Maven and Adrianna were born on opposite sides of a century-old feud-two scions of rival dynasties steeped in pride, power, and revenge. He's fire. She's ice. Their worlds were never meant to merge, yet fate orchestrates their collision with unrelen...
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The house looked smaller now.
Not physically—no, the grand estate in Ayala Alabang still stood as proud and pristine as ever, a fortress dressed in manicured perfection. But it felt smaller. Like the kind of place where air tightened in your chest and memory clung to the walls like mildew.
The Mercedes eased to a stop at the base of the curved driveway. I stepped out, the Manila humidity wrapping around me in its thick, unwelcome embrace. A familiar scent hit me—floor wax, frangipani, the faint trace of chlorine from the pool.
And just like that, the past dragged me under.
⸻
I was twelve.
The night was hot—thick with the kind of silence that presses against your skin. And then:
Crash.
Glass.
The sharp, unmistakable sound of something breaking. A vase? A lamp? I didn't know. All I knew was that my eyes flew open, heart pounding, and the world had shifted.
Then came the voices.
Not just raised.
Screaming.
"Putangina mo, Armand!"
Mama's voice—hoarse, raw, unrecognizable. I didn't know that version of her yet. The one that shook walls. The one that spat rage like it was survival.
I stumbled out of bed, feet cold on the tiled floor, clutching Mr. Piglet to my chest. At the top of the stairs, I found Kuya Elliot already there, crouched low behind the bannister, jaw clenched, eyes dark.
"Stay here," he whispered, pulling me beside him.
But I couldn't.
The shouting was growing louder—uglier.
"You think I wouldn't find out? You cheated on me—you had the nerve to bring her into our home?"
My heart twisted.
"Stella, it wasn't like that—"
"She's pregnant, Armand!" Mama's voice cracked. "You put a baby in her. And now you think sorry is enough?"
My breath stilled. My knees started shaking.
They weren't just fighting.
They were falling apart. My parents. My family.
I curled tighter into Elliot's side, pressing my hand against my ears—but it didn't help. Nothing could shut it out.
"You let her into our life—into our children's life. Does Adrianna even know what kind of man her father is?"
I stood up.
I don't remember making the choice. I just remember the feeling: fire in my chest, ice in my limbs.
I walked downstairs like a ghost, one step at a time.
"Mommy?"
Both of them froze.
The room looked like a war zone. A shattered vase near the fireplace. Chairs out of place. My father's face pale. My mother's hands trembling, fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
For a moment, no one spoke.
My father's voice softened to a tremble. "Adrianna, sweetheart—go back to bed."
But I wasn't a little girl anymore. Not that night.
Mama's eyes brimmed with tears she couldn't stop. She wiped them fast—like she could hide the damage.
"You shouldn't have seen this," she whispered.
"Is it true?" I asked, barely hearing myself. "About the baby?"
She looked at me—just for a second—and I knew. I knew everything.
A child knows when the ground gives way beneath her.
⸻
Present day.
"Ma'am?"
The voice snapped me back to now.
Manong Domeng was holding my suitcase. "Wala daw pong sundo galing kay Sir. May board meeting raw siya."
I raised a hand.
"I don't need an excuse."
My voice was cold, automatic. My eyes never left the house.
"He stopped owing me an explanation ten years ago."
The guards opened the gate. The Mercedes rolled forward.
Three black Audis. A new sports car. The garden looked curated for a magazine spread.
But none of it looked like home.
I stepped out, adjusting my sunglasses.
The staff shifted awkwardly as they unloaded my luggage.
"Ma'am... 'yung dati niyong room—sa east wing... pinalipat na po."
I stilled.
"To who?"
Silence.
Then someone said, carefully, "Si Rory po."
Rory.
I felt the breath leave me. My old room—the one with the bay window and white desk and bookshelf full of stuffed animals—belonged now to her.
The daughter he had with her.
And right on cue—
Camilla.
She descended the staircase like a queen in silk. Hair curled, lipstick immaculate, skin dewy like she hadn't aged a day. She smiled like someone who'd already won.
"Adrianna!" she sang, sweeping forward to embrace me. "Welcome home, darling."
I didn't move. Her perfume—Chanel No. 5—was overwhelming.
She wrapped her arms around me anyway.
"You look so grown up," she whispered. "So beautiful."
I didn't hug her back.
Just let her arms drop and smiled—a tight, rehearsed thing that could cut steel.
"Welcome back, indeed," I said softly.
Her smile faltered—barely—but I saw it.
And that was enough.
Because I was back.
And nothing was forgotten.
Not the screaming.
Not the glass.
Not the lie that broke our family.
I walked past her, my heels clicking against marble.
