Chapter 2: The Contract.
1462 Words
Flashback – One Year Ago
The first time I saw Rafael Alariz Vega, he wasn’t wearing a suit.
He was standing at a balcony in Baguio, half in shadow, dressed in jeans and a black pullover, sipping barako coffee from a chipped ceramic mug like a man who didn’t own an empire. I remember thinking he looked normal. Almost too normal. Which, in hindsight, should’ve been the first red flag.
Because billionaires, real ones,aren’t supposed to look like they belong anywhere. They carry the kind of presence that shifts a room. But Rafael? He was silent, unmoving, like the fog around him was part of his skin.
“Samira,” my father whispered beside me, “that’s Mr. Vega.”
Mr. Vega. Not Rafael. Not even Sir. Mr. Vega—like the name alone had teeth.
I should’ve walked away right then.
Instead, I stepped forward, offered my hand, and said, “Nice to meet you.”
He looked at my hand for a heartbeat too long, then shook it. His grip was firm. Not cold, not warm. Just neutral. Like everything about him.
“Likewise,” he said. His voice was lower than I expected.
He looked at me the way you look at a blueprint,calculating angles, evaluating foundations. Not in a romantic way. Not even in a curious one. Just quiet assessment. Like I was a number on a ledger he hadn’t decided on yet.
“Shall we sit?” he asked.
I nodded and followed him to the patio table. It was a crisp November morning, and the pine air did nothing to calm the nerves in my stomach. My father sat next to me, wringing his hands, sweat gathering at his hairline despite the cool breeze.
The silence stretched.
Then Rafael spoke. “You understand why we’re here.”
I didn’t answer at first. I didn’t trust my voice.
But I nodded.
He continued. “Navarro & Sons is bankrupt. You’ve hidden the extent of the losses from investors for six months. Your father has two lawsuits pending, and your company has no capital to complete the Ortigas project, which Vega Corp was invested in. You have three options: file for corporate liquidation, file for debt restructuring, or..” he looked directly at me, “agree to a merger through legal partnership.”
He meant marriage. He just didn’t want to say the word.
I swallowed. “There’s no fourth option?”
“No.”
A long silence fell over the table. My father cleared his throat nervously, like he wanted to speak but didn’t know how. Or maybe he knew and just didn’t want to be the one to say it.
So I did. “And this partnership, how long would it last?”
“One year,” Rafael said.
“Why?”
He took a sip of coffee. “Because a year is enough to stabilize public perception, secure the Ortigas project under a shared banner, and give your father’s firm enough of a boost to exit the scandal cleanly. After twelve months, we’ll annul.”
My throat tightened. “Just like that.”
“Just like that.”
“No affection. No expectations. Just papers and signatures.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re okay with marrying a stranger?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
He didn’t blink. “Are you?”
My hands clenched in my lap.
This wasn’t the proposal most women dreamed of. No kneeling. No rings. Just two cups of coffee, three legal documents, and an air of inevitability that suffocated everything else.
But the worst part?
I was considering it.
Because my father had worked his whole life for Navarro & Sons. It wasn’t just a company. It was his name. His legacy. My inheritance. If it crumbled now, he wouldn’t survive the humiliation.
And I couldn’t save it on my own.
“Why me?” I asked. “You could’ve picked any other merger, any other heiress. Why someone like me?”
Rafael looked at me for a moment, as if weighing the truth against convenience.
“Because you’re clean,” he said. “No scandals. No press. No strings. And because my board prefers a union that looks sincere without becoming complicated.”
I laughed, but it sounded hollow. “So you want someone who looks good on paper.”
“I want someone who won’t fall in love.”
That made me flinch. Not because I had any illusions. But because the words came out like a warning.
“You think I’m that easy to disconnect from?” I asked quietly.
His eyes didn’t change. “I think you understand what’s at stake.”
He wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t right either.
I was the kind of person who got attached. Who noticed the small things. I was the girl who kept old receipts in boxes and remembered birthdays without reminders. I cried during Pixar movies. I looked for meaning in silence. I was the worst possible candidate for something like this.
And yet, I reached for the pen anyway.
The contract was drafted within hours.
Clause 1: Legal marriage under Philippine civil law.
Clause 2: No cohabitation requirement, but mutual presence at key events.
Clause 3: Emotional detachment to be maintained.
Clause 7: Confidentiality agreement with penalties for breach.
Clause 9: One-year term.
Clause 11: Automatic annulment with pre-signed petition to be filed on the 12th month.
It felt like selling a piece of my soul. Signing away a part of myself I hadn’t even gotten the chance to discover yet.
But I signed.
Because desperation makes choices look like sacrifices. And love, real love, the kind I’d always wanted felt like something I’d have to give up to keep everything else intact.
Rafael signed last. His signature was crisp. Controlled. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
And maybe he had. Maybe this was all routine for him contracts, calculated risks, temporary vows.
“Do you have any conditions?” he asked once everything was signed.
I looked at him, then at the ring box on the table. Simple. Silver. No diamonds.
“One,” I said.
He waited.
“I don’t want to be invisible,” I whispered. “If we’re going to do this, I want to at least exist.”
He didn’t respond right away.
But then, after what felt like forever, he nodded. “You won’t be invisible.”
He didn’t promise warmth. Or understanding. Or even friendship.
But he promised visibility.
And back then, I was naïve enough to think that was enough.
We were married two weeks later in a private ceremony in the Vega estate. No press. No family except our parents and legal counsel. I wore a minimalist ivory dress. Rafael wore black. We exchanged vows that weren’t really vows. Just formalities, spoken to a judge, with no audience to witness what didn’t matter.
There was no kiss. No photos. No celebration.
Afterward, we returned to the city in silence. Rafael dropped me off at the penthouse like it was just another appointment.
“This is your place too now,” he said at the door.
“Right.”
He gave me a set of keys and left for the office.
I stood alone in a 30-million peso space, wondering what kind of marriage didn’t even begin with eye contact.
That first week, we barely spoke.
We lived like polite strangers passing each other in hallways, eating in silence, attending corporate events like mannequins dressed in luxury. The tabloids started calling me “Vega’s Ghost Bride.” I kept my head down. I told myself it would pass.
But I kept waiting for something. Anything. A sign that Rafael saw me.
Instead, all I got were check-ins from his assistant, instructions on events, notes on image management. He was running a company. I was running on fumes.
Then, one night, two months into our marriage, I found him sitting in the dark study, the only light coming from the city below. He had a glass of scotch in hand, his expression unreadable.
“Is this how you unwind?” I asked.
He didn’t look at me. “Is this how you interrogate?”
“I just wanted to know if you ever sleep.”
“Not often.”
I stepped into the room. Sat on the arm of a chair. “Do you ever regret it?”
He finally looked at me. “Regret what?”
“This. Us.”
He studied me. “Do you?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Sometimes.”
His gaze didn’t leave mine. “Then we’re the same.”
And for a second, just one, I thought maybe we weren’t strangers after all.
- Writer
