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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Taking my mind off things, I went to visit my grandmother in Tarlac.
Dressed in a flattering skirt and blouse—modest, far more conservative than anything one would wear these days—my Abuelita stood smiling by the porch, arms wide open, waiting for my arrival.
I rounded the corner, slammed the car door, and looked around. It had been months since I'd last been to our ancestral home, and not much had changed.
"¡Abuelita!" I called out, my excitement too strong to hide as I made my way to the porch.
"¡Besos! ¡Dame un beso, mi niña!" she said. I leaned in to kiss her cheek, and as always, she lifted my face and showered kisses on my cheeks and nose—just like when I was little.
"Ay, look at you. All grown up now," she said wistfully, eyes shining as she looked at me. She gently held my arm and led the way to the entrance of the house.
"I missed you more, Abuelita," I said, smiling at her. She's one of the few reasons I keep flying home. And lately, I've found myself thinking of her more—maybe because she's getting older.
"I asked the jardinero to pick all the stargazers and roses from the garden and greenhouse. Now the house looks—and smells—lovely, just in time for lunch."
Then she paused. "And what is that you're wearing, hija? A ver. ¡Está mostrando mucha piel!"
I glanced down at my backless black Valentino maxi dress. It didn't seem revealing by today's standards, though it was sleeveless and had a modest side slit.
"Abuelita, it was just the first thing I grabbed. I didn't think too much about it—and besides, it's fresco."
Her sunny smile gave way to a slight scowl. "Tsk, tsk. Vosotros jóvenes and your clothing these days. No bueno. You'll have to change—but later."
Her feathered grey hair framed a face marked with crow's feet that touched the corners of her hazel eyes. Her disapproval was palpable.
"At least you're here. Me duele... I thought you forgot about me."
"Abuelita, when you're commenting 'Como está?' on my Facebook profile picture like it's a chatbox, there's no chance I'll forget you."
"Profile picture, Facebook, chatbox—bah! All these things you young people say. Yo no comprendo. And that TGIF your primo posted! Why is Friday so special? Why can't you thank God for Monday, Tuesday, or any other day?"
I managed a chuckle.
A table near the Christmas tree caught my attention. It was crowded with little statues—saints from her lifelong collection.
The staff were busy decorating the house with poinsettias. Christmas had certainly arrived.
"¡Qué lío! And you look tired. Pobrecita!" my Abuelita exclaimed, cupping my face. "Did you drive all the way to Tarlac? Why didn't you bring your chauffeur? Is Domeng fired?"
