Veins of Betrayal

Chapter 1 The sound that finally made Jersel look up wasn’t the kettle whistling or the front gate clanking—it was the soft, unmistakable click of Nathan’s phone screen going dark. He sat at the head of the dining table like a king surveying a quiet kingdom. Morning light spilled through the jalousie windows of their house in Lagao, laying gold bars across the polished wood. Nathan didn’t look at her; his thumb hovered over the phone as if it were a tiny crown. “Babe,” he said, tone conversational, eyes still on the black screen. “Driver’s picking me up in ten. Meeting at SM.” “SM City GenSan?” Jersel set the steaming mug beside his plate. “You told me it was a rest day.” “For other people,” he said, smiling at his own joke. His smile was always perfect—teeth straight, lips in that half-curve that made strangers think he was kind. The people who didn’t know him liked to imagine he had soft edges. The people who knew him learned to stop imagining. He took a sip of coffee, winced, and placed the mug back with an exaggerated sigh. “Too sweet.” “I used the same ratio,” she said. “Two teaspoons.” “You used three,” he said gently, with that voice he reserved for teaching a child. “You always do this.” Her throat tightened. She had measured the sugar carefully; she always did, because he had once said, with a laugh, that too much sweetness in coffee meant a mind that didn’t love precision. “I’ll fix it,” she said. “Don’t.” His hand caught hers before she could reach the mug. Warm, light, proprietary. “It’s fine. I’ll drink it. You’re just distracted lately.” “Am I?” “Mm.” He let her hand go. “Thinking too much. Overanalyzing. That therapist of yours said it’s a habit, right?” “She said it helps me see patterns.” Jersel kept her voice even. “So I don’t miss things.” Nathan chuckled. “You see things that aren’t there.” He said it kindly, and it still felt like a slap. The kettle’s residual steam fogged the window a little. Outside, a tricycle rattled past, radio blaring a love song from a tiny speaker. Somewhere a neighbor’s dog barked. Normal sounds, in a normal morning, in a normal life that fit around her like a jacket one size too small. His phone lit again—another message. The luminosity touched the corner of his jaw, bringing out the familiar angle she had once loved to trace with her finger. Nathan tapped the screen and typed with quick, sure movements, eyes sharpening. “Work?” she asked, because she knew he liked the pretense. “Always,” he said. “You know how I am.” Yes, she thought. I do. He stood, straightening the cuff of his polo. “Lunch out. There’s that new place by Pioneer Avenue—business partners want tuna panga. Don’t wait.” “You’ll be back for dinner?” He paused in the doorway, weighing the question against his mood. “We’ll see.” The gate clanked again—the driver announcing his arrival. Nathan brushed past her, and the faint perfume of his cologne—cedar and citrus—caught in her nose, a scent she’d once chosen for him in a duty-free shop at the airport after a weekend in Cebu. A life ago. The bottle sat by his sink, nearly empty. His phone screen flashed while he slipped on his shoes. A name appeared. Natalia 💫 The emoji hit her like a bright slap of color. Best friend since high school. Godmother to Jersel’s niece. Late-night coffee buddy when they were both twenty-two and hopeful and poor, promising they’d never keep secrets from each other. The message preview was just three words. “Same time? 😉” The old part of her—the one Nathan called dramatic—told her to ask. To say, Why is Natalia texting you at 8:07 a.m. with a wink? The new part, the quiet, cooler one, filed the information away and let it settle like silt at the bottom of a glass. “Send me your grocery list,” Nathan said, pocketing the phone. “And don’t buy that expensive yogurt; we’re cutting back.” He kissed her cheek, a soft press that felt like a stamp, and walked out. The gate closed, the tricycle’s echo faded, and the house fell into a vacuum of quiet. Only then did Jersel realize her hand was trembling. — She didn’t check the phone. She could have; Nathan routinely left it face down as if to dare her. But that wasn’t the point. The point was whether she believed her instincts more than she feared his explanations. She carried the breakfast plates to the sink, letting the tap run until the water turned cold. Outside, the street woke up: kids in uniforms, an old woman watering plants, a man wheeling an icebox stacked with frozen treats. A month ago, she might have taken a picture for Natalia—Look at this bougainvillea explosion, oi!