Chapter 4: A Glimpse of His Heart
1366 Words
It began with a knock.
Not the sharp, authoritative rap of Rafael’s usual rhythm. This one was softer—hesitant. I had just returned from the Vega Corp site visit, dust still on my heels and the sun still in my veins. I didn’t expect him to be home before midnight, much less knocking on my studio door.
I opened it to find him standing there, not in a suit, but in gray slacks and a plain black tee. His hair was slightly damp. No tie, no mask.
"Can I come in?" he asked, eyes flickering to the sketches littering my desk.
I stepped aside, unsure whether to feel suspicious or flattered. This room was my haven. He'd never set foot in it before.
He walked in slowly, hands in his pockets, gaze sweeping across my organized chaos—books stacked beside used coffee cups, pinned drafts curling at the edges, a miniature model in cardboard half-finished.
"You built that by hand?" he asked, pointing to the model.
"Yes. Cardboard and glue gun. Old habits die hard."
He studied it longer than necessary.
"Why the curved lines on the roof?"
"Because I want the community center to feel safe," I said. "No sharp edges. Something people can breathe in."
He looked at me then, something unreadable in his expression. "That’s... thoughtful."
A pause settled between us. Not awkward, just fragile.
"You didn’t come in here just to talk about roofs," I said.
He hesitated. "No. I didn’t."
He moved closer, stopping beside my drafting table. For a moment, I thought he’d reach for one of the papers. Instead, he looked at the photo taped to the wall above it—me and my father, smiling in front of my college thesis display. My father’s arm around my shoulder, pride lighting up his eyes.
"You’re close to him," Rafael murmured.
"I was," I said. "He’s different now. Since the business... since everything."
He didn’t answer, but I saw his jaw tighten slightly.
"Why did you agree to this marriage, Rafael?" I asked quietly.
His eyes snapped to mine.
"You never told me your reason. My family needed saving. But you... you had a choice."
A beat passed. Then another.
"I thought I could control it," he said finally. "Control the narrative. The business. The damage."
"And me?"
His throat bobbed. "You were a factor. Not a casualty."
It wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. But it wasn’t what I needed either.
Still, the fact that he was even here—talking—meant something.
I turned back to my desk. "You can look through the designs, if you want. I’m finalizing the Baguio retreat plan."
"The old vineyard lot?"
"Yes. I think it could be something beautiful."
He lingered beside me, close enough to feel but not touch.
"Baguio’s different this time of year," he said absently. "It’s quieter."
I looked at him. "You’ve been?"
He nodded. "Once. Years ago. With my mother. Before everything fell apart."
There was a stillness in his voice I hadn’t heard before. Something fragile.
"She loved orchids," he added. "There was this stall on the road to Camp John Hay... she used to buy the ugliest ones. Always said they just needed time."
I smiled despite myself. "I like that."
For the first time in weeks, he smiled back.
It was small. Faint. But real.
That night, I didn’t sleep. Not because I was hurt or confused or angry—but because I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at that photograph. The way his voice softened when he said her name.
He had a heart. Buried under spreadsheets and press releases, behind silent dinners and calculated touches. It was there.
And for a moment, he let me see it.
The next few days passed in gentle shifts. We didn’t suddenly become close. But something had changed.
Rafael started asking about my work without it sounding like an obligation. He brewed two cups of coffee in the morning instead of one. Sometimes, I’d find his jacket draped over the back of my chair in the studio, as if he’d stepped in to check on me.
One evening, I caught him reading one of my old sketchbooks. He looked up when he noticed me, but didn’t apologize.
"Your early work was... hopeful," he said. "Brighter."
"Life was brighter."
He didn’t argue.
Later, he placed the sketchbook back exactly where he found it. But I noticed his initials penciled faintly on one page’s margin. A mark. A trace.
That weekend, we drove to a Vega Corp site visit together. Normally, I would go alone. But he offered—quietly, almost unsure—and I said yes.
The drive was long, humid, and filled with passing silence. But not the usual kind. This one felt expectant.
"Do you always work this hard?" I asked halfway through.
"Work doesn’t disappoint."
"Neither does silence, right?"
He glanced at me. "Silence disappoints me all the time. I just don’t show it."
We arrived at the coastal property just before sunset. Workers greeted us, startled by Rafael’s presence. I saw how they straightened up, how their eyes lit with recognition and anxiety.
"You intimidate people," I whispered.
"That’s not intentional."
"Doesn’t mean it’s not real."
He said nothing.
But later, when I walked the lot with the engineers, I noticed Rafael taking time to speak with a foreman. Asking about the man’s family. Listening. His hands tucked in his pockets. No camera. No press.
On the drive home, I didn’t bring it up. But I think he knew I saw it.
That night, he knocked again.
"Dinner?" he asked.
"Are you asking me out?" I teased.
He almost smiled. "I’m asking you to eat the food we already paid for."
We ordered in and ate on the floor, the city lights blinking behind us. I told him stories about my college days, the time I accidentally submitted a draft with a coffee stain, the professor who encouraged me anyway.
He told me about building Vega Corp from the ashes. How he stayed up nights studying his father’s old deals. The betrayal. The fire.
"You never sleep, do you?" I asked.
"Sleep wastes time."
"But rest rebuilds you."
He looked at me then, really looked.
"I don’t know how to rest," he said.
I reached for my wine glass, fingers brushing his.
"Maybe I can teach you."
He didn’t move away.
Later that evening, as I walked toward the bedroom, he followed. For the first time, we entered it together.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t kiss. But we lay on opposite sides of the bed, both awake, both listening to the same silence.
And this time, it didn’t hurt.
It felt like beginning.
A glimpse of his heart.
Real. Quiet. True.
And dangerously close to hope.
The following morning, I woke before him.
Rafael lay still, his face turned slightly toward me, the harsh edges of his features softened by sleep. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to memorize the sight—this version of him I’d never seen before. Vulnerable. Peaceful. Human.
I slipped out of bed quietly, made coffee, and returned to my sketchpad. But I couldn’t draw. My mind was still tangled in the way his breathing had slowed beside me, how his hand had briefly brushed mine in the dark. Not an accident. Not a promise. But a start.
The truth was... I didn’t know what to do with this version of Rafael.
He was still guarded. Still closed off most days. But now, the silence between us didn’t feel empty. It felt full of possibility.
Maybe he wasn’t the villain I made him out to be. Maybe he was just another person trying to protect something fragile inside.
The real question was—
Could I reach that part of him before it slipped away again?
Because even glimpses fade. Even warmth can turn cold.
And I wasn’t sure how many more times I could let him in, only for him to shut the door again.
But for now—for this moment—I let myself believe.
Believe that maybe, just maybe...
We could be more than paper and ink.
- Writer
