Ruthless Whispers: Broken Vows

Chapter 4: The Price of a Wife

I didn't move.

His office was too quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when you find out your husband thinks you're someone else. The gala was three floors down. I could hear Clair de Lune bleeding through the floorboards. Mama's favorite. The same song Papa used to play when he was balancing the books at 2 AM.

"You knew," I said. My voice was steady. I was done shaking for Alastair Montemayor. "You knew I wasn't her when you married me."

His jaw ticked. Once. Twice. He did that when he was doing math in his head. When he was deciding if the truth was profitable. "I suspected."

"Since when?"

"Since you flinched when I called you Celine at the altar." He finally looked at me. And for once, there was no storm. No ice. Just something tired. Something almost human. "She never flinched. Celina loved her name. She said it was the only thing her mother gave her that my family couldn't buy."

Celina. Not Celine. Celina with an A.

The paperclip from the fund transfer was still in my fist. Seven million pesos. From Montemayor Realty to BPI Account No. 0045-XXXX-XX. Ernesto Reyes. May 14, 2021. The day before our wedding.

"So why go through with it?" I set the paperclip on his desk. Between us. Small. Silver. Sharp. "Why the contract? Why marry me if you thought I was her?"

The Wife shall not inquire into the Husband's dealings prior to May 14, 2021, nor shall she seek contact with any party involved in said dealings. Violation constitutes immediate forfeiture of all conjugal assets and dissolution of marriage.

I signed it thinking it was about ex-girlfriends. About scandals. About boardroom wars. I didn't know it was about a girl with my face and a different name.

"Because I needed your father to think I believed him." Alastair leaned back in his chair. His tie was loose. First time I'd seen him less than perfect. "Five years ago, a girl came to me. Your name. Your face. She said she was Celine Reyes. She wanted to marry me. She wanted access to the Children's Hope Foundation. My father said no. He didn’t trust her. A week later, he died. Heart attack. And she vanished. With half of the foundation’s operating fund."

He said it flat. Like a quarterly report. Like he’d cauterized the grief years ago.

"I'm sorry," I said. And I meant it. Whatever else was true, his father was dead. And he’d been carrying that for five years.

"Don't be." He stood. Walked to the window. Cebu glittered below us. Thirty-two floors of lights and lies. "I've spent five years looking for her. Celina Santos. Your cousin. And the only way to make her come out was to take the one thing Ernesto Reyes couldn’t afford to lose."

"Me."

"You." He didn't turn around. "You were the safest place to keep you. I thought if I married you, if I kept you close, she'd show up. To finish what she started. To take what's left."

So I was bait. But I was also... protected.

That’s the part I couldn’t figure out.

"Did you ever," I started, then stopped. I hated that I was asking. Hated that after everything, I still cared what the answer was. "Did you ever see me? Not her. Me. Celine. The one who hates coriander. The one who fixes your coffee with two sugars even though you say one. The one who sleeps on the left side of the bed even when you're not there."

Alastair went still. The city lights made his profile sharp. Like the man in the photo on his desk. The one before May 14. The one who knew how to smile.

Then: "Every day."

The word hit different when it wasn't an accusation.

Every day meant he noticed. The coffee. The coriander. The left side of the bed. Every day meant he was paying attention to the wrong Celine and memorizing her anyway. Every day meant I was losing a competition I didn’t know I entered, and winning one I didn’t ask for.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

St. Luke's. Room 412. He won't stop asking for you.

Marco. Papa's driver. The only one who still called me Celine instead of Ma’am.

I looked up at Alastair. "He's awake."

"I know." He took something from his drawer. A keycard. Black. No logo. Slid it across the desk to me. "VIP elevator. It'll take you straight to the garage. No press. No gala. No questions from people who think they know us."

I didn't touch it yet. "Why are you helping me?"

"I'm not." His eyes met mine. And they weren't empty. They were frustrated. Like I was a clause in his contract he couldn’t enforce. "I'm protecting my assets. You go to him, you ask him who Celina Santos really is. You find out why she used your name. And then you come back and tell me. Because I’m done chasing ghosts, Celine. I want answers. And you’re the only one who can get them without a subpoena."

He said my name like it was mine. Not hers. Not a placeholder.

"When I find out, what?" I picked up the keycard. It was warm from his hand.

"Then we renegotiate." He stepped closer. Just one step. Close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his eyes. Close enough that his cologne wasn't just cologne. It was him. Tam Dao. Wood and smoke and something expensive. "The contract. The rules.Everything. Because I'm starting to think I married the wrong woman for the right reasons."

Wrong woman. Right reasons.

My throat went dry.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. There was too much in the room. Five years of good morning and good night that weren't meant for me. Five years of him looking at me and seeing her. And now, maybe, five minutes of him seeing just me.

I walked out.

The gala was in full swing. I took the service stairs. Passed a waiter with a tray of champagne. He nodded at me. "Ma’am."

Not Mrs. Montemayor. Just Ma’am. Like I was a person before I was a wife.

