Ruthless Whispers: Broken Vows

Chapter 5: The Wife He Chose

She walked out.

And took all the air in my office with her.

Celine Reyes. My wife. On paper. In name. In the contract I drafted myself at 2 AM with three glasses of whiskey and a photo of my dead father on the desk.

Part one of the deal: The marriage will last two years.

Part two of the deal: The Wife will not ask about anything that happened before May 14, 2021.

Part three of the deal: No love. No questions. No leaving.

I wrote all three. I signed all 47 pages. I thought I was building a trap for a ghost.

I built a home for the wrong woman instead.

The one who makes my coffee with two sugars even though I told her once, five years ago, that I only take one.

The one who just found out I married her because she looked like the woman who got my father killed.

I did not go after her.

I stood at the window for seventeen minutes. Counted them. Cebu at 3:11 AM. Empty. Quiet. Like the city knew better than to interrupt a man watching his marriage fall apart in real time. The gala was still going three floors down. I could hear Clair de Lune every time the elevator doors opened. Her mother's favorite song, Marco said. Once. Two years ago. When he thought I was not listening.

I always listen.

My phone was heavy in my hand. The screen was still on. Her name. Celine. Not Wife. Not Contract. Just Celine. The way I saved it the night she moved in and refused to let the housekeeper unpack her books. I will do it myself, Alastair. They are mine.

You okay?

I typed it before I could stop myself. Before the CEO in me could veto it. Before the son who buried his father could remind me that okay was irrelevant. We were Montemayors. We did not do okay. We did profitable. We did controlled. We did part two of the deal.

Not Where are you. Not What did Ernesto say. Not Did you get the key so we can find Celina.

You okay?

Weak.

Human.

Three dots appeared. I stopped breathing.

Then:

Yeah. I am coming home. We need to talk. About Box 045. And about part two of the deal. And about us. If there is an us.

If there is an us.

I read it four times. The if was a knife. The us was worse. Because there had never been an us. There was me. There was the contract. There was the girl I was punishing for a crime she did not commit.

And now she was coming home. Not to the penthouse. Not to the gala. To home. To me.

I typed back before I could talk myself out of it:

I will be in the office. Not the gala. Bring coffee. Two sugars. And bring the truth.

Two sugars. Because I had been drinking it that way for three years and never told her why I switched. Because the first morning after our wedding, she made it with one sugar and I drank it without complaint. And the next morning, there were two. She did not ask. She just noticed. She just adjusted.

Celina never adjusted. Celina expected the world to adjust to her.

Celina Santos.

The woman who had Celine’s face and none of her patience. The woman who sat across from me five years ago in this same office, smiled with Celine’s mouth, and said, I love you, Alastair. I have always loved you. Marry me, and I will fix everything.

Everything she broke.

She took half a billion from the Children's Hope Foundation. From the children's wing my father built after my mother died of leukemia when I was twelve. She said it was for a new MRI machine. For kids like her. Orphaned, sick, forgotten. She cried when she said it. Perfect tears. Rehearsed. My father signed the check himself. He believed her. He believed that face. He believed that because she looked like the granddaughter he never had, she must be good.

A week later, he was dead. Heart attack at 52. No history. No warning. No cholesterol. No reason. Just gone. On the floor of his study. With the foundation’s audit report in his hand. The one that said the money was gone.

And she was gone too. With the money. With my trust. With the last piece of me that believed contracts were just for business.

So I wrote one. A marriage contract. With rules. With penalties. With a wife who looked like the enemy, so I would never forget what the enemy cost me.

Celine Reyes.

Ernesto’s daughter. The price of his debt. Seven million pesos he borrowed from me to keep his company afloat after Celina vanished. The price of my revenge. The price of my inability to let go.

Except she was not a price.

She was just a girl who hated coriander. Who slept on the left side of the bed even when I was in Singapore for two weeks. Who left the bathroom light on because she was scared of the dark, but would rather not admit it. Who looked at me like I was a quarterly report she could not balance, not a man she was supposed to love.

Who just walked out of my office after I told her, in so many words, that I married her because I was too much of a coward to bury my father without someone to blame.

The VIP elevator dinged. 3:28 AM.

I did not turn around.

Coward. Again.

I heard the click of her heels on marble. Then nothing. She had taken them off. Like she always did when she came to my office late. The floors are too expensive to scuff, Alastair. And my feet hurt. She said it once. Joking. Half joking. But she still did it. Every time. Because she respected things. Things I bought. Things I owned. Things I never thanked her for respecting.

The smell of coffee hit me first. Then her. Not my cologne. Something lighter. Vanilla. And soap. And rain. She smelled like St. Luke’s. Like hospitals and secrets and a father who finally told the truth.

She set the cup on my desk. Two sugars. Steam curling up in the cold air. The office was 18 degrees. I kept it that way. She always wore a cardigan when she came here. Today, she was not wearing one.

I am not her, she said. No hello. No preamble. Just that. Like she had been carrying the sentence in her throat for two years. Like she was finally allowed to set it down.

