ANG SARAP MO CARLA [THE MATAMBOK SERIES] SPG🔞

CHAPTER 16

Araw-araw akong nagigising na may kaba sa dibdib.

Hindi na dahil sa guilt.

Hindi na dahil sa trauma ng kasal namin.

Kundi dahil alam kong si Digby Montrose, ang lalaking pinilit kong kalimutan, ay muling gumigising sa mundo—at sa sarili niyang paraan, ginagawa ang lahat para suyuin ako. Pero hindi sa paraang tahimik o maamo. No.

Si Digby ay Montrose.

At kung may alam ako sa mga Montrose, hindi sila basta sumusuko.

Lalo na kapag gusto nila ang isang bagay.

At ako, sa kasamaang palad, ay isa sa mga ‘yon.

Pagpasok ko sa MCC isang linggo matapos ang pag-uusap namin, agad akong sinalubong ng kakaibang energy. May bagong coffee machine sa admin lounge, bagong bulaklak sa lobby, at higit sa lahat, isang framed photo sa opisina—ako, during one of the outreach events I handled last year. Nakangiti ako roon habang bitbit ang bata.

Napakunot noo ako.

“Who placed this?” tanong ko sa janitor na naglalagay ng polisher sa sahig.

“Ah, si Sir Digby po. Kanina lang, mga 6am. Sinabihan niya akong huwag ko raw ipaalam sa inyo, pero…”

Napabuntong-hininga ako. Of course. Si Digby.

Pag-upo ko sa desk, may brown paper bag sa ibabaw. Mainit pa.

A note was tucked under the twine ribbon:

“Your favorite. Hindi ako sigurado kung gusto mo pa rin ito, pero naalala ko ‘to noong training week mo. — D.”

Bumukas ang puso ko saglit—out of habit, hindi damdamin. Alam niyang mahilig ako sa plain tuna melt sandwich mula sa isang maliit na café sa tapat ng dati naming HQ.

Napailing ako.

Cheap trick, Digby.

But I still took a bite.

Pag-uwi ko mula MCC, pagpasok ko ng bahay—lahat ng ilaw nakabukas, ang sala ay may mga bagong bookshelves. Hindi ito galing sa akin. Lalo nang makita ko ang shelf filled with books I’ve mentioned in passing years ago. Old editions, classic titles, a few cookbooks.

Then there he was.

Digby.

Standing by the kitchen in a plain shirt, apron on, holding a plate of aglio olio pasta.

“You said you missed eating this. Yung luto ng mama mo, ‘di ba?” aniya, parang walang mali.

Napaatras ako. “Did you break into my room? Again?”

“I have a key,” sagot niya, parang wala lang. “And I’m your husband.”

“You’re also a problem,” balik ko.

Umiling siya, ngumiti nang bahagya. “At least I’m a consistent one.”

“Hindi mo ako mabibili sa pa-cute mong pasta, Digby.”

“Tikman mo muna bago ka magalit.”

Hindi ko siya tinikman.

Pero kinain ko rin nung gabing ‘yon. Sa sala. Mag-isa.

Kinabukasan, sa kalagitnaan ng board meeting, tahimik lang akong nagta-type ng minutes. Digby stood at the head of the table—suot ang kanyang Montrose confidence at paboritong charcoal gray suit.

Everyone could see he was back.

Bumabalik na ang command niya. The Digby charm. The menace. The CEO that made grown men stutter. Pero kakaiba sa araw na ‘to—because every time he brought up a report, he’d mention my name.

“Carla compiled that.”

“Carla was the one who revised this timeline.”

“Carla made this projection model.”

I wanted to melt in my seat.

It was his twisted way of winning me over: by making me visible to the world that used to ignore me. Pinaparamdam niya na ako ang “queen” niya sa trono niya.

After the meeting, dumiretso ako sa opisina ko.

Sumunod siya.

“Nice work,” aniya, habang inaabot ang coffee cup ko. “Pero I noticed hindi mo na inuubos ‘to.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“No, you’re just mad.”

“You think these moves will make me forget what you did?”

“No. But I’m hoping they’ll remind you of what I can become… when I’m not hurting.”

Tumahimik ako.

Ang galing niya. Ang galing niyang i-package ang sarili na parang siya ang biktima, kahit siya rin ang sanhi.

“You’re not a project, Digby,” mariin kong sabi. “Hindi mo ako maaayos katulad ng mga site plans mo. Hindi ako blueprint na pwede mong i-draft ulit kapag palpak.”

Tumingin siya sa akin. Diretso. Matatag.

“No. You’re not. Pero kahit hindi mo ako mahal ngayon, I want you to see this marriage as more than just a trap.”

“Then stop treating it like one.”

Pag-uwi ko nang gabing ‘yon, may violin music sa sala.

Live.

Literal.

A small quartet was playing classical pieces sa may bintana. May kandila, may dinner setup. May name card pa sa plato ko.

"You're kidding me." bulong ko.

Lumapit siya, suot ang polo na ‘di niya madalas gamitin.

