BongLeni Anthologies

Suyo Sa West Wing

—  𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚  —

THEA .𖥔 ݁ ˖ :

presi si malens au !!
& ofc, established
relationship heheh 😋

—  𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚  —

It was a suspiciously quiet afternoon in Malacañang.

The kind of quiet that made the walls feel like they were eavesdropping. No hurried footsteps in the hallways, no papers rustling in the offices, no interns pretending not to cry in the bathroom. Just silence. A sticky, uncomfortable kind of silence — like the Palace itself knew something was brewing, and it was politely excusing itself from the scene.

Even the chandeliers seemed to hang heavier than usual, their crystal droplets frozen in still air, refusing to chime. The guards outside the hallway stood straighter, as if the hush demanded reverence. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain kept gurgling in the courtyard, its sound exaggerated by the lack of everything else.

The West Wing was basically deserted. Not one soul dared linger there. No cabinet meetings. No media. Not even a bored security aide scrolling on their phone. It was as if everyone had collectively decided, You know what? Let's not be here right now.

An entire wing of power, emptied by something invisible yet palpable. The portraits on the walls — stiff men in barong, women posed in pearls — looked down with the smug expressions of history, as though they too knew better than to meddle. Even the curtains, heavy brocade that usually swayed with the afternoon breeze, hung still and solemn, like stage props waiting for a cue.

Outside, Manila roared as always: jeepneys honking, vendors calling, the drone of traffic inching toward the Pasig. But inside the Palace, the world shrank into that silence. The only movement was the faint glimmer of dust motes drifting lazily in golden shafts of sunlight, each one hanging in the air as if afraid to land on the wrong surface.

It was not the silence of peace. No. This was the silence of suspense, the lull before thunder, the pause before someone clears their throat and changes the course of a conversation.

Malacañang held its breath.

Because somewhere in that stillness — deeper in the West Wing, tucked behind closed doors and gilded furniture — was the reason everyone had vanished, the reason the Palace itself seemed to crouch in anticipation.

Someone was sulking. And everyone knew better than to get in the way of a tampo that big.

There he was. Bongbong Marcos Jr., the First Gentleman the Republic absolutely had no idea about, pouting like a child who had just been told he couldn't have ice cream before dinner. He had stationed himself at the far end of the drawing room like a piece of furniture that refused to be moved — slumped into the antique sofa like it personally offended him, arms crossed so tightly across his chest you'd think they were hiding state secrets.

He wasn't speaking. He wasn't blinking. He wasn't even scrolling through Twitter. That's how bad it was.

The air-conditioning was doing its best, humming softly like it was trying not to get involved. Slivers of afternoon sunlight spilled through the curtains, landing dramatically across the carpet like stage lights. Dust floated lazily through the golden glow, but he didn't notice. He was busy. Busy ignoring the entire world.

On the low table before him sat the evidence of his tantrum: an untouched cup of kapeng barako, long gone cold, the porcelain rim stained with one half-hearted sip; a half-opened folder of briefing notes he had refused to even glance at; his phone — encrypted, obnoxiously expensive — facedown like a defeated soldier. It had been buzzing all day, lighting up with texts, missed calls, frantic group chats. He didn't care. He had left it on read — the most powerful move in politics.