I turned.

She was still in the dress from the gala. Black. Simple. Boat neck. Not the red one our stylist, Ms. De Leon, picked. The one that said look at me. This one said do not. She must have changed in the car. Her hair was down. No makeup. Eyes red. But not from crying. From not crying. From holding it in the way I taught her. By example. By being the worst kind of husband.

I know, I said.

That stopped her. She had expected a fight. She got one every time we talked about May 14. About the contract. About why I was cold. Why the bedroom doors stayed locked. Why I never touched her unless it was for the cameras at a charity event. Why I kissed her temple for the magazine but could not look her in the eye at breakfast.

She did not expect I know.

Since when, she asked. Her voice was low. Careful. Like she was walking into a room she had been locked out of for five years. Like she was expecting me to slam the door.

Since always. I picked up the coffee. It was perfect. 71 degrees Celsius. Hot enough to burn a normal tongue. Sweet enough to lie to myself. She knew how I liked it now. Not how I said I liked it. I knew you were not her the second you said I do. Celina never said I do like that. Like it was a sentence. Like it was a punishment you had already accepted. She said it like a prize. Like she had won. Like I was the trophy. You said it like you were signing your own arrest warrant.

Then why.

Because you were safer with me than with him. I cut her off. Because if I did not, I would say something else. Something worse. Something like because the first time I saw you, you were crying at your mother’s funeral and you still gave your umbrella to a stranger. Ernesto was drowning. In debt. In guilt. In Celina. She was circling. If I had not married you, she would have come back. Or someone like her. Or worse. The board wanted a Montemayor bride. They wanted access to the foundation. They wanted compliance. They wanted a wife they could control. I gave them a name. Yours. And I kept you here. In this penthouse. On this floor. Where I could see you. Where the cameras could see you. Where I could make sure you did not disappear like the others.

The others. She went still. The way she did when she was doing math. When she was realizing the problem was bigger than she thought.

I set the coffee down. Too hot. Too honest. My hand was shaking. I hid it by clasping them behind my back. CEO posture. There were girls. Before you. After my father died. Girls with your face. Your name. Your birthdate, sometimes. Sent by people who thought I was stupid enough to marry a memory twice. Investors. Board members. Men who lost money when Celina ran. They thought if they gave me a new Celina, I would sign whatever they wanted. I sent them away. All of them. Had my legal team verify every birth certificate, every school record. Until your father offered you. The real Celine Reyes. With records I could not fake. With a father in debt and no way out. With a mother’s funeral I attended. You were the first one I could not prove was fake. The first one who looked at me like I was the problem, not the solution.

Because I am not, she said. Quiet. But not soft. Steel. A problem. Or a solution. I am not.

Because you are not. I looked at her then. Really looked. Not at the ghost of Celina. Not at the debt. Not at the contract. At the woman who had been living in my house for two years. Who ate sinigang at my table and complained it needed more sampalok. Who slept in my bed. Her side, always hers, with a book on the nightstand I was never allowed to touch. Who told our housekeeper, Manang Lourdes, to stop calling her Ma’am when I was not home. Celine lang, Manang. I am not your boss. You are worse. You are real.

She flinched. But she did not step back. Not this time. The last time we had this conversation, six months ago, she flinched and left. And did not speak to me for three days. You hate me.

I did. I stepped around the desk. Not to crowd her. To close the distance I had put between us with part two of the deal and locked doors and two years of silence. I hated that you looked like her. I hated that you did not sound like her. I hated that you made coffee the way I liked it and not the way she did. I hated that you were innocent. Because innocent meant I had no one to punish. And I wanted someone to punish, Celine. For five years. For my father. For the money. For the fact that I believed a face. God, I wanted it so bad I could taste it. Every time I looked at you.

And now. Her eyes were on mine. Not the floor. Not my tie. Me.

Now I am looking at you and I do not see her. The truth was hard. It burned coming up. I see the girl who told Marco to drive safe in the rain last week. I see the girl who left the gala at 1 AM to see a father who lied to her for five years. I see the girl who came back. With coffee. And truth. And a key I did not know existed. I see the girl who chooses the left side of the bed because she said, and I quote, the right side is too close to the door and I do not like feeling like I need to run.

She blinked. You heard that.

You talk in your sleep. I almost smiled. Did not. Not yet. Box 045.

My inheritance, she said. Her hand went to her purse. I saw the outline. Brass. For C. For the things we share. From my Lola Celing. Letters. Land titles in Busay. Nothing she could sell. Nothing Celina could steal. Mama told me about it before she died. Said Lola left it for me. Not for the family. For me.

She tried, I said. It was not a question. Celina took everything else. The foundation money. My father's trust. My ability to believe in coincidences.

She failed. Celine’s chin lifted. There it was. The spine I had seen in glimpses. In boardrooms when she corrected my CFO’s math. In galas when she told Governor Yu his joke was not funny. In the way she told Manang Lourdes, Celine lang. I am not her, Alastair. I am not bait. I am not a debt. I am not a ghost. I am not part two of the deal.

