Ruthless Whispers: Broken Vows

Chapter 9: The List

“Celine Reyes?”

The voice said my name like it had been holding it in its mouth for five years. Like it was afraid to let it out. Like saying it would make me real. Like saying it would make the sin real.

And I was real.

Too real.

Real enough to be on a list.

Real enough to be sold.

Real enough to be silenced.

Real enough to burn the whole thing down.

I did not answer.

Not yet.

The house in Mabolo was quiet. The kind of quiet that listens. The kind of quiet that remembers. The kaldero was cold against my leg. The audit file was open on the wooden floor, pages spread like a wound. The phone was hot against my ear, the plastic sweating from my palm.

“Celine,” the voice said again. Older now. Softer. Worn at the edges, like paper left in the rain. “This is Senator Alcaraz. You called me. Or I called you. Does it matter? We are here now.”

It mattered.

Everything mattered.

Every lie. Every name. Every girl.

“Why,” I said.

One word.

The same word Alastair did not answer in the bank.

The same word that made him turn around.

The same word that made him walk away from me and toward his own silence.

The same word that was now mine to ask, and someone else’s to answer.

“Because you deserve to know,” Senator Alcaraz said. His voice did not shake. It should have. “And because if I do not tell you, someone else will. And they will lie. They will tell you half. They will tell you the part that makes them clean. I am not clean, Celine. I have not been clean since May 13.”

“Everyone lies,” I said. My throat was dry. My tongue tasted like metal. Like blood. “You. Alastair. Celina. The whole board. You all lie. You all sign. You all smile for cameras.”

“Yes,” he said.

No denial.

No excuse.

No speech about the greater good.

Just yes.

The same yes Alastair gave me in the bank lobby, with the BPI cameras watching and Celina’s pearls gleaming and my whole life splitting in two.

But this yes felt different.

Alastair’s yes was a wall. Cement. Cold. Built to keep me out. Built to keep him safe inside his own guilt.

This yes was a door.

Rusted. Heavy. Dangerous.

A door I did not know if I wanted to open.

A door I did not know if I could close again once it was open.

“You are in Lola Celing’s house,” he said.

It was not a question.

It was not a guess.

It was a fact, delivered like a fact from a man who had spent five years watching.

My blood went cold.

My hands went colder.

“How do you know that.”

“Because I had it watched,” he said. “For five years. Since the day your father died. Since the day your name went active on The List. I had men in Mabolo. On your street. In the carinderia across from the blue gate. I paid them to watch. To report. To make sure you were safe. To make sure no one took you before you were ready.”

“Ready for what,” I said. My voice was shaking now. Not from fear. From galit. From five years of being watched and not knowing. From five years of thinking I was alone. “Ready to be sold. Ready to be married off. Ready to be yes. Ready to be thank you, sir. Ready to be I do to a man who bought me.”

“Ready to fight,” he said.

The line was silent for three seconds.

I counted them.

One.

Two.

Three.

In that silence, I heard the house. The creak of the wood. The drip of the faucet Lola never fixed. The ghost of her slippers on the floor.

Then he said, “Are you alone, Celine.”

“No,” I lied.

The lie came fast.

The lie came easy.

The lie came from the same place the yes came from.

“Good,” he said. “Lie. Always lie. To men like me. To men like them. To men who put girls on lists. The truth is a bullet, Celine. You only use it when you are ready to kill. And you are not ready. Not yet.”

“What is The List,” I said.

He exhaled.

The sound was long.

The sound was tired.

Like the question hurt him.

Like he had been waiting five years to be asked.

And five years to not answer.

Like the question was a knife he had been holding by the blade.

“The List,” he said, “is the Celina Santos Foundation’s greatest sin. And its greatest asset. It is the reason the foundation exists. It is the reason it has money. It is the reason it has power. It is the reason men like me sleep in houses with guards.”

“Explain,” I said.

“Twelve years ago,” he said. “The foundation was built. Publicly, it was for scholarships. For orphans. For girls who had no one. For girls who needed school, books, uniforms, a chance. There were ribbon cuttings. There were photos. There were politicians clapping. I clapped.”

“I saw the photos,” I said.

“Privately,” he said, “it was for selection. It was for inventory. It was for cataloging. It was for building a database of girls who could be used.”

“Used for what.”

“For the board,” he said. “For men who wanted wives who were young. Obedient. Beautiful. Grateful. For men who wanted to build dynasties with clean blood. No scandals. No past. No family that could talk. No mothers who would ask questions. No fathers who would ask for money. No brothers who would come with knives.”

I closed my eyes.

Lola’s kitchen was dark.

But I saw red.

Red like sampalok on white rice.

Red like the envelope Lola threw.

Red like the ink on page two.

“The girls,” I said.

“From poor families,” he said. “All over Cebu. Bohol. Leyte. Samar. Girls with no fathers, or fathers who owed money to the wrong people. Girls with mothers who were sick. Girls with debts. Girls with Montemayor eyes. Because the board believed in bloodlines. They believed Montemayor blood was strong. Smart. Loyal. Beautiful. They believed it was worth buying. They believed it was worth breeding. They wanted it in their houses. In their beds. In their children.”

“My father,” I said.

“Ernesto Reyes was not your biological father,” he said.

The floor dropped out from under me.

The wood was still there.

But I was falling.

“He was your protector,” he said. “Your real father died when you were born. Your mother died with him. Car accident. Or so the report said. Ernesto was a driver for the Montemayors. He was there. He pulled you from the car. You were two days old. He took you. Hid you. Put his name on your birth certificate. Took you out of the system. Took you off the board’s radar. For two years, it worked. You were gone. You were safe. You were a ghost.”

“Until May 13,” I said.

