The CEO's Contract Wife

Chapter 2

The moment Nathan and I stepped through the glass doors of the Summer Palace, the low hum of conversation died down. It was abrupt, like someone had cut the power to a speaker.

I wasn’t surprised to find Lola Imelda at the epicenter of the room. She was holding a glass of wine, basking in the attention of the Senate President and two board members from Ayala Land. She looked less like a grieving mother and more like a celebrity at a press junket.

Dozens of pairs of eyes shifted to me. I saw pity in some, but mostly, I saw calculation.

These people weren't here to mourn Roberto Alcantara. They were here to gauge the damage. Most of the guests were investors or minority shareholders. They wanted to stare at Nathan and me, trying to figure out if the company stock was going to tank on Monday morning. I recognized a few faces, but I felt like a stranger in my own life. Why was there a banquet? My father was dead. He would have hated this—the wasted food, the fake smiles, the sheer inefficiency of it all.

And he would have hated Lola Imelda’s performance most of all.

She spotted me and swooped in, her perfume—a heavy, floral scent that made my head spin—arriving a second before she did. She clamped a hand around my forearm, her manicured nails digging into my skin hard enough to leave a mark.

"Isabelle! Where did you disappear to?" she hissed, her voice low but sharp. "We have guests. Important people. You can't just vanish. We need to assure the stakeholders that the legacy is intact."

I tried to pull my arm away, but her grip was iron. "Lola, please. I just buried my father."

"And now you need to secure his empire," she countered, her eyes flashing. "I’ve already smoothed things over with the congressmen. You need to go over there and shake hands. Smile, hija. Don’t look so weak."

A wave of nausea rolled over me. All she cared about was the optics. I regretted inviting her. I regretted being related to her. Before I could snap at her, a large hand gently pried her fingers off my arm.

"Doña Imelda," Nathan said. His voice was smooth, deep, and carried the kind of authority that made people stop talking. "Thank you for holding the fort. But Isabelle has had a long day. She isn't here to network; she's here to breathe."

He didn't wait for her to respond. He placed a protective hand on the small of my back and guided me away, leaving my grandmother standing there with her mouth slightly open.

Nathan steered me through the crowd and out onto the private terrace. The humid air hit me again, but it was better than the suffocating atmosphere inside.

Gio was already there, sitting on a rattan bench. He stood up as we approached, holding a cup of hot tea and a small plate with a custard tart.

"I got your favorite," Gio said softly, offering the tart.

My chest tightened. It was an egg tart—the kind my dad used to bring home from Binondo whenever I had a bad day at school. He used to say sugar was the only cure for a broken spirit. He had been grooming me to take his chair, pushing me harder than anyone else, believing I was ready. Now, he wouldn't be there to see if I actually was.

"Thanks, G," I whispered, accepting the tea but leaving the food.

Gio pulled me into a hug. "I'm here, Issa. I promise. We're going to get through this. I'm not going anywhere."

I rested my head on his shoulder, wanting to believe him. But the space between us felt different now. Ever since he started dating Andrea, I had been pushed to the margins of his life. Andrea had made it very clear that she didn't like me, and Gio—sweet, conflict-avoidant Gio—had let her draw the boundaries. We were never alone anymore. If I wanted to see my best friend, I had to see her too.

As if summoned by my dark thoughts, the glass door slid open.

"Oh my god, there you are!"

Andrea came rushing out, her heels clicking loudly on the stone tiles. She threw her arms wide, her face crumpled in a display of exaggerated sympathy.

"Isabelle, babe, I am so, so sorry!" she wailed, her voice piercing the quiet terrace. "Is there anything we can do? Just tell us!"

I flinched at the volume. I had tried to be nice to Andrea for Gio's sake, but I couldn't understand what he saw in her. She was loud, vacuous, and obsessed with social climbing. She looked like every other influencer in BGC—lip fillers, perfect hair, and an outfit that cost more than my first car.

"We're fine, Andrea," I said stiffly, stepping back from Gio.

She didn't take the hint. She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that was still loud enough for the smokers at the nearby tables to hear.

"So," she said, eyes wide with faux concern. "Did the lawyer say anything about the will yet? Like, how much did he leave?"

I froze.

My blood ran cold. How did she know about the will?

I shot a look at Gio. He looked down at his shoes, his face flushing red. He had told her. I had told Nathan and Gio about the lawyer's call in strict confidence—it was sensitive corporate information. If the shareholders inside heard that the will was "complicated," the stock price would plummet before the market even opened.

I saw a few heads turn at the nearby tables. People were listening.

"Seriously?" I whispered, looking at Gio. "You told her?"

"I... I didn't think..." Gio stammered.

Nathan stepped forward, positioning himself between me and Andrea. His gaze was icy. He looked at Andrea with the same expression one might look at a stain on a silk tie.

Andrea seemed to sense the hostility. Her lip trembled, and suddenly, she burst into tears.

"I was just asking!" she sobbed, throwing herself at Gio. "Why are you guys looking at me like that? I'm just worried about Isabelle! God, you're all so mean!"

And just like that, the narrative flipped. Gio wrapped his arms around her, cooing soft assurances, rubbing her back.

"It's okay, babe, shhh," Gio whispered to her.

I stared at them in disbelief. I was the one who had just buried my father. I was the one whose life was falling apart. But Gio was comforting her because she got her feelings hurt by a stern look.

I took a step back, feeling a bitter cocktail of jealousy and self-loathing. I looked at Andrea—tall, blonde highlights, model-thin. Then I looked down at myself. I was shorter, curvier, plain. My dad used to call Andrea a "gold-digger with a limited vocabulary," and he wasn't wrong. But looking at them now, seeing how easily Gio prioritized her tears over my grief, I realized I had already lost him.

Nathan handed me his handkerchief. He was watching Gio and Andrea with cold detachment.

"I don't think we should wait until tomorrow," I muttered to Nathan.

He looked at me, understanding immediately. With Andrea running her mouth, rumors about the will were going to spread like wildfire. We needed to get ahead of the narrative.

"I agree," Nathan said, turning his back on his brother and the crying girl. He pulled out his phone. "I'm calling the attorney. We meet him tonight."