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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It broke me.
Something inside me splintered when I finally found the spare key, unlocked her bedroom door, and pushed it open.
There she was.
My mother—once Stella Henderson-Sobreviñas, former Miss International, the face of every billboard in EDSA—lay crumpled in her wedding gown, sprawled across the bed like a fallen queen.
Merlot stained the silk bodice, her mascara streaked down her cheeks, and her chignon had half-collapsed into a tangle of hair and pins. She tilted the bottle to her lips again, drinking like she could drown the memories before they drowned her.
The wedding video played on loop from the flatscreen.
I stood frozen, heart cracking open. I'd seen her like this before, but it never got easier. Each time reopened the wound. It was their silver anniversary today—should've been—and like clockwork, she spiraled. The sight of her reenacting her vows through tears was gutting.
"Armand," she slurred, eyes on the screen. "I love you and I accept you... even your demons... I love you even when you're tired."
My mother in the video was radiant. My father, younger and handsome, looked down at her like she was his whole world. That's what always baffled me—how could he look at her like that, and still walk away?
I sat beside her, silent. She didn't notice. The bottle tipped again. I counted five empties around the floor. Her voice cracked as she echoed another part of her vows.
"I will fight for what we have..." she wept. "Even in our worst nights..."
Tears slipped down my cheeks. "Tama na, Mommy," I whispered. I scooted closer and wrapped my arms around her trembling shoulders. "Shhh. Enough na."
But she continued, mimicking her younger self: "I love you as I stand in front of God..."
I buried my face in her hair and swallowed the sob clawing at my throat.
Camilla didn't just break our family—she decimated my mother. Every year was a reminder. And I knew, then and there, I was toeing the same line. Whatever I had with Maven—whatever this was—I couldn't let it evolve. I couldn't become her.
When she passed out, I moved in silence. I fetched clothes, called for Manang Pacita, stripped her gown off carefully.
We bathed her in silence. I dabbed off her smeared makeup and brushed her hair. When she murmured, "I love you, Armand," in her sleep, something cracked again inside me.
I kissed her cheek. "I love you too, Mommy. I'll love you enough for the both of us."
Downstairs, Manang stirred juice for me. I asked her to prep kare-kare—my mom's favorite. I wanted her to wake to something warm. Something normal.
But the peace didn't last.
My phone buzzed wildly on the granite counter.
Maven.
Missed Call (12) Maven: How's it going? You're not picking up.
I stared at the screen. My throat tightened.
"Ma'am, di niyo po sasagutin?" Manang asked.
I laughed—sharp, hollow. "Hindi," I said. "Hindi naman importante."
