Shiver Through Burn

"Don't forget to dress elegantly tonight, Soreia. Dad's accomplices will be there later," Sorren Mavric Guilermo said the moment I stepped inside the house—no greetings, no warmth, just another reminder of my role in this endless charade. I almost smiled. How charming of him to greet me not with affection, but with an obligation—as if I ever forgot my place in this political opera. I offered him nothing but a curt nod. I didn’t even bother meeting his eyes. I already knew what I would find there. Arrogance polished by generations of power. The surrounding house looked different from my last visit—furniture rearranged, expensive centerpieces displayed—but it still suffocated me. No matter how grand this mansion grew, the walls only seemed to press tighter against my lungs. I had just returned from my home in the city—a small, imperfect place, but mine. There, I could breathe without curated dinners, without cameras, without the crushing weight of being a Guilermo. "I hope you did well in your midterms. Were the exams hard?" Sorren continued, feigning casual concern, though his tone was sharp, almost surgical—an inspection cloaked in politeness. I exhaled through my nose, then turned toward him with a frosted smile. "Of course, I did. I'm the perfect daughter, remember?" He chuckled, folding his arms, satisfied. "Right." "Anything else? I'm tired. I'd like to rest," I said, already moving past him. Conversations in this house were never genuine. Here, words were weapons, smiles were shields, and silence was survival. We only spoke if there was an image to maintain—or if I had committed the unforgivable sin of disappointing them. "Go ahead. Rest well… in peace," he muttered behind me. How poetic. A mock epitaph from the family's golden boy. I didn’t bother replying. He wasn't worth it. 'Who would die happy with the name Guilermo?' Another second with him and I might’ve screamed. But screaming wasn’t allowed here. Neither was crying, stumbling, or—God forbid—disagreeing with the devil of the house, Sebastian Guilermo. The door to my room clicked shut behind me, and I released the breath I didn't realize I had been holding. I tossed my bag onto the polished oak table and stared around. The room was pristine—almost sterile. Everything perfectly arranged, everything carefully curated to project a vision of success and discipline. There were no photos of friends, no hints of dreams. Only medals, trophies, certificates—their proof that I was an asset, not a daughter. 'Welcome back to hell, Soreia.' The party will begin by seven. By six-thirty, I stood in front of the mirror, zipped into a navy blue gown. Tailored. Restrictive. Conservative. It clung to my body with immaculate precision, as if it had been stitched not just to fit my frame, but to bind it — long sleeves wrapping around my arms like velvet shackles. The high neckline grazed my collarbone, emphasizing decorum over desire, as if the very fabric had been engineered to erase any trace of rebellion. It was perfect—perfectly engineered to carry the family’s name with dignity. This is the daughter of Congressman Guilermo. "You look perfect," said Margarita Guilermo as she swept into my room uninvited, her sharp gaze raking over me like I was an exhibit at an auction. She wasn't even my real mother. My biological mother had died long ago. Margarita just picked up the mess she didn’t want—me. To them, I was always an obligation they were too proud to hide but too ashamed to claim fully. "Don't speak unless spoken to. And please, no sarcastic comments tonight," she said, voice clipped. I nodded. As if I had a choice. Downstairs, the mansion was alive with orchestrated laughter and polished lies. Crystal glasses clinked, expensive colognes clashed in the air, and every word was a transaction. I followed a step behind my parents, their shadow, their trophy. Smiling at strangers who thought they knew me, accepting compliments that made my skin crawl. "You're daughter is stunning, Congressman," Mr. Hamilton, eyes lingering a second too long on my body. I smiled through gritted teeth. "Of course," my father replied smoothly. "She takes after her mother." He pulled Margarita closer, and for a brief second, I saw the flicker of resentment in her eyes. I smirked. 'Which mother are you referring to? The wife or the mistress?' I kept my expression neutral, exchanging empty pleasantries with more guests. The evening dragged on, each second grinding into my soul. Across the room, Sorren caught my eye, raising his glass. Another puppet congratulating me on my performance. I tilted my head in mock acknowledgment, knowing it would annoy him. At least small rebellions were still mine. But then— My stomach dropped. Lucerio Elias De Chavel. Same insufferable smirk. Same cocky posture. He was talking animatedly—until he caught sight of me. Our eyes locked, sharp and unwavering, like a silent challenge thrown across the room. He raised his glass slightly, that smug glint in his eyes daring me to look away first. I gritted my teeth, walking alongside my so-called parents, smiling, smiling, always smiling. "Oh, there's Lucerio now!" Margarita chirped, delighted. "Come, greet him." 'Of course.' "Mrs. De Chavel," I greeted with a polite kiss on her cheek. "Mr. De Chavel, good evening." And then, to him— "Lucerio." He grinned. "Guilermo. Still breathing, I see." "Unfortunately," I replied sweetly. We shook hands mechanically. I made sure my nails dug into his skin. He didn’t even flinch. To everyone else, we were old friends. He leaned closer and whispered, "Still memorizing Daddy’s lines?" I smiled tightly. "Still pretending you're not a walking lawsuit?" Before I could murder him with my eyes, his mother interrupted, laughing. "You two should catch up more often! You’ve both grown so well." 'Great.' Dinner was unbearable. Assigned seating guaranteed I was trapped beside him for the entire meal. The adults yammered on about politics, campaigns, and business ventures. I smiled, nodded, and pretended to care, all the while feeling Lucerio’s gaze boring into me from across the table. "What do you want?" I hissed quietly, slicing into my steak with mechanical precision. "Recovered from earlier, Madam President?" he teased, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Disagreeing with you doesn't leave lasting trauma," I replied sharply. He chuckled lowly. "You were so busy staying on the agenda, you sounded like a documentary narrator." I rolled my eyes. "I'm just trying to keep things organized. Someone has to be the adult in the room when the vice president is acting like a child." Lucerio leaned back, smirking. "Oh, I wasn't ignoring the agenda. Just broadening the conversation." "Broadening the conversation?" I scoffed. "You mean hijacking it with irrelevant constitutional articles?" "I was making a point," he shrugged. "Flexibility, Guilermo. Try it sometime." "I appreciate flexibility," I retorted. "When it’s necessary. Not when someone just wants to flex their ego." He grinned wider. "Admit it. You enjoy it when I stir the pot." "I enjoy competent leadership, not a circus," I snapped. Leaning closer, his voice dropped low, just for me. "Or maybe you're scared. Scared of stepping out of Daddy’s shadow." That one hit harder than I cared to admit. My fork hovered midair for a moment before I forced myself to continue eating. "At least I’m not desperate for attention," I muttered. "I'm not desperate. I'm keeping you honest," he said simply, as though that made him noble. "You think challenging me makes you smart?" "No. But it makes you entertaining." I stabbed my food silently, simmering. Across the table, our parents laughed and toasted, oblivious to the silent battle unfolding between us. 'If I could just stab him once.' "Speechless?" he teased. "Planning my murder already?" "I hope you choke on your legal citations," I said sweetly. He laughed again. "Only if you write my eulogy—with proper citations, of course." I gave him a brilliant, utterly fake smile and returned to my meal, determined to ignore him for the rest of the evening. After dinner, I slipped away from the crowd, my steps measured, my senses sharp. I knew I was being followed. I felt it — a gaze that lingered too long, footsteps that matched mine just a little too closely. At the end of the corridor, I pushed open the heavy door to the wine cellar. Cold air brushed against my skin, the scent of aged oak and dust filling my lungs. Without hesitation, I plucked a bottle from the nearest rack, studying the label as if I had all the time in the world. Behind me, the door clicked shut. I smiled to myself. My instincts were right. 'I wasn’t alone.'