Some Kind of Love

“Dad… it hasn’t even been a year! How could you do this to Mom?! To us?!” Atlas’s voice trembled—not just with anger, but with a grief so raw it pierced the silence like a blade. His chest heaved, his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing… or what his father had become. “They’re staying. End of discussion.” His father’s words were steel—sharp, cold, final. Not even the fury in his son’s voice seemed to move him. He didn’t even look away when he cast a contemptuous glance at the two figures in the corner of the room—mother and daughter, huddled like stray animals caught in a storm. They looked pitiful. And yet… undeniably beautiful. The woman had delicate features and a slender body that spoke of quiet elegance, even through the disarray. It was no wonder his father was drawn to her. But what tore Atlas apart was the girl. She stood half-hidden behind her mother, youthful, radiant in a way that was both innocent and alarming. Under different circumstances, maybe… maybe he would’ve admired her. But now, all he could feel was burning resentment. “Don’t tell me… she’s your daughter?” “No. She’s not. But she will be.” The casual cruelty in his father’s voice made Atlas’ jaw lock tight. He felt the blood rush to his ears. Adopt her? He’s going to legally tie them to their family? No. No, this wasn’t just a twisted coincidence. This was planned. So this was their angle. The whole setup suddenly made sense. These women didn’t come for love. They came for inheritance. Legacy. Power. They were leeches—and his father? A willing host. “Marry her. Adopt that kid. But don’t ever expect me to be your son again.” “You don’t mean that, Atlas.” “Oh, you know I do. You raised me, remember?” He gave a humorless smile. “Try me.” And just like that, he turned his back on everything. “Atlas! Atlas, come back!” His father’s voice chased him through the hallway, but Atlas didn’t even flinch. His heart was stone. He stormed into his room, threw open the closet, and yanked out a suitcase. He didn’t care what he grabbed—shirts, pants, socks. Anything. He just needed to leave. “Kuya, what are you doing?” The small voice behind him made him stop cold. Artemis. In the chaos of his rage, he had forgotten. His little brother. He dropped the clothes, turned, and knelt before the boy. His hands trembled as they cupped his shoulders. “You and me, Artemis… we’re all that’s left now. Mom is gone. And if we don’t fight for what’s ours, they’ll take everything.” Artemis blinked, confused. “But… we still have Dad.” A bitter laugh escaped Atlas’ lips. “No. We don’t. Not really.” “Where are you going?” “I’m flying to Boston. I’ll finish my MBA, build myself up. And then I’ll come back—strong enough to protect you. To protect us. Can you be brave for me until then?” Artemis nodded, even though his eyes brimmed with tears. Atlas hugged him fiercely. He had to go. He had to become someone who could win this war. ***** Ten years passed. A decade of silence, of cold phone calls and colder holidays. Atlas had changed—more calculating, more powerful, yet still haunted. He handled their businesses abroad, became everything his father had once wanted in a son—except obedient. His father never married that woman, but she lived in the house… with Artemis. And the daughter. Artemis would say they were kind. Supportive. “Like family.” But Atlas knew better. He’d seen how cunning kindness could be. That suspicion grew into certainty when Artemis called one night—with a confession. He was falling for her. Miciela Zia. The daughter. The girl who was almost his stepsister. That was it. They’re trying to trap him too. This family was a target, and now his brother was falling straight into their trap. Atlas booked the earliest flight home. He would end this. Whatever spell they cast—he’d break it. After 17 long hours, jetlag be damned, he finally arrived in Manila. Exhausted but seething, he was met by Ms. Acosta—his assistant and one of the few people he trusted. “Sir Atlas, welcome back.” “Take me to my father.” That was all he said. No pleasantries, no small talk. She nodded, called for their luggage handlers, and led him to the car. “Should I inform them?” “No. I want to see their faces when I walk in.” Traffic was brutal. Two hours of silence. Boiling thoughts. But when they reached the mansion, it was past ten, and strangely, laughter echoed through the open veranda. Atlas followed the sound like a predator drawn to prey. There, in the middle of the light and laughter, was his brother—and her. Zia. She was tugging something from Artemis’ hands, laughing as he teased her. The playfulness was intimate. Dangerous. Her short dress rose with every movement, exposing slender legs that should never have been seen by his brother. When Artemis lifted her by the waist, effortlessly… something in Atlas snapped. So this was her game. Seduction. Manipulation. Just like her mother. “Good evening.” His voice was ice. They froze. Artemis set her down gently, startled. Zia turned—and their eyes met for the first time in ten years. She had grown. Long, curled hair, angelic face, porcelain skin… everything designed to disarm. But Atlas saw past it. She was a trap dressed in silk. “Kuya! You’re back!” Artemis ran and hugged him. But Atlas’ eyes never left hers. She squirmed under his gaze. Good. Let her feel the frost. “Zia, come here. Meet Kuya Atlas.” She hesitated. Artemis had to pull her forward. Atlas fought the urge to recoil. “Kuya, this is Zia. Tita Marcela’s daughter—remember?” Tita? The word soured his tongue. They really got to him. “So… you’re still here.” He looked her up and down, voice full of quiet disdain. “Y-yes… sir.” Timid. Perfectly rehearsed. But fake. All of it. “Kuya…” Artemis warned, sensing the tension. “What? They’ve lived here for a decade. Rent-free. And now I’m not even allowed to speak?” “If you have a problem, take it up with me.” That voice—his father. Stepping out from the shadows like a king returning to his court. “Oh, there you are,” Atlas said, his sarcasm dripping. “I was just applauding your generosity. Truly noble of you.” “I don’t need your sarcasm, Atlas.” “Ernest, please… your son just arrived.” Her voice—soft, calming—touched his father’s arm. And like a spell, his father softened. He never did that for Mom. Never. “I need to rest,” Atlas said coldly, then pointed to Zia. “You. Bring fresh towels to my room.” She froze. He smirked. “She’s not a maid, Kuya.” Artemis frowned. “Shh. It’s okay.” Zia said gently. And Artemis gave in—just like that. What kind of sorcery was this? Whatever it was, Atlas would break it.