Chapter 2

“Some cages are made of gold. And some chains, of family expectations.”

The Monteverde mansion was always silent — not the peaceful kind of silence, but the kind that felt heavy, controlled, and rehearsed. Every sound, every footstep, every breath seemed to echo authority.

And at the heart of it all stood Evan Monteverde, twenty-eight years old — the only son, the heir, and the perfect embodiment of what his father built: power, precision, and pride.

From the moment he could walk, he was trained not to feel — only to perform. His father once told him, “Feelings are weaknesses, Evan. A true leader doesn’t feel — he decides.”

And for years, Evan obeyed.

Until now.

That morning, the grand study was filled with the faint smell of old books and bourbon. Arthur Monteverde sat behind his mahogany desk, scanning financial reports. Evan stood opposite him, expression unreadable but tense.

“You didn’t tell me you were arranging my marriage,” Evan began, his tone calm but edged.

Arthur didn’t look up. “It wasn’t your concern until it was finalized.”

“I’m not a pawn in your business games,” Evan replied coldly. “You can’t just trade my life for your partnerships.”

Arthur finally raised his eyes, sharp and commanding. “Watch your tone, son. This is not a negotiation.”

Evan clenched his jaw. “Then what is it? Another legacy move? Another chance to remind the world that the Monteverdes always win?”

Arthur’s voice hardened. “This family’s survival depends on strategy. The Santoses owe us millions — and their daughter is the bridge to solidify that debt. You will marry her. That’s final.”

Evan’s laugh was hollow. “You think marrying a stranger will fix your empire’s cracks?”

Arthur stood, slamming a folder shut. “This isn’t about *me*. This is about you. About the image of a stable heir who knows responsibility over selfishness.”

“Responsibility?” Evan scoffed. “You mean obedience.”

Arthur’s expression didn’t change. “If you can’t understand what’s at stake, maybe you’re not ready to inherit what I built.”

That stung — but Evan didn’t show it. He’d learned long ago never to show pain, not even to the man who caused it.

He turned toward the door. “You don’t need to worry, Father. I’ll marry her. I’ll play my part.”

He glanced back, his eyes cold. “But don’t expect me to believe in it.”

Arthur’s tone softened slightly, almost disappointed. “Evan, one day you’ll learn that not every union begins with love. Sometimes, love grows through duty.”

Evan stopped walking, his voice low. “Or it dies because of it.”

And with that, he left — the sound of his footsteps echoing like quiet rebellion.

Later that day, Evan stood by the balcony of his penthouse suite overlooking the city. Below, Manila was alive — traffic, noise, people moving with purpose. He envied them.

He held a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the amber light dance against the glass. The silence was comfortable, until a voice broke it.

“Still sulking?”

It was Cassandra Lim tall, beautiful, with dark red lips and the kind of smile that used to undo him. His ex. The one who had left without looking back.

Evan didn’t turn. “What are you doing here?”

She walked closer, heels clicking against the marble floor. “Your father called me. Said you needed a little… motivation.”

He finally faced her, eyes narrowing. “My father doesn’t know the meaning of that word.”

Cassandra chuckled, tracing her fingers along the balcony rail. “He’s worried you’ll ruin the arrangement. You, the man who never cared about love, suddenly refusing an arranged marriage? Shocking.”

He said nothing. He just looked at her — this ghost from his past that once taught him what betrayal tasted like.

She tilted her head. “You really plan to go through with it?”

Evan poured himself another drink. “Do I have a choice?”

Cassandra smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe she’s not so bad. Who knows, Evan? Maybe you’ll fall again.”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t fall.”

“Right.” She smirked. “You crash.”

She left with a whisper of perfume in the air, leaving him with a storm he refused to name.

The next evening, Evan was back in his father’s office for the official engagement signing. The Santoses were there — nervous but hopeful.

Arielle sat quietly beside her parents, her simple white dress and calm posture out of place in the room full of power suits. She didn’t speak much, but when she did look up, her eyes met his.

Something flickered there — not fear, not admiration — just quiet defiance.

And for the first time, Evan didn’t know how to respond.

Arthur was speaking to Manuel Santos, discussing documents and timelines, but Evan’s mind wandered.

He studied Arielle subtly — the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the way her fingers trembled slightly under the table. There was grace in her restraint. Strength in her silence.

When their parents stepped out to sign some papers, only the two of them remained.

Arielle broke the silence first. “Do you always let your father decide for you?”

Evan arched a brow. “Do you always talk to strangers that way?”

She didn’t back down. “Only to the ones who think they own everything.”

He leaned back in his chair, intrigued. “You’re braver than you look.”

“And you’re colder than I expected,” she shot back.

He almost smiled — almost. “You’ll get used to it.”

Arielle looked him straight in the eyes. “No. I don’t think I will.”

Their brief stare-down felt like a spark in a room full of gasoline. Neither of them knew it yet, but that was the moment something began — not love, but the first tremor of something inevitable.

When the meeting ended, Evan returned to his car, loosening his tie. His driver asked, “Sir, home?”

He hesitated before answering. “No. Just drive.”

The city blurred past the windows as he stared into the lights. He thought of her words — *Do you always let your father decide for you?* — and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have an answer.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe curiosity. Or maybe something deeper that he refused to name.

But that night, Evan Monteverde couldn’t sleep.

He poured himself another glass, leaned against the window, and muttered softly,

“Who are you, Arielle Santos?”

Meanwhile, across the city, Arielle lay in bed staring at her phone.

A new message blinked on her screen.

Unknown Number: “I don’t believe in love. But I believe in promises. We’ll make this work — quietly.”

She stared at it for a long time before replying:

Arielle: “I don’t believe in promises. But I believe in people. Don’t make me regret it.”

She set her phone down, exhaled slowly, and whispered to the darkness —

“Maybe I’ll survive this. Or maybe I’ll learn to break.”

That night, both of them — the dreamer and the heir — fell asleep under the same sky, unaware that fate had already begun weaving their story.

Not with love.

Not with choice.

But with two broken souls who would one day find wholeness in each other’s cracks.