmed her. “So you’re okay with this?”

He shrugged. “I don’t believe in love, Miss Santos. I believe in deals. And this one benefits everyone.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “And what about what “we” want?”

“What we want doesn’t matter,” he replied, his voice low. “Not in families like ours.”

Her anger flared. “You sound just like my father.”

“And you sound like someone who still believes in fairy tales,” he said quietly. “You’ll learn soon enough — love doesn’t keep the lights on.”

She wanted to slap him for his arrogance, but instead, she whispered, “Then I pity you.”

He blinked, surprised — but didn’t respond.

Instead, he turned toward the mansion. “Our parents expect us to cooperate. So let’s make this simple. One year. We play our parts. After that, we can end it quietly.”

Arielle froze. “You’ve already planned the ending?”

He looked at her, eyes unreadable. “I plan everything.”

And then he walked away — leaving her in the cold air, her heart both furious and afraid.

That night, as Arielle lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she whispered to herself,

“So this is it. My life, rewritten.”

Her phone buzzed with a message — from an unknown number.

Evan Monteverde: Don’t worry. I won’t make this harder than it already is.”

She stared at the screen for a long moment before typing a reply.

Arielle:“Neither will I. But I won’t make it easy, either.”

She pressed send, turned off the lights, and closed her eyes — not knowing that the man she was forced to marry would one day become the man she couldn’t forget.