Until The Ink Fades

The silence in the penthouse was the kind that clung to you skin. It was too pristine, like everything else in Rafael Alariz Vega's world. Cold marble floors. Minimalist furnishings. An entire wall of glass overlooking the Manila skyline, where the city sparkled like a lie someone kept telling themselves just to survive. I sat on the edge of the L-shaped sofa, legs curled beneath me, a mug of chamomile tea nestled between my palms. I hadn't taken a sip. It was cold by now. The kind of cold that seeped into your chest when you realize you didn't know whether you were coming home or just staying out of obligation. Eleven months. That's how long it had been since I married Rafael. Not fell in love with. Not learned to trust. Just married. On paper, at least. And if there was ever a paper i regretes signing, it was that one. Except, not entirely I started at the wedding contract sitting in a thin, brushed steel frame on the end table. Most people framed diplomas, wedding photos, love letters. I framed the deal that had saved my father's firm. Clause 7: No emotional entanglements Clause 9: One year duration Clause 11: Automatic annulment on the 12th month, no contest. Twenty nine days left. Twenty nine days until i stopped being Mrs. Vega and returned to being just Samira Navarro, a daughter of a once bankrupt architect, wife in name only to a man who barely spoke unless it was about a board meeting or a calendar event. I had told myself this was temporary. Just one year. We didn't even have to pretend in public. The only people who knew were our parents, our lawyers and few executives at Vega Corp who needed to sign off on the merger. I heard the sound of the door open down the hallway. Then foot steps. Light, controlled. Always the same pace. Rafael never stormed. Always knew where he was going, and that he'd get there with or without you. My spine straightened, like it always did when he was near. He stepped into the living room, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone. His dark hair was damp, probably from a late night shower, and his expression unreadable as ever. “You’re still up,” he said. His voice was deep, smooth, and annoyingly calm. I shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.” Rafael glanced at the untouched tea, then walked past me to pour himself a glass of scotch. He always drank the same thing nothing sweet, nothing complicated. Just sharp, clean burn. Like him. He didn’t sit. He stood near the glass wall, looking out at the city with a kind of detachment that made it hard to believe he’d grown up here. Or maybe that’s why he looked at it that way like Manila was something he had outgrown. “I thought you had the investor call with Tokyo tomorrow,” I said. “I do.” “You should sleep.” “So should you.” Silence. Again. Always. I wanted to ask him something—anything—that would break this fragile, terrible distance between us. But I didn’t. Because that wasn’t part of the contract. And because every time I tried to get closer, I felt him pull back like a tide I couldn’t predict. He looked at me then, and for a second just a second, I thought I saw something in his eyes. Not warmth, not affection, but something softer than indifference. Like he was trying to remember who I was beneath all this silence. “How was work?” he asked. That startled me. Not because it was the first time he’d asked. But because it was the first time in weeks he’d asked and actually waited for an answer. “I submitted a proposal today,” I said slowly. “Low cost housing project for the Marikina site. I think it might get approved.” He nodded. “That’s good.” I swallowed, my throat tight. “You know, you don’t have to make conversation with me just because the countdown’s started.” He didn’t react. “The contract’s almost over,” I added, a bitter laugh slipping out before I could stop it. “We did it. One year. No drama. No headlines.” Rafael turned toward me then, glass in hand, eyes shadowed. “Is that how you see it?” “I mean… wasn’t that the point?” He stared at me for a long moment. Then, softly, “Was it just a contract for you?” The question hit me harder than I expected. It shouldn’t have. It wasn’t like I hadn’t asked myself the same thing every night for the past three months. Ever since I caught myself watching him across the kitchen counter. Ever since I started noticing the way he loosened his tie first with his left hand, or how he always picked the corner booth when we had to be seen together. Like he hated being looked at, even by me. “I don’t know what it is anymore,” I admitted. A pause. Then, almost too quiet to hear, he said, “Me neither.” That scared me more than anything. Because Rafael wasn’t the type to say things without purpose. Every word was calculated. Every emotion kept in check. If he was saying this now, it meant something had changed—and I didn’t know whether to run from it or hold on. I set down the mug, suddenly needing space. “I’m going to bed.” “Samira.” I stopped mid-step. He rarely said my name. And when he did—it always felt like it meant something more than he was willing to explain. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. “I found a clause,” I said quietly. “In the original contract. One I didn’t sign.” Silence. “It wasn’t in the version I reviewed,” I continued. “It talks about... additional obligations. Financial ones. From your side. My father’s firm. A hidden transfer.” Still no response. And there it was—confirmation. “I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Why would you add something like that without telling me? Why pretend this marriage was just business if you were... if you were trying to help?” I finally turned, but Théo had already looked away. His jaw was tight. His grip on the glass white knuckled. “You weren’t supposed to find that,” he said. “Obviously.” He set the glass down on the marble counter, then faced me fully. For once, he looked almost... human. Tired. Like the mask had slipped. “I did it because your father was drowning. And because you were willing to marry a stranger to save him. That was... brave.” I blinked. “You think that was brave?” “I think it was the kind of decision most people never have to make.” I didn’t know what to say to that. “So what now?” I asked. “I don’t know.” We stood there, oceans apart in the middle of a penthouse with too much space and not enough warmth. “When this ends,” I said quietly, “will you even remember my name?” He didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he crossed the space between us in three careful steps and stopped inches from me. He raised a hand, hesitating, before tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek. Just barely. “Samira,” he said. Soft. Like it hurt to say. Like he didn’t want to forget. And in that moment, I hated him for making me hope. Hated myself more for letting it bloom. Because some part of me, stupid.