Chapter 19
1383 Words
The board’s silence spoke volumes.
In a tense, high-stakes game like this, a lack of immediate response meant one thing: they were scrambling, trying to cobble together a strategy that would allow them to regain their footing without revealing the extent of their concern. When individuals in positions like theirs go quiet, it’s rarely a sign of tranquility; it’s a prelude to intrigue and scheming. They’re figuring out how to counter me without appearing vulnerable, desperate to mask the fact that I’d already managed to place them in a precarious position.
So, I gave them until Wednesday to respond.
Following that deadline, I sent a follow-up message. It carried no tones of agitation or pleading; rather, it was marked by an undeniable firmness. Through my experiences, I have learned an important lesson: silence can be a powerful form of communication. And when this silence emanates from men who mistakenly think they still wield control, the best way to respond is to speak louder, armed with unassailable data, a steady hand, and an unwavering composure.
That evening, Rafael didn’t call. Instead, he simply appeared at my door, a quiet presence that felt like an unspoken promise. He had his coat casually draped over one shoulder and a steaming bowl of arroz caldo cradled in his hands, as if he was all too aware that my appetite had fled in the wake of rising tension.
He wordlessly stepped inside, a gesture of familiarity rather than an invitation. He placed the food on my table and sank onto the couch beside me, the warmth between us palpable despite the invisible barrier hanging over our heads.
“Thanks,” I murmured, my voice softer than I intended.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, with a hint of warmth in his tone, yet his demeanor remained cautious.
“Any word from them?” I asked, eager for news.
“Nope,” he replied, the lack of communication evident in his eyes.
“Good,” he continued, the corners of his lips curling into a faint smile. “That means they’re worried.”
A short laugh escaped me, tinged with irony. “I should feel proud, I suppose.”
“You should feel dangerous,” he said, a compliment layered with something heavier.
A tension filled the space between us, like a palpable third entity threatening to tip the balance of our connection. I couldn’t ignore it.
“What aren’t you saying?”
He held my gaze for what felt like an eternity—a beat laden with unspoken decisions. Finally, he broke the silence. “My father called.”
In an instant, my stomach sank, the weight of the revelation crashing down on me like a cold wave.
The Sarmiento patriarch was not a man known for his warmth or kindness. The last memory I had of him was a gala four years ago, where my careless comment about a senator’s wife’s outdated hairstyle had drawn his disdainful gaze; the kind reserved for someone who was no more than a fleeting annoyance amidst political empires.
If he were calling now, I would know it wasn’t to celebrate or extend congratulations on any milestone.
“He doesn’t like the press,” Rafael continued, leaning forward. His elbows rested on his knees, and I could see the worry etched across his face. “He says the scandal is becoming a liability to our joint ventures.”
“Our?” I echoed, a sense of incredulity flooding my system.
He nodded slowly. “Sarmiento-Villarosa is still a partnership, Z.”
“But I’m not just a public relations risk, Rafael,” I countered, sitting up straighter, determination flooding my voice. I’m your partner in this endeavor. In every sense. Not just on the business side, but in this battle, too.”
He fell silent, and that silence spoke volumes, too.
“You agree with him,” I whispered, my heart sinking under the weight of the unspoken confession. “Even just a little.”
His expression shifted as his eyes locked onto mine, filled with surprise. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
After Rafael left that night, I stood by my window, watching the city pulse with energy below, the streets alive with humanity, as if nothing at all had shifted.
But everything had changed.
Because sometimes, the ones who claim to stand beside you still falter when confronted with the flames you ignite.
And Rafael?
He was hesitating—not because he wished to leave, but because he was hesitating to choose.
—
The next morning, I rose early, the ominous weight of my thoughts clinging to me. My phone revealed two missed calls from Blaire and one from Kyla, the latter’s voicemail urgent and laced with anxiety.
“Zyra, heads-up—there’s a private board meeting happening today. You’re not invited.”
I stared blankly at the wall for a full minute, my mind scrambling to comprehend the audacity of their move.
Not invited?
Were they playing that card?
Frustration simmered within me as I opened my laptop and dialed Blaire’s number.
“We need to leak something,” I asserted, urgency threading through my voice.
She sighed heavily. “Say no more. What flavor are we talking about?”
“Proof that the foundation’s funding model was built on my strategy. Without me guiding their direction, their numbers are bound to plummet.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Oh, and Blaire?” I added a fierce determination blooming in my chest. “Let’s make sure it circles right back to the Sarmientos.”
She let out a low whistle. “We're going for blood now?”
“No,” I corrected firmly. “I’m going for the truth. "If it bleeds, that’s on them.”
—
That afternoon, when Rafael’s name flashed across my phone, I hesitated, letting it ring twice before picking up on the third.
“Zyra,” he began, his voice cautious yet earnest. “I had no idea about the meeting.”
“Okay,” I replied curtly.
“I truly mean it,” he insisted.
“Do you?” I questioned, frustration bubbling up. “Because it’s starting to feel like you only mean it when it’s convenient for you.”
He fell silent again, and I resolved not to let him fill that silence.
“You can’t keep one foot in both worlds, Rafael. Not forever.”
“I know,” he said, the heaviness of his response hanging in the air.
“So make your choice.”
The pause that followed was thick with unspoken words.
“I’m trying,” he murmured finally.
“Try faster.”
Before he could offer more, I hung up, not out of a desire to silence him but because I craved the truth he held too tightly.
Too many emotions were roiling within me, and right now, I cannot afford any vulnerabilities—not when sharp knives were being drawn behind closed doors.
By evening, my leak had gained traction. A respected finance blog featured the eye-catching headline: “Villarosa Vision: How the Pregnant Heiress Outperformed Three Male Predecessors.”
It was bold, impactful, and timed to perfection.
The ripple effect? It worked.
By 7:40 PM, an email pinged into my inbox, its arrival almost electric.
From: Executive Board
Subject: Re: Internal Concerns and Representation
“Ms. Villarosa, we acknowledge the recent media attention and understand the necessity of a meeting to clarify and reestablish alignment moving forward. Please join us for a closed-door discussion tomorrow at 10:00 AM. Full attendance required.”
A satisfied smile spread across my lips as I read the words. They weren't ready to give up on me, and now they were aware of that reality.
But still, as I settled in my low-lit apartment, hands cradling my stomach protectively, one question loomed large in my mind:
Would Rafael be present at that meeting tomorrow?
Not merely by my side at the table, but truly with me—in truth, in heart, in choice.
Because love in private is uncomplicated, straightforward.
But love that intertwines with power?
That’s the kind that draws blood.
And I needed to know if he was willing to bleed alongside me or simply observe from the sidelines.
- Writer