“Until May 13,” he said. “Five years ago. Ernesto was found. Someone talked. Someone always talks. He was given a choice. Give you up. Bring you to the foundation. Let them process you. Or die. He chose to die. He told them you were dead too. He burned your old house in Guadalupe. He made it look like an accident. Gas leak. Fire. He made sure there was a body. He saved you. Again.”

The kaldero was cold.

But my hands were burning.

My palms were burning.

My chest was burning.

“He died for me,” I said.

“He did,” he said. “And Lola Celing knew. She was there. She helped him. She buried him. Not in the cemetery. In the yard. Under the sampaguita. She told everyone it was her brother. She raised you. She kept you out of school for a year. She changed your last name back to Reyes. She told you to be quiet. To be small. To be no one. She prayed no one would look twice at a poor girl in Mabolo with a dead father and a dead mother and a dead future.”

“They did,” I said.

“Celina found you,” he said. “Three years ago. She was looking for a way out of her own deal. She was tired of being the foundation’s face. She was tired of being used. She knew about The List. She had access. She knew Alastair needed a wife. The board was pressuring him. He was thirty. No heir. No wife. Bad for business. She gave him you. Not your name. Your face. Your file. Your eyes. She said you were clean. You were of age. You were untouched. You were perfect. And she was right. You were perfect for his guilt.”

“Alastair knew,” I said.

“He knew you were on The List,” he said. “He had seen it. Years ago. When he was twenty-two. When his father made him sit in on a board meeting. When his father told him this is how we survive. He did not know Ernesto died for you. He did not know Ernesto was not your father. He thought your father sold you. Like the others. Like the girls whose fathers took the 50 thousand and signed. He thought he was saving you by marrying you. By paying Celina half a billion to disappear. By burning Part Two of the deal. By crossing out produce an heir within two years. He thought he was breaking the cycle. He thought he was different from his father. He thought he was different from me.”

“He was the cycle,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

Silence again.

This time it was mine.

This time I was the one holding the knife.

Then, “Why are you telling me this,” I said. “You are on the board. Your signature is on page two. Senator Alcaraz May 13 Approved 50M. You approved 50 million. You bought girls too. You bought me. Or you tried.”

“I did,” he said.

No shame.

No pride.

No politician’s voice.

Just a man’s voice.

Just fact.

“Then why,” I said.

“Because I am dying, Celine,” he said. “Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Six months. Maybe less. Maybe more if God is cruel. And I am tired of carrying coffins, Celine. I am tired of building them. I am tired of signing them. My daughter is twenty now. The same age you were when Ernesto died. The same age you were when you married Alastair. I look at her, and I see you. I see all of them. I see Box 001 to Box 047. And I cannot die with their names in my mouth. I cannot die with your name in my mouth. Not without trying to make it right.”

“What do you want from me,” I said.

“I want you to burn it,” he said. “The List. The foundation. The board. All of it. I have the original. Not the copy Alastair has. Not the copy Celina stole. The original. With photos. With birth certificates. With locations. With all 47 girls. Some are married now to governors. To mayors. To judges. Some are gone. Buried. Or worse. Some are still waiting. In houses. In provinces. In cages. Ages 2 to 17 when they were listed. Ages 7 to 22 now. I want you to take it. And I want you to decide.”

“Decide what.”

“Who lives,” he said. “And who pays. And how. Because I cannot. My hands are dirty, Celine. Yours are not. Not yet.”

My phone beeped.

Low battery.

One percent.

“Where,” I said.

“Lawis, Oslob,” he said. “My rest house. White. By the cliff. You will see the guard. Tell him you are for the sampaguita. He will let you in. Come alone. Tonight. Before he finds out. Before he sends Marco. Before he sends Alastair. Before he sends people who do not knock.”

“Who is he,” I said.

The line went dead.

Not hung up.

Cut.

Like someone pulled a wire.

Like someone was listening.

Like someone had been listening for five years.

I looked at my phone.

No signal.

Zero bars.

Black screen.

Then a text came through.

I did not know how.

No bars. No load. No reason.

But it came.

Unknown number.

No name.

One message.

Box 045. She is alive. Come. Now.

I stood.

The audit file in one hand.

The phone in the other.

The house was still dark.

But I was not.

I was fire now.

Awake.

Alive.

Lola Celing’s voice was in my head.

Not a memory.

A command.

“Ang asim hindi laging masama, anak. Minsan, yun ang maglilinis ng dugo. Minsan, yun ang magpapagising sayo. Minsan, yun ang magpapalaban sayo.”

My blood was clean now.

My eyes were open now.

And I was ready to fight now.

I walked to the door.

Opened it.

The night air hit me.

It smelled like rain.

Like sinigang.

Like soil.

Like war.

A car was parked across the street.

Black.

Tinted.

Engine running.

No plates.

No sound.

The window rolled down.

One inch.

A hand came out.

Not Marco’s hand.

A woman’s hand.

Old.

Wrinkled.

Wearing Lola Celing’s ring.

The ring we buried with her.

The ring that should be underground.

The hand was holding a photo.

It was me.

Age two.

In a white dress.

Sitting in a wooden box.

The box had a number burned into it.

Box 045.

The hand dropped the photo.

The car drove away.

No sound.

No lights.

No tracks on the wet road.

Just gone.

Like a ghost.

Like a warning.

Like a promise.

I picked up the photo.

The paper was old.

The edges were burned.

I turned it over.

On the back, in Alastair’s handwriting.

The same handwriting from the contract.

The same handwriting from “Do not call.”

Two words.

“I am sorry.”

Below it, in different ink.

Newer ink.

Lola Celing’s handwriting.

Three words.

“Burn it all.”