—and Natalia would have responded with a flood of heart emojis and a demand for barbecue at Tiongson Arcade after work. A month ago, she hadn’t noticed how often Nathan had “late meetings.” Two weeks ago, she hadn’t noticed Natalia’s sudden expertise in Nathan’s travel schedule. Last week, she had—finally, quietly—counted and found her savings account lighter by a sum that made her mouth go dry. “Patterns,” her therapist had said. “You don’t need drama. You need data.” So she gathered it: photographs of bank statements, private notes of times and locations, a spreadsheet with highlighted entries. She’d started with a free app, then moved to a notebook when she realized screens could betray her. She used a thin, neat pen and printed the letters like an accountant. She wrote Natalia once, then scratched it out so hard the paper almost tore. When she finished washing dishes, she changed into jeans and a linen shirt and tied her hair back. She looked into the mirror beside the front door and saw the woman Nathan believed still lived here: good posture, gentle face, the kind that made old women trust her and men underestimate her. She touched the scar on her wrist she’d gotten from slicing tuna too fast on a green cutting board three years ago. A reminder: fast was not the same as strong. Then she picked up her keys and left. — General Santos City, on a weekday mid-morning, thrummed with movement. Jeeps painted in sun-bruised colors rattled along the roads, conductors calling out destinations. Vendors pushed carts piled with mangos and pomelos, their smell sweet and grassy. The sky stretched wide—GenSan sky was always wide—like a lid lifted off a simmering pot. At the Fish Port Complex, men in boots hauled tuna that glittered like steel in the light, knives flashing, scales leaping like coins. As a girl, she used to come here with her father to watch the auctions, the men shouting numbers that sounded like a language of their own. Today, she stood at the railing, looking down at the organized chaos, and let the rhythm steady her. Patterns. Data. Her phone vibrated—a message from Natalia. Tuna later? Your fave place. Tiongson. 7pm? Her chest tightened. Natalia always knew her cravings before Jersel did; that was friendship, wasn’t it? The way best friends could predict your order, your mood, the timing of your laughter. The way they could use that knowledge like a key. Yes, Jersel typed, then paused and erased it. She typed instead: Have to check with Nathan. He said dinner, maybe. The three dots danced. Girl, since when do you ask permission? 😂 Another bubble. Kidding. Call me later. Miss you. Miss you. The words brushed her like a hand she couldn’t see. She left the Fish Port and took a trike to Plaza Heneral Santos. In the shade of the old trees, vendors sold halo-halo and kwek-kwek and cigarettes by the stick. Children chased each other around the statue while teenagers filmed t****k dances with practiced, earnest faces. The city had always been a mix of small-town closeness and sharp edges, everyone knowing everyone and no one knowing what mattered until it was too late. She sat on a bench and opened the notebook. On the first page, she had written a single sentence: Believe what you see. Under it, she’d listed dates and places. Pioneer Ave — 11:40pm — “late meeting” SM GenSan — 4:10pm — “supplier call” N—L—Tiongson — 7:30pm (Where N—L meant Nathan—?? and she’d only written initials when she was too angry to be neat.) Withdrawal — 120k — reason: “business emergency” She tapped the pen against the paper. Tiongson. Tonight. She could go. She could sit in the dark corner booth they used to claim in college and wait and see who appeared in Nathan’s reflection in the glass door. Or she could call someone. The card sat tucked in the back pocket of her notebook: Atty. Efren Bautista. A week ago, she’d gotten his number from a friend of a friend who had whispered, He’s quiet. He’s also the one you call when you want quiet to end on your terms. She hadn’t dialed. She’d told herself it wasn’t time. Her therapist’s voice again: What will you do differently once you have proof? She stared at the card until the names on the vendor carts blurred. Then she called. — “Atty. Bautista,” a calm voice answered on the second ring. “Hi,” she said, and her voice came out smaller than she intended. “I’m—my name is Jersel Diono. I was told you—handle sensitive things.” There was the slightest pause, the kind that