CEO IN COMA

004: My Room Has A Panic Button

Okay, so here’s what’s happening…

I’m standing barefoot in the middle of a multi-million peso bedroom, wrapped in silk sheets I didn't pay for, staring at a glowing red button labeled EMERGENCY.

And I am absolutely one sneeze away from pressing it out of sheer emotional instability.

Because apparently, my room has a panic button.

Like a literal, physical panic button. Mounted next to the light switch, subtly carved into the smooth wooden paneling like it’s part of some covert spy movie.

The kind that probably alerts ten bodyguards, activates laser traps, and launches a helicopter out the roof.

And I just found it. Why?

Because I accidentally elbowed it while trying to open the window.

You know what happened?

An automated voice calmly said:

“Security will arrive in 30 seconds. To cancel, press again.”

I slammed it so fast I nearly sprained my thumb.

Now I’m standing here, staring at it, wondering if this is what marriage is supposed to feel like—living in a luxury suite, guarded by a panic button, married to a man who faked his coma and drinks peach tea like it’s a personality trait.

Is this what love is? Or just high-budget psychological warfare?

The only good thing in this situation?

The robe. God, the robe.

It’s like being hugged by a very expensive cloud. It even has “HM” stitched on the pocket, which I can only assume stands for Hyacinth Mathially.

Disgusting. Yet luxurious.

I’ve been trying to process the last 24 hours, but the problem is—I don’t think in straight lines. I think in spirals.

First there’s…

“He married me?”

Then…

“He faked a coma?”

Then, somehow…

“Do billionaires wear socks to bed?” Because I saw a drawer full of silk ones and my brain is not okay.

The guy is infuriating.

And he knows it.

Earlier this morning, after our charming little breakfast confrontation where he casually mentioned “you’ll need your strength,” I did what any sane person would do.

I locked myself in this suite, opened the minibar, and ate an entire canister of imported gummy bears.

Now I’m hyped on sugar and marital confusion.

I sighed, flopped dramatically onto the obscenely soft bed like a telenovela heroine on her last life, and did something I hadn’t done in three days.

I called Lola Pacita.

She picked up on the second ring like she’d been holding the phone since the 1800s. “Alo? Cinty?”

Hearing her voice made something tighten in my chest.

The safe kind of tight.

The kind that smells like baby powder, old rice cookers, and menthol ointment.

“Hi, ‘La,” I said, curling up like a shrimp. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh, anak. You sound tired. You okay?”

My throat wobbled. I stared up at the impossibly tall ceiling, tracing the crown molding that probably cost more than my kidney. Or my soul.

“I’m fine,” I lied smoothly. “How are you, ‘La? Did the barangay nurse come by to check your BP?”

“She did. She said I’m strong like kalabaw,” she said proudly.

“But how are you, ha? You eating properly there in… in that city? You sound like you swallowed a bubble.”

“I'm just adjusting,” I said quickly, sitting up. “And actually—guess what? The house here has a panic button.”

“A what?”

“A button. If you panic. You press it.”

“AY. Don’t press that, ha. That sounds like the devil’s invention.”

I smiled, even as my stomach twisted. This wasn’t just distance.

This was deception by omission. And Lola Pacita didn’t deserve that—not after raising me with just tuyo and tsinelas wisdom.

“‘La,” I said softly. “Promise me you won’t worry about me, okay?”

“That’s impossible, Cinty. You’re my favorite apo.”

I swallowed hard. “You say that to everyone.”

“Because it’s true for everyone,” she cackled.

I almost told her.

Almost said, “I married a man I forgot I knew,” or “I live in a house where the door locks sound like military-grade vaults,” or “I think I’m in the middle of something big and dangerous and peach-scented.”

But instead, I just said, “I love you, ‘La.”

“I love you more, anak. Call me again soon. Don’t forget to pray.”

“I won’t.”

I hung up and stared at the phone for a while.

Knock knock knock.

I freeze.

Three light knocks, followed by a pause.

Then a voice.

His voice.

“Hyacinth. It’s me.”

Oh no. Not today, Satan.

I clear my throat, clutching the corner of my robe like I’m in a dramatic telenovela. “I’m not emotionally available at the moment. Leave a message after the beep.”

“Beep,” he says calmly. “Message: You’re being dramatic.” I daggers would pass through, Dark would be buried by now.