“One dinner,” aniya, nakatingin sa akin. “Isang oras. Hindi ko hahawakan ang kamay mo. Hindi kita pipilitin. I’ll even let you walk away after dessert.”

Napapikit ako. Nangigigil. Naiiyak.

“Anong tawag mo sa ginagawa mo?” tanong ko.

“Effort.”

“Sa akin? O sa pangalan ng Montrose?”

“Sa’yo, Carla,” bulong niya. “Kahit anong apelyido mo.”

Hindi ko alam kung tama bang makaramdam ako ng galaw sa puso ko.

Pero isa lang ang sigurado ko.

Hindi pa rin sapat ang effort para burahin ang sugat. At kahit sinusubukan niya, hindi ibig sabihin ay magpapatinag ako.

So I told him, habang kumakain kami ng tahimik:

“You can try all you want, Digby.”

He smiled.

“I intend to.”

“But you won’t succeed.”

He smiled wider.

“We’ll see.”

Napakaganda ng setup.

Soft lighting, warm candles, and the distant sound of classical piano humming. The dining room looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel—crystal glasses, polished silverware, and white roses arranged in a low vase at the center of the long mahogany table.

It was all planned. Thoughtfully arranged.

But no matter how sweet it looked… it still felt hollow.

Because I was still sitting across Digby Montrose.

“Thank you for saying yes to dinner,” he said quietly, placing his napkin across his lap. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Hindi ako agad sumagot. Nakatingin lang ako sa pinggan kong walang laman. Kinuha ko ang tubig at uminom—matagal, tahimik, at pilit kong pinipigil ang lungkot sa loob ko.

“You didn’t exactly give me much choice,” sagot ko sa wakas.

He smiled sheepishly, almost charmingly. “Montrose persistence.”

I nodded, emotionless. “More like obsession.”

“Only when it comes to things worth fighting for.”

Tumigil ako. I felt the weight in his words, but I didn’t let it show. I kept my gaze on the table.

The waitstaff—probably handpicked by him—served the appetizers. Baked brie with figs, just the way I liked it. Even the wine was the bottle I mentioned offhand one drunken night with Von—before any of this madness began.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Digby asked suddenly, slicing into his food with deliberate calm.

“How can I forget?” I said, a bitter laugh escaping. “You were late for your own meeting and made me rewrite the minutes three times because you didn’t like how your name was formatted.”

He chuckled. “I was testing you.”

“You were testing my patience,” I shot back, finally meeting his gaze for a second. “Which you successfully broke on day one.”

“I didn’t know then…” he said, voice lower, softer now. “I didn’t know you’d become someone I’d want to keep.”

I stiffened.

“Digby,” I said carefully, putting down my fork. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like we’re something we’re not.”

He paused. “We’re married, Carla.”

I shook my head. “No. We’re tied. There’s a difference.”

“Then let me change that.”

“By buying my favorite cheese and pouring my favorite wine?” I whispered, voice trembling. “You think that’s enough to erase everything?”

“Not erase,” he said, leaning forward, “but rebuild.”

“You can’t rebuild something that was never built right in the first place.”

Tahimik. Wala ni isang salita sa pagitan namin nang ilang segundo. Tanging tunog lang ang kutsarang tumama sa pinggan ng waiter habang kinukuha ang appetizer plates.

Then came the main course—steak and roasted vegetables. Another favorite.

He was trying. In his own way, he was trying.

But I couldn’t forget that this dinner, this candlelight… this home… wasn’t supposed to be ours. It was supposed to be mine and Von’s. Every brick of this house held memories of someone who was now lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

“Do you still think of him?” he asked, suddenly, carefully.

Hindi ako agad sumagot.

Then I met his eyes—dark, quiet, haunted.

“Every day.”

He looked away. And for the first time, I saw something real flicker across his face. Not pride, not anger, not lust. Just… sorrow.

“I know I can’t replace him,” he whispered.

“You can’t.”

“But I still want to be someone to you.”

My throat tightened.

“I don’t need someone to fill a void, Digby,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “I need someone who understands that I’m broken… and will wait until I choose to heal.”

“And if I wait?” tanong niya, halos hindi ko narinig.

“You’re free to do so,” I said. “But don’t expect anything in return.”

Tahimik kami habang tinatapos ang dinner.

He reached for the wine, poured me a little more, but I didn’t touch it. Instead, I stared at the flame of the nearest candle and tried to remember who I was before all this—before guilt, before tragedy, before a forced marriage with a man who only knew how to get what he wanted.

I wanted to feel grateful for the effort.

But the truth?

I felt numb.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” Digby offered as I stood up.

“No need,” sagot ko, at tumingin sa kanya nang diretso. “Good night, Digby.”

“Carla—”

“I’m thankful for dinner,” I said, cutting him off, soft but firm. “But don’t mistake kindness for affection.”

Then I turned and walked away, heels clicking on the marble floor.

At habang binabaybay ko ang hagdan paakyat, I heard him whisper—half to himself, half to the air.

“I’ll keep trying.”

And that was the problem.

He always will.

But I never asked him to.