Hentai Periodic Table

Aiah Villegas is your typical social butterfly. Sunod sa luho, hindi alintana ng beinte ocho anyos na dalaga ang kahit anong negative notion patungkol sa kanya. Party. Men. She loved them all specifically the attention. Not until her grandfather meddle her affairs and wedded her to a certain Rodrigo Dela Costa. Just like the name, literal na lahat dito mula pananalita at kilos ay pangmatanda. And unlike all men circling around her, he doesn't give a damn about her mere existence. Isang pabor na di niya kayang tanggihan. That's how Rodrigo viewed the existence of the pampered princess of the Villegas on his private space. Nothing more. Nothing less. But why does her cheap antics get inside his nerves? At tila ba hinahamon nito ang katatagan niya bilang lalaki... "I guarantee, you'll fall for me, My dear husband." Aiah leaned over his table, deliberately showing the generous view of her cleavage. There's a playful smirk etched on her lips. "Wala pang lalaking tumanggi sa akin." "Then I'll be the first," tugon ni Rodrigo, unbothered, drift his focus back on the piles of papers. "Try harder, My Aiah, then maybe there's a slim chance that I'll fall for you."

Elena had once believed that silence could mean safety. That a gentle hand and a warm cup of tea placed quietly on her desk every morning could be a form of love. Lucien was never cruel—not in the obvious ways. He remembered how she liked her eggs, noticed when she swapped her perfume, and sent flowers on days he knew she wouldn’t expect them. He raised her like one would raise a pet—softly, without question. And Elena, foolish in the way only the very lonely can be, mistook his quiet affection for devotion. She told herself he was reserved. Mysterious. That love didn’t always wear its heart on its sleeve. But when the old flame returned—the one who spoke his language without needing to try—Elena saw it. The difference. He looked at her like a man who had found his lost religion. And Elena? She had simply been convenient. No tears, no scene. Just papers on the breakfast table, beside the eggs he cooked perfectly. She didn’t accuse or beg. She only asked for freedom. He didn’t sign. He chuckled. A soft, dismissive sound. “A cat raised indoors doesn’t know how to survive on the street, Elena. You’ll come back." But she didn’t. She disappeared, like smoke—except she didn’t vanish, not really. She lived. She wore colour again. Laughed at bad jokes. Let strange men hand her coffee and ask for her number. Lucien? He watched. He watched her become someone without him. And it drove him mad. The night he cornered her outside the gallery, rain in his hair and desperation in his eyes, he looked like a man undone. "Elena," he breathed, "please. Look at me. Just once." She did. Calm as ever, and her love already gone.