felt more like attention than doubt. “Who referred you?” “Teresa Alvarado.” Another pause, shorter. “What’s happening, Ms. Diono?” She looked at the statue of General Santos, his bronze gaze fixed on an invisible horizon. “I think someone’s stealing from me,” she said. “I think my husband is cheating. I think my best friend is helping him.” She expected silence or a cynical laugh. What she got was structure. “Where are you right now?” “Plaza Heneral Santos.” “Can you get to SM City North Wing entrance in fifteen minutes?” “Yes.” “Meet me there. Minimal texting. Use cash for transport. If anyone calls, answer, but don’t commit to plans. If you’re followed, walk into a well-lit store and call 911.” She blinked. “Am I in danger?” “You called me,” Efren said simply. “Let’s assume caution.” He didn’t say she sounded dramatic. He didn’t ask if she was sure. He didn’t tell her her coffee was too sweet. She hung up and breathed for what felt like the first time that day. — SM City General Santos on a weekday afternoon felt like a small airport: families trailing children, couples walking slow, mall guards with wands and warm smiles. The North Wing entrance reflected her face back at her—neat, calm, a woman who could be shopping for sheets and hand soap. The cool air hit her shoulders when she stepped inside. Efren Bautista was waiting near the fountain. He didn’t look like the kind of lawyer TV loved: no glossy hair, no theatrical suit. Navy polo, dark jeans, clean sneakers. He held a paper cup and a manila envelope. When he saw her, he nodded once and stepped closer. “Ms. Diono,” he said. Up close, his eyes were steady, the kind that could read a line item and a lie with equal clarity. “Thank you for coming.” “Thank you for—” She glanced around. “This feels… strange.” “Strange is good,” he said. “Strange means we can move without predictable patterns. Walk with me.” They moved past store windows and clusters of students sharing fries. Efren didn’t fill the air with questions. He seemed to move at her pace without telling her he was doing so. On the second floor, he led her into a quiet café. He chose the corner table that gave them a reflection in the glass, a line of sight to the entrance, and a view of the escalator. “You said someone is stealing,” he began, opening the envelope. “Money?” “Yes.” She slid her notebook across, the pages with the careful dates and amounts. “From our joint account. Also from a personal account I didn’t think he’d… know about.” Efren read the sheets with a small nod, as if the world made more sense to him on paper. “How long has this been happening?” “Two months,” she said. “Maybe more.” “And the affair?” Her mouth was dry. “I don’t have hard proof. I have… a pattern.” She explained the texts. The schedules that aligned too neatly. The wink emoji. The way Natalia had begun to know Nathan’s days better than she did. The first time she’d noticed, it had felt like stepping in a puddle that looked shallow and realizing the water climbed to her knees. Efren didn’t flinch at the names. He took notes in tidy block letters. “Do you share devices?” “No. But Nathan leaves his around. Sometimes I think—” She stopped. “He dares me to look.” “Classic,” Efren said, tone neutral. “Why today?” She swallowed. “Because tonight he said he might have dinner out. And Natalia invited me to Tiongson. ‘My fave place.’ Which is true. But…” She forced a half-laugh. “Maybe I want to be the one to invite myself.” His mouth tilted, not unkindly. “We can do that.” “We?” He slid a small black case onto the table and opened it. Inside lay a narrow device with a single LED light. “Audio. Legal to carry. Illegal to plant where there’s a reasonable expectation of privacy. We won’t do that. We also won’t break laws to catch someone breaking your heart.” She looked at the device as if it were an amulet. “So what do we do?” “We control what you give,” Efren said. “And what you take back. Tonight, you go to Tiongson Arcade. You eat barbecue. You let the world see a woman eating dinner. I’ll be nearby. If Nathan appears, we observe. If Natalia appears, we still observe.” He tapped her notebook. “You’ve done the hardest part: you didn’t run from your instincts. The second hardest is next: not letting your instincts run you.” A small sound escaped her; it might have been a laugh, or a splinter. “I’m not used to being the one who plans.” “You are now.” He closed the case and slid it toward her. “Last question for today. If we confirm what you suspect, do you want revenge