All Chapters of ALMS TO LOVE: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

She'd survived brunch without wincing. Without snapping at Charles in front of his grandmother. Without hurling a butter knife at that self-satisfied cousin Daniel who inquired if she'd "modeled for catalogues or just weddings."But the mask was slipping now.Fiona was standing by the fountain in the middle of the garden, where the spray glittered like broken diamonds. Her heels were off—stashed in the hydrangeas. Her spine was no longer stiff with straining.And her eyes were glazed.She picked up on footsteps behind her, and stiffened. "If it's your grandmother with a shotgun bouquet of wedding flowers, I swear—""It's not," Charles's voice said gently.She turned slowly.He seemed. different. No longer the one who barked strategy over a scotch glass or judged her from the corner of a fitting room. The sharp suit was still there, the watch worth more than her mother's home—but his tie was undone, and something in his eyes was. uncertain.They stood a few strides apart, neither closi

She nodded rigidly. "That's new."And then she walked away, the bottoms of her shoes clicking quietly on hospital tile as she vanished in.Charles lingered a beat, observing the doors shut behind her.And then, for the first time all day, he resembled a man who didn't know if he'd just made an exchange—or something good and close to a promise.The hospital had that odor of antiseptic and stale prayer.Fiona strode down the corridor, heels tucked under one arm, her silk pant suit whispering at the knees as if out of place among the banks of sorrow and IV stands. Her hair remained swept back into the sleekingdo Madam Jamaica's crew had done for brunch, but the mask was off her face. There was only the woman beneath—the mother, revealed bare by fear and love.Room 402. She stood in the doorway uncertainly.Liza was huddled in the bed, white as alabaster, frail, a thin blanket clinging over her knees. Her face, so full of ten-year-old rage and tumult, was waxy today. Her curly hair had th

He put the glass down, untouched.Then went to his desk and opened a drawer.Inside, beneath the sheets of signed contracts and memoranda, was the second part of Fiona's deal—the other half of the cheque. Thirty million pesos, already signed.But he did not take it.Not yet.Because tonight wasn't about money.It was about the weight of promises.The ones already given.And the ones he didn't know how to speak aloud.Her breathing was slow, drawn from a well of fatigue so intense it resonated. Her shoulders rose and fell to each intake, burdened with heavier than mere weariness.A tear wandered quietly down her face. She brushed it away before it could fall, as if even grief had to be discreet herehidden, silent, unmarked.And then, the silence broke.A hum.Her phone, softly vibrating beside her like an unresponsive heartbeat that she didn't even know she was waiting for. She nearly let it go to voicemail, but the name that appeared on the screen took her breath away.Valeria Jayne –

She stood up and walked quietly to the window, cheque in hand. The moonlight streamed in, soft and silver, stroking her cheek like a prayer.Charles owed her nothing.But he gave it to her anyway.She hadn't even asked.Fiona clamped the cheque against her body, briefly, grounding herself in the weightiness of it all—the fight, the burden, and the miracle in a piece of paper.And then, softly, she walked down to the billing department, head held high and the flame of a mother still in her marrow.Not broken.Not begging.But with love's price in her pocket—and the nerve to pay it all.Text Message by Fiona Degenerys → Charles Billion8:47 PMI don't know if I should speak it.But I have to.Thank you. For the cheque. For not making a big thing out of it. For recognizing it and understanding what it was without me having to tell you.Liza started chemo tonight. She smiled at me when they were getting her ready to hook her up to the IV. A real-to-goodness smile. The one I hadn't seen in

Charles's Penthouse – NightThe city stretched out beyond the glass windows of Charles's penthouse, its lights scattered like a shattered crown sundered over the skyline. Inside, all was sleek and flawless, polished marble, minimalist furnishings, shadows falling in cold lines over icy surfaces. Too sterile to be inhabited. Too quiet to be home.Charles stayed at the window, a glass of Bordeaux in his hand, the dark red bleeding into the crystal like blood. He sipped slowly, savoring the silence as penance.His phone vibrated once.He did not move.Then it buzzed again.And again.With a frustrated breath, he set his glass on the table, stepped across the room, and glanced at the screen.Incoming Call: Grandma JamaicaHe answered."Yes?" he said, his voice sharp, controlled.Where in the devil are you?" was the curt, commanding tone of Madam Jamaica Billion.He blinked. Not the greeting he'd expected, but then again, never with her."I'm home," he responded gruffly. "Is something wron