Her Lost Paradise

Chapter 5

The noise hit me like a wave. Cameras flashed, and reporters shouted. A blurry picture popped into my head – something from my past, something I couldn't quite grab.

"They're back!" one reporter yelled. They were all around us, even though we had bodyguards.

"f**k!" I said. I was angry and frustrated.

"Hurry, take pictures! This is big!" another reporter shouted. They were only interested in getting a story, not in being nice.

"Is that Miss Dela Sandoval with Mr. Valderrama?" one reporter asked.

"Yeah, it is," another one said. They knew who I was, even though I was trying to hide my face.

"Get to work! We need this in the magazine!" their boss yelled.

"APURA!" she yelled again. That means "hurry" in Tagalog.

"Okay, Ma'am," the reporters said.

"So the rumors are true," someone whispered.

Then, a reporter shoved a microphone in Timothy's face. "Mr. Valderrama, are you married to Ms. Dela Sandoval? What about those wedding pictures? Was it real, or just for show?"

The reporter was young, maybe in her late twenties. She was annoying. She kept pushing between Timothy and me, like she wanted to be in my place.

"What are your comments, Mr. Valderrama?" she asked again, all flirty. She was getting bolder. I really didn't like her.

"The f**k! Excuse me, you're out of line! This is private property, and you're trespassing. Back off!" I yelled. I was so mad. This reporter was really getting on my nerves. She needed to understand that Timothy is mine.

"Shh, Mione. Just hug me tight, and it'll be okay. Don't be jealous, baby. No one can replace you," Timothy said, laughing softly and kissing my hair.

I started crying. I felt terrible. I didn't understand why I was crying. With Timothy, my brain doesn't work right. I get upset easily. I feel stuck in the past. "The past will never be my future," I whispered to myself.

"Mione, are you crying?" Timothy asked, his voice serious now.

"No," I lied, wiping my tears.

"Liar," he teased. "Shh, stop crying. You're getting my shirt wet. Wanna bet?"

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Then let me handle this," he whispered.

The reporter kept asking questions:

"Are you two staying here for good?"

"Is Mr. Valderrama a good kisser?"

"How's Ms. Dela Sandoval doing?"

"Is it true about that make-out session in LA, Ms. Dela Sandoval?"

Those were stupid questions! They kept asking more:

"How did you two meet?"

"Is Ms. Dela Sandoval a good wife?"

"How did you know you were meant for each other?"

It felt like it would never end.

"Oh god, this is too much," I muttered.

We didn't say anything. We just walked away, with our bodyguards pushing through the crowd. Timothy held my shoulder, pulling me along. The cameras flashed, and the reporters shouted even louder.

It was the same at the airport earlier.

"The f**k!" Timothy said under his breath.

"That's her!" someone yelled.

"That's Ms. Dela Sandoval!" another person said.

"I knew it!"

A reporter started talking live on TV. "My fellow countrymen, I'm at NAIA Airport where Mr. Valderrama just arrived with his rumored wife, Ms. Dela Sandoval. Is it true that Mr. Arthur Dela Sandoval's daughter is married?"

"Mr. Valderrama protected his wife earlier, and now again. There's a picture of them at a chapel in Seattle—they probably got married there."

"What can you say about Mr. Valderrama's new love?" a reporter asked Timothy. Then another reporter leaned in close to me. "Ms. Dela Sandoval? Is Mr. Valderrama good in bed?"

I couldn't believe she asked that!

Before I could say anything, Timothy picked me up.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice choked with emotion, burying my face in his chest, finding solace in the safety of his embrace.

"My pleasure, Mione," he replied softly, his voice a low murmur against my ear. He ignored the shouts of the remaining reporters, carrying me towards the waiting car, a new Rolls Royce, tinted, bulletproof, and soundproof – a sanctuary against the storm. My cousin always dreamed of owning one.

Once inside, the world outside faded away, replaced by the quiet hum of the engine and the comforting weight of Timothy’s arm around me. My earlier frustration was slowly fading, replaced by a quiet exhaustion, a sense of relief at being safe, protected, and loved. He looked at me, his eyes filled with concern and affection, then dialed a number on his phone.

"At the end of the day, I realize how hard it is to live in the spotlight," I whispered, the words a reflection of the emotional toll of the day. "They say fame has a price, but giving up your privacy isn't living. Everyone deserves privacy, whether they're a celebrity or not." The words hung in the air, a quiet testament to the day's events, a reflection of the emotional toll of living in the public eye.