บททั้งหมดของ The Man I Swore to Hate: บทที่ 51 - บทที่ 60

The funeral wasn’t grand. There were no cameras, no marble statues or velvet ropes. Just earth. Cold, raw earth swallowing the only man I had ever loved.The chapel was nearly empty. I sat in the front row, hands clenched around the folded note he’d left in the cabin, tucked under a plate of untouched food. I hadn’t opened it. I couldn’t. Not yet. If I read his last words, then it would be real. Final. The priest spoke gently, but I didn’t hear him. My mind replayed everything. The drive. The shot. His body against mine. His last breath. His eyes finding me in the end, like even in pain, he wanted me to be the last thing he saw. I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve begged harder. Should’ve insisted we run, disappear into another life, build something new out of the wreckage. But Perion... he was tired of hiding. Tired of guilt.He wanted peace. Instead, he found a bullet. Just cold wind, hard earth, and the silence that follows when a part of you is buried six feet under. They buried

The crickets were the only ones speaking. We stood at the edge of the garden—me barefoot, holding a basket of washed laundry, him with his hands stuffed into his pockets like he had to anchor himself to the earth. I had tried to avoid this conversation all week. But he had followed. Quiet. Determined.He always followed.“You need to go back, Romero,” I said, eyes fixed on the dirt path. “Back to your life.”“My life?” he echoed, voice rough with disbelief. “You mean the one I was born into but never chose?”I swallowed. “Yes. Your family. Your business. Your world. This isn't you.”“This is exactly me,” he said. “This is the me without a thousand strings. Without expectations. This—” he gestured to the moonlight between us, the sky, the soil under our feet “—this is what I’ve wanted for so long.”“You’re running away.”He stepped closer. “No, Carmenta. I’m finally running toward something.”I blinked fast. I couldn’t cry now. Not with him looking at me like that. Like I was the final

I couldn’t move.My body was heavy, limbs pinned down by some unseen force as if the ocean had settled on top of me. I tried to scream, but no sound came. My throat burned. My lungs ached. But I remained frozen. My eyes fluttered open—barely—and the ceiling above me flickered like candlelight. Shadows danced across the corners of the room, crawling.And then I saw him.Perion.Standing at the foot of my bed. Blood seeped from the hole in his chest, soaking through his shirt like spilled wine. His mouth was slightly open, and those sharp eyes—eyes that once watched me with guarded desire—were now clouded with pain.“You left me,” he rasped, voice like wind scraping bone.I tried to call out his name. I tried. But I couldn’t. My tongue refused to move. My fingers twitched—barely. I begged my body to listen. To sit up. To breathe. But the air was thick, like drowning in tar. I heard the faint sound of knocking in the distance, like it was happening in another world. Then it turned into p

I should’ve known. Romero never did anything halfway. He never gave just enough. Never loved in fractions.So, when he casually asked, “Would you want to live with me?” one sleepy afternoon with my head on his chest, I thought he meant sometime... maybe months from now. I thought it was hypothetical. A question dipped in future-tense possibilities.I didn’t expect the drive. Didn’t expect the trees opening up to reveal a riverbank painted gold by late afternoon light. Didn’t expect a house.Our house.Not too big, not too small. Wooden, with large windows and a porch that curved around the side like an embrace. The roof still smelled like fresh carpentry. There was a hammock tied between two trees. A wooden fence lined with budding bougainvillea.My breath hitched.“You—Romero—” I stumbled over my words. “You bought this?”“I built most of it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like it embarrassed him. “Saved up while working on the boats. Asked old Mang Teody to help with the roo

The mangoes were ripening early that year.It was mid-afternoon when I found myself back on the porch, the woven chair creaking gently beneath my weight. My hands, now used to the gentle curve of my belly, rested there again, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded circles. The wind was lazy, brushing against my arms and neck like a drowsy lullaby. From where I sat, I could see the glittering river. That’s when I heard the soft rustle of footsteps over the dry grass. I looked up—and there she was.Signora Phylecia. She stood a few feet from the porch, dressed in a crisp blouse and linen skirt, a scarf pinned around her shoulders even though the sun was gentle today. Her hands clutched a paper bag, and for a long moment, we both said nothing. The awkwardness was thick in the air—our history too tangled for easy words.But then, she smiled."Signora, Romero is fishing—"“I brought some things,” she said, voice calm, almost uncertain. “For the baby.”My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, I