Ruthless Whispers: Broken Vows

Chapter 6: Part Three of the Deal

The door was open.

I left it that way.

On purpose.

Because for two years, I closed doors. Bedroom doors. Office doors. The door to my heart. Because doors kept me safe. Because doors meant Alastair Montemayor could not see how much I wanted him to stop looking at me like I was a clause he regretted signing.

But tonight, the door was open.

And I was done hiding.

I did not look back when I walked out of his office.

Because if I did, I would see him. Alastair. Standing there at 3:30 AM with my coffee in his hand and his whole face saying come back. And if I saw that, I would run back. And part three of the deal would mean nothing. And I was not ready for nothing. Not yet.

So I walked. Down the service stairs because the VIP elevator felt like a trap. Past the waiter who always called me Ma’am even when I told him Celine lang. Past the security guard who nodded at me like he knew. Like everyone knew. That the Montemayor marriage was just a contract with a bedroom we never used.

The air outside hit me. Cebu at almost 4 AM. Wet. From the rain I did not hear inside. From the storm I did not see coming when I said I do two years ago.

Marco was waiting. He always was.

He did not ask where to. He just opened the door. Handed me a bottle of water. A towel for my hair. And a small brown bag.

“From him,” Marco said.

Inside was a sandwich. From the cafe downstairs. Tuna. No coriander. With a note on a napkin.

Eat. Please. A.M.

I ate half. Could not finish. My throat was too tight.

“St. Luke’s or the penthouse, Ma’am,” Marco asked. Then stopped. Corrected himself. “Celine. Sorry. Old habits die hard.”

“Penthouse,” I said. My voice was gone. Used up from two hours of telling my father the truth and Alastair the truth and myself the truth. “But do not tell him I am home yet.”

Marco met my eyes in the rearview mirror. He was fifty. He had driven for the Montemayors since before I was born. He had seen things. He had kept secrets. “He already knows, Celine. He texted five minutes ago. Said to make sure you eat. Said there is sinigang in the fridge. No coriander. He made it himself.”

The sandwich fell from my hand.

“He made it,” I repeated.

Alastair Montemayor did not cook. He had chefs. He had nutritionists. He had a kitchen that cost more than my Papa’s house. But he did not cook.

Except tonight.

Except for me.

“Drive,” I said.

The city blurred. Jeeps. Lights. A man selling balut on Osmena Boulevard, yelling at 4 AM like the world was not ending. For him, it was not. For me, it was. And it was beginning. At the same time.

My phone buzzed.

Alastair.

No words. Just a photo.

The contract. On his desk. 47 pages. And part two of the deal crossed out. Black ink. Thick. Angry. Final. And under it, in his handwriting. The one I only saw on birthday cards he left on my vanity and never gave me in person.

Bring the truth tomorrow. I will bring the rest.

The rest.

What was the rest of Alastair Montemayor.

An apology.

A confession.

Or part three of the deal.

No love.

I locked my phone. Closed my eyes.

The Penthouse, 4:07 AM

Manang Lourdes was asleep on the couch. She was seventy. She should not be waiting for grown women with broken marriages. But there she was. With a blanket over her legs and the TV on mute.

There was a bowl of sinigang on the table. Covered in cling wrap. Condensation on the inside. Still warm. No coriander. Just sampalok and gabi and pork belly and hope. The way I liked it. The way I told her once, two years ago, when I first moved in and could not eat the truffle risotto Alastair’s chef made every night. Too fancy, Manang. I want to go home. I want what Mama used to make when Papa was still honest.

She made sinigang every time I came home with red eyes. Every time Alastair and I fought in silence. Every time I slept on the left side of the bed he slept in the guest room.

I did not wake her. I just touched her shoulder. Light. Grateful.

She stirred. Blinked. Saw me. And her whole face went soft. “He called, anak. Thirty minutes ago. Said you would be hungry. Said to heat the sinigang but not the rice. Said your throat would hurt from talking. He was right.”

Anak.

The first time she called me was six months into the marriage. I had a fever. 39 degrees. Alastair was in Singapore. I told her not to call him. I told her I was fine. She ignored me. Called him. He flew home with a red eye. Sat in a chair beside my bed for twelve hours. Did not touch me. Did not speak. Just made sure I was breathing.

When I woke up, he was gone. But Manang was there. And she said, “Anak, you are not alone here. Even if he does not know how to show it.”

I ate. Two bowls of sinigang. Because my throat did hurt. Because my heart did hurt. Because Alastair was right. He always was, in the most annoying way.

Then I went to our room. My room. His room. The room with a king bed and a line down the middle we never drew but always respected.