or justice?” She looked at him, surprised he’d asked out loud what had been whispering in her chest for weeks. Outside the café glass, the mall flowed around them, a river of people in shorts and slippers and bright printed shirts. The life she recognized. “I want my life back,” she said finally. “Whatever that takes.” Efren nodded. “Good answer.” — Dusk slid down GenSan like a slow curtain. At Tiongson Arcade, grills flared to life, smoke rising in fragrant ribbons. Men in aprons fanned charcoal, women brushed marinade over skewers, flames licking the edges, the air sweet with calamansi and soy and the mineral warmth of searing tuna. Plastic tables filled with families and barkadas. The hum of voices rose and fell like tide. Jersel arrived in a simple black dress and sandals, hair pinned up in a way Nathan called “too formal for fish.” She carried the little case in her bag and walked with the posture of a woman who had a reservation, even though this place didn’t take any. Efren was somewhere, she knew. He’d said he would be. That was enough. She chose a table that gave her a line of sight to the main aisle and the entrance. When the server came, she ordered tuna belly, isaw, gizzard, and two cups of rice. She smiled and meant it. She had always loved this place; she would not let suspicion poison the taste of char and salt that reminded her she was alive. Her phone buzzed. Nathan: Out late. Don’t wait up. Natalia: Stuck at work—raincheck? Promise! Then, a second later: Buy me isaw to-go? 😂 An old trick: be in two places at once through the kindness of a friend’s errand. Jersel stared at the screen until the letters stopped being letters. She typed: Sure. She set the phone face down and breathed. Across the aisle, a woman laughed—sharp, familiar. Not Natalia. Relief fizzed and fell. She ate, savoring the burn-salt-sour on her tongue, the way the meat pulled apart with a clean tug. People passed, a parade of ordinary life: parents guiding toddlers, teenagers taking selfies near the smoke because it made the lighting dramatic. When she finished, she paid cash and asked for isaw, bagged to go. She stepped aside to wait, the paper bag warm in her hand. Movement at the far entrance drew her gaze. Nathan. In his slate-gray polo, hair neat, walk unhurried—the prince of any room he chose to enter. He wasn’t alone. He lifted a hand, and the woman beside him laughed, leaning into his shoulder as if the angle had been practiced. Her hair fell in loose waves, her blouse the green Natalia favored when she wanted her eyes to sparkle in photos. The woman turned her head, and the fluorescent light caught a gold hoop earring. Natalia. Jersel didn’t feel the world tilt; she felt it steady. All the weeks of maybe and possibly collapsed into a clean, silent yes. There were no metaphors here, no clever explanations. There was a man and a woman and the way his hand guided her through the crowd, and the way she let herself be guided, and a future they had already rehearsed without her. Natalia said something. Nathan laughed. Together they moved toward a vendor two stalls down from where Jersel stood in the shadow of a tarpaulin printed with smoky tuna and orange letters. Efren’s voice was a thread at her ear. “Do you need to leave?” She didn’t startle. She didn’t turn. She lifted the paper bag, as if smelling the contents. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.” “Do you want to confront them?” “Not yet.” “Then what do you need?” She watched Nathan brush a stray strand of hair off Natalia’s cheek, casual, proprietary. She felt the clean snip inside herself as something detached—the line that had tethered her to the version of him she’d defended to friends, to herself. “I need a receipt,” she said. “For isaw?” He sounded almost amused. “For tonight.” Efren’s pause was approval. “Done.” Natalia touched Nathan’s arm and pointed to a table. He leaned to order, and when he did, his gaze swept the aisle, blandly, the way men look through the scenery of their lives. It landed on her. For a heartbeat, nothing changed. Then his face performed the perfect sequence: surprise, delight, concern. He raised his hand in a friendly wave, the picture of a husband happy to see his wife unexpectedly. “Babe!” he called. “Here ka pala!” Natalia turned at the sound of it. Their eyes met. It was a small collision, quiet and total. Natalia’s mouth parted; her face went through its own choreography—shock, a flash of guilt, a practiced brightness. “Jers,” she said, syrup-smooth. “You’re