St. Luke's, 2:47 AM

The hospital was quiet. Marco was waiting by the nurses' station. He looked older. But when he saw me, he smiled. Small. Real.

"She would want you to have this," he said. And handed me a rosary. Mama's. The beads were warm. Like someone had been holding them. Praying.

"Thanks, Kuya Marco."

Papa looked smaller in the bed. Tubes in his arms. Monitor beeping slow. 67 bpm. But his eyes opened when I sat down. And they were clear. No morphine fog. Just... Papa. Tired, but here.

"Celine," he rasped. "Anak."

"Hey, Pa." I took his hand. It was cold. "Alastair told me. About Celina."

He closed his eyes. Not in surprise. In relief. Like he’d been holding that name in his chest for five years. "So he finally told you. Good. I’m tired of secrets."

"Who is she?" I asked. "Why does she look like me?"

Papa was quiet for a long time. The monitor beeped. 67 bpm. Steady.

"She's your cousin," he said finally. "Your Tita Lina's daughter. From your mother's side. You met her once, when you were seven. At your Lola Celing's funeral. You probably don't remember. She was ten. You two looked like twins. Same eyes. Same smile. Even the same scar on your knee. You both fell off a bike on the same week, can you believe that?"

I didn’t remember. But the scar on my knee tingled. From when I was eight. Racing Marco's son down Gorordo Ave.

"Five years ago, she showed up," Papa continued. "She said she needed money. She said she knew Alastair was looking for a wife. She said she could pretend to be you. She had your birth certificate. Your school records. I don’t know how she got them. I said no. I told her to leave. But she..." He swallowed. "She went to Alastair anyway. Used your name. Your face. Said she was Celine Reyes. She wanted to marry into the family. She wanted access to the foundation money. For herself. Not for us. Never for us."

"And Alastair's father said no."

"Yes. And a week later, he died. And she vanished. With the foundation money. Half a billion." Papa squeezed my hand. "When Alastair came to me two years ago, asking for you... asking to marry you to pay my debt... I thought it was a test. I thought he knew. I thought he was trying to trap me. Or trap her. I didn't correct him. Because I was scared. Because I thought if I said 'that wasn't my daughter', I'd lose you too. To lawyers. To scandals. To his anger."

So not sold. Not swapped. Just... a lie that grew. A cousin who stole my name and my future husband, then ran.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" I asked. My voice didn’t shake. It was just tired. "Why let me marry him thinking he hated me for no reason?"

"Because I was a coward, anak." He looked so old. So like a man who’d been choosing between bad and worse for years. "And because every time I looked at him, I saw how he looked at you. Even when he was angry. Even when he thought you were her. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t hurt you. He just... watched. Like he was waiting for you to prove him wrong. I thought... maybe if I stayed quiet, you’d get the chance to do that. To be seen. The real you."

The monitor beeped. 67 bpm. Steady. Not flatlining. Just a man, telling the truth for the first time in five years.

"There's a key," Papa said. "In the drawer. For you. She left it here last year. Slipped it to a nurse. Said if you ever came looking, to give it to you. Said it was yours."

I opened the drawer. A pill bottle. And a key. Old. Brass. With a tag.

For C. For the things we share. 5-14-21.

"What's it for?"

"A safety deposit box. BPI. Cebu Division. Box 045." He patted my hand. "She said it was your Lola Celing's. Your inheritance. Jewelry. Land titles. Letters. She couldn’t sell it. It was in your name. She said you’d know what to do with it. She said 'tell her I’m sorry. For borrowing her life.'"

Not money. Not passports. Not secrets.

An inheritance.

From the grandmother I barely remembered.

I pocketed the key. "I'll go check it tomorrow, Pa. After I talk to Alastair."

"Tell him..." Papa's eyes were closing. Not dying. Just exhausted. "Tell him I’m sorry. For the mix-up. For the years. But I’m not sorry for you. You were never bait, Celine. You were never a debt. You were always the daughter I couldn’t protect any other way. And I think... I think he knows that now."

The monitor kept beeping. 67 bpm.

I kissed his forehead. "Rest, Pa. I’ll handle it. I’ll handle him."

Then my phone buzzed.

Alastair.

You okay?

Not Where are you? Not What did he say?

You okay?

I smiled. For real this time.

Yeah, I typed back. I’m coming home. We need to talk. About Box 045. And about Clause 2. And about us. If there is an us.

Three dots. Then:

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

He remembered. The coffee. The two sugars. The me.

The door to Room 412 opened.

Marco was there.

"Car’s ready, Ma’am," he said. Then caught himself. "Celine. Sorry. Old habits. Your husband cleared the VIP elevator. No press. No questions. He said..." Marco hesitated. "He said 'tell her to drive safe. The roads are wet.'"

He remembered the bike accident too.

I stood. Mama's rosary in one hand. Brass key in the other. Papa sleeping, not dying.

"Let's go," I said. "I have a contract to renegotiate. And a husband who might not hate me."