Sweet Revenge, bitter Soil

**Chapter 8: The Price of Protection**

The silence that blanketed the public square was thick, suffocating, and absolute. The lively brass music of the marching band had died out mid-measure, leaving only the crackle of the roasting lechon pits and the low, tense murmur of hundreds of terrified onlookers.

Bianca Locsin stood frozen, her face completely drained of color. The south sea pearls around her neck seemed to grow heavier, choking her as she watched the most eligible—and feared—bachelor of the province use his own silk handkerchief to tend to a common *sacada*.

"Alejandro..." Bianca’s voice was a pathetic, trembling squeak. "You... you cannot be serious. She is a laborer! She insulted me! She insulted my family!"

Alejandro did not turn around. He didn't even grant her the courtesy of his gaze. His hands remained steady as he finished dabbing the last drop of champagne from Anza’s skin, his thumb lingering for a brief, possessive second against her collarbone. When he finally turned his head, his profile was a jagged silhouette of pure, aristocratic malice.

"Gardo," Alejandro called out, his voice not raised, yet carrying to the furthest corners of the plaza.

The head overseer practically tripped over his own boots as he scrambled forward from the edge of the VIP pavilion, his face glistening with a panicked sweat. "Y-Yes, Señorito Alejandro?"

"The Locsin refinery relies on the Valenciano rail lines to transport forty percent of their raw cane to the northern ports, does it not?" Alejandro asked, his tone deceptively casual, as if he were discussing a minor logistics report.

"Yes, sir. That is correct," Gardo stammered.

"Effective midnight tonight, those tracks are closed for 'structural maintenance,'" Alejandro murmured, his dark eyes finally snapping over to Bianca, pinning her with a gaze so cold it made her visibly shudder. "The maintenance will take approximately three months. If the Locsin crops rot in their trucks before they reach the sea, they can charge the loss to their pride."

"Alejandro, you can't do this!" Bianca screamed, her aristocratic composure completely evaporating into a high-pitched panic. "My father will speak to the governor! He will—"

"Your father will do exactly what I tell him to do if he wishes to keep his company afloat," Alejandro cut her off, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal register. "Get out of my sight, Bianca. Before I decide to buy your family’s refinery just to dismantle it for scrap metal."

Hysterical and utterly humiliated, Bianca turned on her heel and fled the plaza, her high-heeled shoes clicking frantically against the concrete as her friends hurried after her.

Up on the elevated VIP viewing deck, Doña Amalia Valenciano stood up so violently her peacock chair scraped loudly against the floor. Her face was a mask of unadulterated, elitist horror. Before the entire municipality, her son had just crippled a multi-million-peso corporate alliance for the sake of a girl from the barracks. She turned and marched into the shadows of the municipal hall, her mind already spinning with a venomous, desperate need to eliminate Esperanza Cruz once and for all.

Down in the plaza, Anza did not look pleased, nor did she look grateful. As the crowd began to slowly dissolve back into a tense, hushed chatter, she stepped backward, breaking the physical proximity between herself and the master.

"You shouldn't have done that, Señorito," Anza said, her voice low and sharp, her gray-green eyes flashing with an intense, defensive anger.

"She humiliated you," Alejandro said, his jaw clenching as he stepped forward to close the distance she had just created. "I protect what is mine, Anza."

"I am not yours!" Anza hissed, her chest heaving under the stained yellow cotton of her dress. "You didn't do this for me, Alejandro. You did this to show everyone that you can ruin a family with a single word. You did this to prove your power. But tomorrow, Bianca's father will take his anger out on the *sacadas* of the northern districts. Your mother will make my life in Sector 12 a living hell. You haven't protected me—you've just painted a massive target on my back."

Alejandro stared at her, a dark, dangerous fascination swirling in his eyes. Any other woman in the province would have thrown themselves at his feet in gratitude for such a display of absolute devotion. But Anza stood there, covered in cheap champagne, her skin caked in the residual dust of the fields, looking at him as if he were the monster she needed to slay.

Before he could answer, Mang Tolits hobbled forward, his old hands trembling violently as he gripped his wooden cane. He placed himself gently between the two, bowing his head deeply toward Alejandro.

"Forgive her, Señorito," Tolits pleaded, his voice thick with a father's terror. "She is tired... the heat of the fields has made her tongue sharp. Please, let me take her home to the barracks."

Alejandro looked down at the fragile, broken old man, and then back to Anza. The possessive, feverish hunger in his chest grew so tight it felt like physical agony.

"Go home, Anza," Alejandro murmured, his voice a chilling promise that vibrated through the cool night air. "Rest tonight. But remember this: the target on your back is written in my name. And no one in this province is brave enough to shoot at what belongs to Alejandro Valenciano."