All Chapters of FLOWER OF LOVE: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

"Dixal!" Her knees trembled as she clung to him, burying her face deeper against his chest, desperate to draw strength from his embrace. If she didn’t hold on, she might collapse from the sheer terror of what had just happened. She didn’t need to see his face—his voice alone was enough. It was him. Her Dixal. Tears spilled, a storm of fear and relief crashing inside her. For a moment, she had been certain she would be struck by that car—that she would never see her mother and siblings again, never hold her boyfriend this tightly ever again. But he had been swift, rescuing her once more from disaster. "I swear, Dixal, I was right at the edge of the road. I wasn’t trying to cross. It was the car that swerved—" Her voice shook, but before she could go on, he hushed her. "Sshhh. I know," he whispered, holding her so tightly, as if he had no intention of letting go. Only when a driver blared a horn behind them were they forced back into reality. Slowly, Dixal lifted her into his

“Flora Amor! Flor!” Mamay Elsa’s sharp voice rang out from outside the house. The girl stirred in her sleep but ignored the call. With heavy lids, she cracked her eyes open just enough to glance at the clock on the wall, then turned over with a groan. Ten o’clock. Still early. Her whole body felt weighed down, desperate for more rest. “Flor!” The knocking on the door grew louder. “Oh, what now?” she grumbled, annoyed. Her hand instinctively searched the bed—Harold wasn’t there. Strange. It was only ten at night; he should still be deep asleep. “Ten o’clock.” The thought dragged her back to the memory of the night before—when she had crept out of the house, following her mother into the 7-Eleven, only to catch her meeting secretly with Anton’s father. Tears had blurred her eyes as she watched from the shadows, her heart shattering as the truth took root: her mother was also unfaithful. That image of the two together in the dead of night had seared itself into her mind. She

Before dawn, Flora Amor and Harold were already at the market, their goods neatly arranged. Every effort counted—they needed to sell all four basins of fish to bring home a sizable earning. Flora Amor had only spent two days learning how to clean fish, yet here she was, keeping pace with her brother. Their diligence was already earning them new regulars, customers who appreciated their hard work and wanted to support their small business. “Fresh tilapia! Very cheap! Still alive!” she called out, her voice carrying across the crowded market. Whenever she appeared, buyers immediately approached, selecting one or two kilos at a time. Harold focused entirely on cleaning the fish, barely noticing the growing line of customers. Flora Amor’s heart lifted at the sight—seeing their effort pay off felt rewarding. By noon, only one basin of fish remained. Finally, it seemed, they would be able to finish early. “One kilo of milkfish, please.” She turned sharply at the voice, stunned.

"Amor… wait for me, sweetie. I have to go—save my family from disgrace. But promise me you’ll wait.” The whispered plea stirred Flora Amor from her heavy slumber. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know who owned that voice. 'Dixal! Don’t leave. Don’t abandon me. Let’s go see Mama. I want to see her.' Her mind screamed, but her body betrayed her. Her eyelids weighed like stone, her limbs unresponsive as though nailed to the bed. Panic clawed through her chest. Why couldn’t she move? Footsteps receded into the distance. He was leaving. Dixal was leaving her. Why? What burden was his family carrying that he had to “save” them? 'Dixal… wait for me…' But a deeper pull dragged her consciousness down into the dark, silencing every thought until even his fading footsteps were gone. A boy’s ragged sobbing tore her back into the light. Flora Amor’s lashes fluttered open, her gaze swimming over the sterile white of a hospital room. Just like the last time she’d collapsed, dextros

Before leaving the room, Flora Amor sat at the edge of her mother’s bed and clasped her hand—always cold, as though no blood flowed through it. She pressed it gently, again and again, as if trying to coax warmth back into her. “Ma, I’ll be stepping out for a while. Harold will stay with you. Tomorrow morning, I’ll visit Papa’s grave.” Her voice broke as she spoke of her father. They hadn’t even been able to attend his wake. Every ounce of their time had been devoted to watching over her mother, while Harold divided his days between the hospital and his younger siblings at home. After a few hours, he would always return, exhausted yet unwilling to leave them alone. As heavy as it was in their hearts, they had let their father’s mistress arrange everything—from the wake to the burial. To this day, Amor could not untangle the truth behind her parents’ tragedy. Anton had not shown himself either, leaving them with nothing but rumors Mamay Elsa whispered: that all of this was the mis