I took the left side. Always the left side. Because the right side was too close to the door. Too close to leaving. Too close to remembering that this was temporary. Two years. Part one of the deal.

We had six months left.

The contract was in my purse. I took it out. Unfolded it. The paper was crumpled now. From my hands. From my purse. From the weight of it.

47 pages. Part one of the deal. Two years. Part two of the deal. No questions about May 14. Crossed out. Black ink. Bleeding into the paper like it was angry it existed.

Part three of the deal.

No love.

Still there. Clean. Untouched. Waiting.

I picked up a pen. My pen. Pink. With a cat face on the cap. The one Alastair hated because it was not Mont Blanc. Because it was not serious. Because it was not the CEO. Because it was me.

I hovered over part three of the deal.

No love.

My hand was shaking. Not from fear. From want.

Because what if I crossed it out and he did not want me to. What if part three of the deal was the only thing keeping him safe. From me. From Celina. From the board. From himself. From the idea that he could want something that was not a transaction.

What if love was the one thing Alastair Montemayor could not afford.

He bought companies. He bought buildings. He bought me.

But he did not buy love.

He did not know how.

I set the pen down.

Not yet.

Truth first. Then coffee. Then maybe.

If there was a maybe.

I opened the drawer of the nightstand. My nightstand. The one he never opened. Not once in two years. Because it was mine. Because even Alastair had lines he would not cross.

Inside was the brass key. For C. For the things we share. 5-14-21.

May 14, 2021. The day before our wedding. The day Ernesto Reyes got seven million pesos from Montemayor Realty. The day I signed a contract thinking it was about business.

It was about ghosts.

Tomorrow, we will go to Box 045. Together.

Tomorrow, I will find out what my Lola Celing left me that Celina could not steal.

Tomorrow, I would find out if Alastair was telling the truth. About the board. About his father. About why part two of the deal existed in the first place.

Tomorrow, I would find out if there was an us.

If there was a reason to cross out part three of the deal.

I fell asleep with the contract on my chest. Part three of the deal is still intact.

And the door to the bedroom is open.

For the first time in two years.

BPI Cebu Division, 10:43 AM

I did not sleep much. Three hours. Maybe four. But I showered. I put on a dress. White. Simple. I did not do my hair. I did not wear makeup. If Alastair was going to see the truth in Box 045, he was going to see the truth in me too.

He was already there.

Standing outside the bank in a black suit and no tie. The first time I had seen him without one in public. Ever. His shirt was open at the collar. His hair was messy. Like he ran his hands through it all night. Like he did not sleep either.

He looked tired. He looked like a man who spent the night remembering how his wife smelled like rain and wondering if she would come back.

He did not smile when he saw me. Alastair Montemayor did not smile in public. It was bad for business. But his eyes did something. They softened. Just for a second. Just for me. Like the sun coming out after a typhoon.

“You came,” he said. His voice was rough. From disuse. From too much truth at 3 AM.

“You said bring the truth,” I said. Held up the key. My hand was steady. I was proud of that. “This is mine. So I am here.”

He nodded. Then he did something he never did.

He held the door open for me.

The safety deposit box room was cold. Smelled like metal and old paper and secrets. The manager was a woman in her forties. She looked at me, then at Alastair, then at her screen.

“Box 045,” she said. “You have both keys?”

I nodded.

She led us to the back. To a wall of boxes. Put in her key. Turned it. Looked at me.

I put in mine.

It clicked.

The sound was loud in the quiet room.

Inside was not money. Not jewelry. Not what Ernesto probably thought. Not what Celina would have wanted.

It was a box. Smaller. Wooden. Narra. Carved with roses. With my name on a small brass plate. Celine Reyes.

And a letter. On top. Sealed with wax. In my Lola Celing’s handwriting. The one I remembered from birthday cards when I was seven. Before she died. Before Mama died. Before Papa got into debt.

I opened it. My hands shook now. Alastair did not offer to help. He just stood closer. Not touching. Just there. Like a wall. Like a promise.

Para sa aking apo. Kung binabasa mo ito, ibig sabihin wala na ako. At ibig sabihin, ginamit nila ang pangalan mo. Gaya ng ginawa nila sa akin noon. Patawad. Hindi kita naprotektahan. Pero iniwan ko sa iyo ang tatlong bagay. Isa. Ang katotohanan tungkol sa pamilya mo. Dalawa. Ang lupa sa Busay na hindi nila pwedeng kunin. Tatlo. Ang karapatan mong pumili. Hindi para bayaran ang utang. Hindi para iligtas ang pangalan. Para sa sarili mo. Pumili ka, Celine. At kahit ano piliin mo, proud ako sa iyo. Mahal kita. Lola.

I could not breathe.

The air left my lungs like someone punched me.