here! I—small world!” Jersel smiled. It felt like calibrating a camera lens and finding focus. “GenSan is small.” Nathan reached her first, moving fast, body angled to block, to herd, to control the narrative with his presence. “I texted I was out late,” he said, voice pitched to private. “Didn’t want you to wait.” She lifted the bag a little. “I’m buying isaw. For a friend.” Natalia’s smile wavered. “Me?” “Always you, Nats,” Jersel said. The words tasted like metal. “You’re my best friend.” The four of them—the two who knew, the one who finally knew, and the crowd that knew nothing—stood inside a bubble of grilled smoke and murmurs. Somewhere, a vendor shouted for change. A kid laughed. A dog barked. Nathan recovered first. He rested his hand on the small of Natalia’s back, removed it, and laughed—a sound placed carefully in the air, casual, disarming. “We bumped into each other,” he said brightly. “I was just saying hello. You know us—we all go way back.” “Way back,” Natalia echoed. Her eyes were too bright. Jersel looked at Efren’s reflection in the metal trim of the stall—a man at a nearby table, posture loose, attention outward and inward at once. She felt the outline of the audio device in her bag, its small weight like a secret she now owned. “Enjoy dinner,” she said softly. “I won’t keep you.” “Babe,” Nathan said, lowering his voice. “Don’t be like this.” “Like what?” Her tone was light. “Hungry?” He blinked. The script missed a page. She handed the paper bag to Natalia. “Isaw, as requested. Raincheck accepted.” Natalia took it automatically, eyes searching Jersel’s face for the old map. Jersel gave her nothing. Not anger. Not tears. Not permission. “Good night,” she said, and turned away. She walked through the aisle of smoke and chatter and plastic chairs, through the wet-light glow of the arcade, past couples and families and teenagers arguing about sauces. Outside, the air felt cooler, cleaner. She didn’t look back. Efren fell into step a beat later. “You did well,” he said. “I didn’t do anything.” “You did the one thing that matters at the start,” he said. “You didn’t take the bait. You let the truth stand by itself. That makes the next steps simpler.” They reached the edge of the parking area where the tricycles idled. The night smelled like charcoal and rain coming. “What are the next steps?” she asked. Efren’s gaze took in the lot, the road, the sky darkening over Sarangani Bay though you couldn’t see it from here. “We protect your assets. We lock down your accounts. We prep for the possibility that they escalate. Narcissists don’t like losing control.” She nodded. The word didn’t sting anymore; it fit like a label on a file. “And you,” he added, “start training. Not just legal. Body, mind, habits. You’re going to armor up.” “Armor,” she repeated, tasting the word. He looked at her, steady. “You asked me this afternoon if you were in danger. You are, because you’re a woman choosing not to be a victim. That always threatens people who need victims.” The tricycle headlights made brief comet lines across the asphalt. In the distance, she heard the low thrum of the city winding itself tighter for the night—the fish port would flare again before dawn; Pioneer Avenue’s neon would flicker like a pulse. “Okay,” she said. Her voice had changed. It didn’t need to be louder. It needed to be true. “I’m ready.” Efren’s mouth tilted again, there and gone. “Good. Tomorrow, my office. We’ll start with the paper war. The rest follows.” “Efren,” she said, and he turned his head. “Thank you.” “You called,” he said. “People save themselves. Lawyers just draft the paperwork.” She laughed, an unsteady breath becoming sound. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t despair. It was the click of a lock sliding into a new position. They parted at the curb. She took a tricycle home, paid in cash, and walked into the house that still smelled like Nathan’s cologne and her cooking and the life that had just ended. In the bathroom, she washed smoke from her hair and tuna oil from her fingers and rinsed her face until the water ran cool. Then she sat at the table with the notebook and, in her neat, accountant’s hand, wrote a single line at the bottom of the page: Tiongson Arcade — 7:54pm — Nathan + Natalia. She put down the pen and closed the notebook and looked around at the quiet kitchen in the quiet house in the city that had always been home. Her pulse was steady. Her breath was even. Believe what you see. Tomorrow, she would begin to take everything back.