Lahat ng Kabanata ng SILENT BETWEEN TWO HEARTS: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

CHAPTER ONE: The Velvet ShadowHarry DuBois carried himself like a man who never stumbled. At six-foot-four, with a tailored suit hugging his shoulders and a low, velvet voice that seemed to stroke the air, he was the kind of man people whispered about long after he’d left the room.“Mr. DuBois,” the bartender greeted as Harry crossed the dimly lit lounge. The clink of glasses and soft notes of a trumpet hung in the air, brushing against the red velvet curtains. Everyone knew him. Everyone admired him.But admiration was a mask. Masks had cracks.Naomi, his sixteen-year-old daughter, spotted him from a corner booth where she was sketching in her worn notebook. “Dad, you’re late.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes searched his face, like she always did, checking if tonight was one of the heavy nights.Harry offered a faint smile. “Meetings ran long. You holding down the fort?”“Always.” She smirked, closing the notebook before he could peek. Naomi was the one person who could disarm hi

Elena Rivera had always believed that shadows lingered longer in small towns. In the city, people could disappear into the hum of traffic, into glass towers and neon lights. But in her hometown , a sun-baked village tucked between hills and dry fields, every mistake clung to you like dust on your skin. Everyone knew your story. Everyone remembered.She had been fourteen when her father sold her future.The debt wasn’t spoken of in detail, but whispers floated through their narrow streets. Her father, Miguel Rivera, had borrowed heavily from a wealthy landowner, a man whose hands were already stained with too many lives. Don Isandro was his name older than her grandfather, with wives scattered across houses like trophies, children who barely knew each other’s names.The night her father told her, Elena remembered the way the lamplight trembled against the cracked plaster walls. His face looked older than it should have, his shoulders slumped under burdens she couldn’t yet understand.“

The lounge was quieter than usual, its walls humming with the hush of waiting. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching on the curves of bronze, the shimmer of glass, the solemn faces carved into wood. Harry had come in early, still tired from a night of restless sleep. Elena had called before dawn, her voice brisk but apologetic. “I’ve got an appointment in the city,” she’d said. “I won’t be in today. Don’t miss me too much.”Harry had chuckled, though the sound felt forced. When the line went dead, he’d stared at his phone longer than he should have, unsettled by how empty the day already felt. He didn’t expect to find anyone there, not yet, but as he entered the main hall, the air shifted. Someone was standing near the centerpiece, a sculpted figure of a woman lifting her face to the sky, hands outstretched as though pulling hope from the clouds. The man leaned in, studying the lines of the stone with an intensity that made Harry pause. He was older, broad in the shoulders

The air in the lounge turned heavy, thick enough that Harry felt every breath scratch his lungs. The quiet space that usually hummed with jazz and low conversation now vibrated with something raw, unspoken, and dangerous.Elena stood frozen, her hand trembling in Harry’s, her eyes locked on the older man at the door. Her lips barely moved, yet the word had already shattered the room.“Papa.”Miguel Rivera looked like a ghost summoned too late. His clothes hung loose on his frame, his face mapped with creases of regret, his hair thin and gray. But it was his eyes,the same dark, searching eyes Elena once carried as a child that made her body stiffen with rage.“Elena,” he whispered, voice thick, broken. “Mi hija… my daughter.”Her chest rose sharply. “Don’t. Don’t you dare call me that.”Harry’s jaw clenched. He kept his grip steady on Elena’s hand, though his other curled into a fist by his side. This was no coincidence, Miguel showing up here again tonight, after hovering on the edges

The hotel room smelled of damp carpet and regret. Miguel sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his elbows pressed to his knees, his hands trembling as they cupped his face. Outside, the neon sign of the bar across the street flickered “OPEN” in uneven intervals, casting a sickly glow across his bare, unshaven jaw. The bottle of cheap whiskey lay tipped on the nightstand, a thin amber river seeping into the wood.Sixteen years. That’s how long it had been since his life unraveled. He’d once had a perfect family at least he thought so. A wife whose smile steadied him, two beautiful girls who giggled like chimes in the wind. And Maria. God, Maria Rivera. His eldest. A voice like sunlight breaking over a dark valley, a girl whose song could wake the dead. He’d seen the future in her: concert halls, record deals, stages where her voice would rise and rise.And then came the boy. Young, reckless, hungry. Miguel had said no, had said she’s too young, she got her whole life ahead of her. But Mar