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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Life post-dinner felt like walking a tightrope in designer heels—you looked good doing it, but one misstep could send you hurtling.
The ride home was unusually quiet.
Mom sat beside me, scrolling through her phone, likely checking her socials or messaging her friends about the dinner. Kuya Elliot was somewhere behind us in his car, probably blasting Bon Iver to wash away the lingering tension from Mom's tirade. I didn't say anything, didn't need to. The silence between us spoke volumes.
My thoughts, however, were anything but quiet.
The way Mom spoke about Rory—it didn't just sting. It hollowed me out. I'd thought I could compartmentalize, keep things neat. She was just my father's child from another woman. Separate. Distant. Unconnected. But after meeting her, seeing the way she smiled up at Maven like he hung the stars, that logic fell apart.
She wasn't just someone else's daughter.
She was my sister.
And despite the awkwardness, despite the years lost and words unspoken, I felt something strange the last time we spent time together. A flicker. A pull.
Something I didn't want to admit: I cared.
That realization terrified me more than anything but my mother's words still echoed in my mind like a curse wrapped in red lipstick.
No one talked about Rory at home—not really. At best, she was a rumor in passing; at worst, a symbol of my father's betrayal. But Mom had twisted it like a knife, and somewhere between my fingers tightening around the hem of my napkin and the forced laughter that followed, something inside me had shifted.
I spent the next morning at the library at Ateneo, buried under legal doctrine and case digests, but my concentration was crap. Rory's name hovered above the margins of my notes like a ghost. I couldn't stop thinking about how I used to avoid her—the way you'd tiptoe around a puddle, pretending it wasn't there. Guilt had grown sharp edges since then.
That afternoon, I messaged Maven.
Me: She called her a bastard.
Maven: I figured she would.
Me: I didn't like it. I didn't stop it either.
Maven: You're allowed to freeze. You're not your mother, Dri.
His reply was so simple, so unfairly comforting, I found myself blinking away heat from my eyes.
Maven didn't push. He never did when it came to Rory. But he saw things—me—more clearly than most. Maybe it scared me. Maybe it comforted me.
That evening, I found myself driving back to Green Meadows, watching the warm golden lights of the houses flicker past, wondering which version of me I wanted to bring home. The graceful Sobreviñas heiress? The law student chasing something more? Or the half-sister who still didn't know how to be a sister at all?