Alastair was quiet beside me. He did not read over my shoulder. He did not ask what it said. He just stood there. Close. Not touching. Just present. Like he knew some truths had to be read alone first.

Inside the wooden box were three things.

One. A folder. Thick. Old. The edges yellow. Labeled in black marker. Montemayor Foundation Audit May 2021. The files his father had. The ones that went missing when he died. The ones that proved the board was using the foundation to move money. To buy girls. To replace them. With names like mine. With faces like mine. With contracts like mine.

Two. A land title. Busay. Two hectares. Overlooking the city. Under my name. Celine Reyes. Dated 2018. Before the marriage. Before the debt. Before Celina. Before Alastair thought I was her. It was mine. I was never bait. I was an heiress and did not know it.

Three. A photo. Old. Creased. Corners worn. Of my Lola Celing and a man. Young. Handsome. Smiling with his whole face.

My father, Ernesto.

And next to him, a man who looked exactly like Alastair. But older. Softer around the eyes. Kinder. No walls.

Alastair’s father.

At the back of the photo, in Lola’s handwriting. Blue ink. Faded.

1979. The year we almost fixed everything. The year we failed. Do not fail, Celine. Do not let them win.

I looked at Alastair.

He was looking at the photo. His face was white. Like all the blood had left. His hand came up. Like he wanted to touch it. Did not. Like it would burn.

“That is my father,” he said. Voice raw. Scraped. Like he had been screaming for hours. “With your grandfather.”

“No,” I said. My voice was not mine. It was Lola’s. It was Mama’s. It was every woman who came before me. “With my father.”

The truth hit us both at the same time.

Ernesto Reyes was not my father by blood.

He was my stepfather.

He married my Mama when I was three. After my real father died. In a car accident. When I was two. I did not remember him. Mama never talked about him. Ernesto was Papa. The only one I knew.

And the man in the photo with Lola Celing.

The man who looked like Alastair.

Was Alastair’s father.

Which meant.

“Your father,” I whispered. “He was...”

“Your grandfather,” Alastair finished.

The room went silent.

Because how do you love someone who might be your blood.

Because how do you love someone you married to avenge a man who was your family.

Because how do you love someone when the whole contract was built on a lie.

I dropped the photo.

It fluttered.

Alastair caught it. Before it hit the floor. Fast. Like he had been waiting his whole life to catch something of mine.

And then he caught me.

Because my knees gave out. Because the room spun. Because 24 years of my life just got rewritten in a bank vault.

“No,” he said. Against my hair. His voice was everywhere. His arms were everywhere. His smell was everywhere. Tam Dao and fear and something else. Something like home. “No. Do not do that. Do not fall. Not now. Not when we finally have the truth.”

“The truth,” I said. Laughing. Or crying. Or both. I could not tell. My face was wet. His shirt was wet. “The truth is we are...”

“We are nothing,” he said. Fierce. Angry. Not at me. At the world. In the photo. At the board. At his father for dying. At my Lola for dying. At everyone who made us this. “We are not blood, Celine. My father was not your grandfather. Look at the dates. Look at the letter. Your Lola was talking about your real father. The man she loved. The man in the photo is not him. That is my father. With Ernesto. In 1979. Before you were born. Before I was born. They were friends. Business partners. They tried to fix the foundation together. They tried to stop the board from using it to traffic girls. They failed. Your Lola is telling you not to fail. She is telling you to choose. She is not telling you we are related. She is telling you we are connected. By this. By them. By everything they could not do. By everything they died trying to do.”

He held up the audit file. His hand was shaking.

“Your Lola gave you the weapon, Celine. To finish what our fathers started. To burn the board down. To make sure no other girl has to sign a contract like ours. To make sure no other Celine has to marry an Alastair for the wrong reasons.”

I looked at him. Really looked. For the first time without the contract between us.

“Alastair,” I said.

“Celine,” he said.

“Take me home,” I said. “And then tell me everything.

He nodded. Once. Sharp. CEO nod.

And for the first time since I said I did two years ago, he took my hand.

Not for the cameras.

Not for the board.

Not for the contract.

For me.

His hand was warm. Mine was cold. He squeezed. Once. Like a promise.

And we walked out. Together.

The door to the vault closed behind us.

But the door between us.

That one stayed open.

Then we heard it.

From the bank lobby.

A voice. Female. Soft. Familiar.

Saying my name.

“Celine.”

We both froze.

Because it was not the manager.

It was not Manang.

It was her.

The woman from the photo Alastair thought was me five years ago.

The woman who took half a billion.

The woman who got his father killed.

Celina.

Standing by the door.

Alive.

And smiling at me like she knew me.

Like she owned me.