No, I said. The word was out before I could dress it up in corporate speak. You are my wife.

The word hung there. Not a contract term. Not a legal definition. Not The Wife from part two of the deal. Just wife. New. Terrifying. Like saying I love you in a language I never learned.

Am I. She took a step back. Hit my desk. The same way she had three hours ago when I told her to get out. But this time, her hands were flat on the wood. Claiming it. Not trapped by it. Because wives get honesty, Alastair. Wives get choices. Wives do not get locked out of bedrooms and locked into deals with part two of the deal. Wives do not get called assets.

Part two of the deal. The one I wrote at 2 AM with whiskey and rage. The Wife will not ask about anything that happened before May 14, 2021. I wrote it to keep her from asking about Celina. About the girl I was really hunting. About why I flinched every May 14.

Part two of the deal is gone, I said.

Her eyes narrowed. CEO to CEO now. Since when.

Since you walked out. I reached into my drawer. The one I never let her open. Pulled out the contract. Our marriage contract. 47 pages. Printed on Montemayor letterhead. My signature on every page, angry, sharp. Hers on the last, small, resigned. I set it on the desk between us. Picked up my pen. The one my father gave me when I made partner. And drew a line through part two of the deal. Black ink. One line. Final. Since I realized I would rather have you asking questions than have you gone. Since I realized I would rather fight with you than have peace without you.

She stared at the line. The ink was still wet. You cannot just.

I can. I am the CEO. I am the husband. It was a joke. A bad one. A defense mechanism. It did not land. Her face did not change. Celine. I married you to catch her. I kept you to punish her. But somewhere between the coffee and the coriander and the left side of the bed and you telling Manang to call you Celine, I started keeping you for you. And I do not know how to do that. I do not know how to be married to someone I did not buy. To someone who is not for sale. To someone who looks at me like I am the problem and might still stay anyway.

Then learn. She pushed off the desk. Not running. Advancing. One step. Two. Until she was in my space. Until I could smell vanilla and rain and hospital disinfectant. Until I could see the gold flecks in her eyes. My father's eyes. Not Celina's. Never Celina's. Celina's eyes were cold. Celine's were warm. Even when she was angry. Especially when she was angry. Because I am not going back in that box, Alastair. I am not your bait. I am not your revenge. I am not your penance. If you want me, you want me. No rules. No ghosts. No Celina. No assets. Just me.

She was close now. Close enough that I could see a freckle on her collarbone I had never noticed. Because I never let myself look. Because looking was against the deal. Against the rules. Against the wall I built.

I do not know how, I admitted. The first honest thing I had said to her in two years without a legal team present. I know how to be ruthless. I know how to be dominant. I know how to make people pay. I know how to sign deals. I know how to win. I do not know how to.

Love, she finished. The word was a weapon. She held it out. Not to stab. To offer. To see if I would take it. If I would bleed for it.

Yes. The word tasted like blood. Like whiskey. Like truth at 3 AM. I do not know how to love someone I was not supposed to keep. I do not know how to love someone I married for the wrong reasons. I do not know how to love someone who deserves better than part three of the deal.

Part three of the deal: No love.

Then we start with coffee, she said. And picked up the cup from my desk. The one she brought. Held it out to me. Two sugars. Steam gone. Lukewarm now. Honest. Real. Not performance. And truth. And you telling me why your father really died. Because Ernesto said it was not a heart attack. He said it was a warning. From the board. From the men who used Children's Hope to find girls. To replace girls.

The board.

My father found out. In May 2021. He was going to expose them. He had a meeting with NBI. He had files. He had names. Governor Yu. Judge Acosta. Three board members.

And then he died. In his study. With the files missing.

Later, I said. Took the coffee. Our fingers brushed. Not an accident. Not part of the deal. Just skin. Warm. Real. Her hands were cold. From the hospital. From the rain. First, we go to Box 045. Together. Tomorrow. No more secrets. No more Celina. No more board members. Just us. You and me. And whatever is in that box.

Us. She tested the word. Like it was new. Like it was a stock she was not sure would rise. If there is an us, Alastair.

There is, I said. And meant it. For the first time since I said I do and meant I will destroy you. If you want it. If you can stand being married to a man who has been wrong for two years. If you can stand being married to a man who is learning.

She did not answer with words.

She just took the contract. The one with part two of the deal crossed out in black ink. Folded it. Once. Twice. Three times. Until it was small enough to fit in her palm. And put it in her purse. Next to the brass key. For C. For the things we share. Next to Mama’s rosary. The one Marco gave her.

Drive safe, she said. Then paused. The roads are wet.

She remembered.

The bike accident. When I was ten. My father was driving. It was raining. I told her about it once. Drunk. After a gala. When I thought she was asleep.

I remembered.

Always do, I said. My voice was rough. From disuse. From honesty. When you are waiting.

She smiled. Small. Real. Not for the cameras at the gala. Not for the magazine. Not for the board. For me. Just me.

Then I will always wait, she said.

And walked out.

But this time, she left the door open.