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As he stares into the fading sunset, his thoughts drift back to those familiar ghosts, circling like a restless bird trying to find its way home.
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Juan Miguel saunters down the plane's stairway, a cigarette casually hanging from his fingers. He's got on a dress shirt, the same sharp blue as our uniforms, making him look like just another one of the Aguilas. Smart move—that keeps him safer. Makes it trickier for any lurking snipers we might've missed.
Maganda ang pagyakap ng tela ng damit sa kanyang matipunong katawan—not too tight, not too loose. Sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. Black trousers are hugging those long legs. His dark brown leather shoes are tapering at the toes.
Halos kasabay niyang bumaba ang isang babae—a stunning blonde in a spotless Jackie-O white suit. Anastasia Jacobs.
Tulad ng ibang mga opisyales na tahimik na nagsiakyatan sa ibang mga sasakyan, ganoon din ang ginawa ng Amerikana. She slides into the other Rolls-Royce, a pink Birkin bag dangling from her arm, and slams the door shut with a loud thud.
Napukol tuloy ang atensyon ni Juan Miguel doon sa Amerikanang nagdabog. He takes a drag from his cig, and shakes his head like he's seen this show one too many times. Sunod niyang ipinatapon ang kanyang sigarilyo kay Eula habang si Poli naman ay may binuksang itim na folder na siya niyang pinasadahan ng tingin.
"That's good enough," he mutters in his raspy baritone—a sound that's music to the ears of his many admirers, but grates on mine like nails on a chalkboard.
Ngumiwi ako't bumalik sa loob ng Rolls-Royce gayong mukhang lalarga na rin ang ibang sasakyan.
Settling into the seat, I fumble with the seatbelt, snapping it into place. Then, out of nowhere, the door to my right flies open. Poli is there, holding it wide for. . .Juan Miguel.
I freeze, my breath hitching as the Prince of Manila steps in beside me, his cologne quickly mixing with the car's air-conditioning: bergamot, musk, and probably, his women's tears—the scents of hell.
Pero hindi niya ako tiningnan. His eyes are glued to another document.
Sumunod sa pagpasok sa loob ng sasakyan si Eula. And since this Rolls-Royce was custom-built not just to be bulletproof, but with the back seats facing each other, she's sitting directly across from me and the prince. She's holding a water bottle, and hands it to him. He takes it, still not tearing his gaze from whatever he's reading.
"You mean Lucia's speechwriter penned this?" Pinitik niya ang papel na para itong dumi. "Did she fucking skip high school? Does she actually expect me—me—to read this out loud in public? Un montón de idiotas."
I press my lips together to stifle a smile. Sabi na, eh. Hindi pa rin nagbabago ang kagaspangan ng dila ng walang hiya. Pwede pa rin itong gamiting pampakinis sa pwet ng palayok.
On the other hand, Eula stays completely composed, sitting as straight as an iron rod. "Su Majestad, ipapaulit ko po ito sa ating manunulat sa lalong madaling panahon—"
"Forget it," Juan Miguel cuts her off, flinging the terrible speech in my direction without even looking. The stapled pages fly through the air and land neatly on my lap. Pinulot ko ang mga ito at saka ipinaibabaw sa file box na nasa aking tabi.
And then. . .
. . . nothing.
Just the steady hum of the car and an awkward, stretched-out silence hanging among us for the next twenty minutes. Nagbabasa si Juan Miguel ng libro, nagi-iwasan kami ni Eula ng tingin, gumugulong ang buong ka-Maynilaan sa paligid namin.
BINABASA MO ANG
The Pearl Princess (Taglish)
Historical Fiction(Be back on last week on November 2024) She's a royal guard, trained to protect. He's the Prince of Manila, born to rule. From the moment they met, they've been sworn enemies. Now, they're getting married.
