CHAPTER 7: THE FALL OF THE MASK
1207 Words
The heated argument between Lysandra and Cerio echoed throughout the grand halls of their estate, bouncing off the cold marble floors and polished wooden walls. Every word was laced with fury, every accusation thrown like a dagger meant to wound. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating, as though the very foundation of their home trembled under the weight of their conflict.
Cerio stood his ground, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. His face was red with anger, his dark eyes burning with disbelief and betrayal. He had always known that his wife was ruthless, but this? This was something else entirely.
"You’re willing to go this far?" he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the full force of his rage. "Ordering a man’s death like it’s nothing? Like Gustavo is some—some disposable piece on your chessboard?"
Lysandra, ever composed, merely lifted her chin, her lips curling into a smirk that sent a shiver down his spine. "And what if he is?" she said smoothly, crossing her arms. "You still don’t understand, do you, Cerio? In this world, there are only two kinds of people—the ones who take and the ones who get taken from. I refuse to be the latter."
Cerio let out a sharp breath, shaking his head in disgust. "You’re sick."
Lysandra chuckled softly, a sound devoid of any real amusement. "No, dear husband. I’m just practical."
Then, suddenly—he stopped.
His breath hitched.
A sharp, searing pain gripped his chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins. His vision blurred, the edges of his sight darkening as though a curtain were slowly being drawn. His knees buckled beneath him.
A strangled gasp escaped his lips as he clutched at his chest.
His heart—it was failing him.
Lysandra’s eyes widened, shock flashing across her features for the briefest of moments before she instinctively took a step back. She watched, frozen, as her husband’s body crumpled, his face contorted in agony.
For the first time in their years of battle, she saw genuine helplessness in his eyes.
Then it hit her.
Cerio was having a heart attack.
A moment of hesitation flickered in her gaze.
She could let it happen.
Just stand there.
Watch as his body betrayed him.
One less problem. One less obstacle.
Her mind raced. If Cerio died now, no one would be able to stop her. No one would dare challenge her. The inconvenience of his loyalty to Gustavo would vanish, along with him.
She almost took a step back, almost let fate run its course—
But then—
Footsteps.
Light, hurried, echoing down the corridor.
Ariana.
The realization jolted her into action.
If Ariana saw her father like this—if she saw her standing idly by—
No. That wouldn’t do.
Lysandra spun on her heels and bolted out of the office, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. "Help! Emilia! Ariana!" she screamed, her voice carrying through the vast corridors of their estate.
Within moments, Emilia, their loyal housekeeper, came rushing in, her face twisting in panic at the sight of Cerio collapsed on the floor, gasping for air.
"Ma’am! Ano pong nangyari?" Emilia cried, her hands trembling as she hesitated at the threshold, unsure whether to move closer.
"Call an ambulance!" Lysandra barked, her voice sharp and commanding.
Without a second thought, Emilia fumbled for her phone, her hands shaking as she dialed the emergency number as quickly as she could.
And as the chaos unfolded before her—Emilia’s frantic voice on the phone, Cerio’s labored breathing, the distant sound of Ariana’s footsteps approaching—Lysandra did something unthinkable.
She smiled.
A slow, knowing smirk curled on her lips.
You thought you were safe, Gustavo.
But it turns out your best friend will meet his end first.
Meanwhile, at Gustavo’s Office…
The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed deafening in the silence.
Gustavo Delos Santos sat motionless at his desk, his fingers hovering over a stack of documents, but his mind was far away. The weight of the morning’s events pressed heavily on his chest—the piercing stare of Lysandra, the contract she had forced him to sign, and the overwhelming dread that had taken root deep in his gut.
He exhaled shakily.
What should I do?
Should he fight back? Reveal her plans? Run?
His mind wrestled with possibilities, but before he could decide—
The door burst open.
Three men.
Dressed in black. Armed. Faces obscured by shadows.
The air shifted. The room, once filled with heavy contemplation, became a battlefield.
Gustavo's heart pounded against his ribs. Instinct kicked in.
He lurched forward, his body moving before his mind could catch up. He needed to escape—
Too late.
The sharp, deafening c***k of gunfire filled the room.
One shot.
Two.
Three.
Pain exploded in his chest.
His body jerked violently as the bullets tore through him, hot and unforgiving.
The floor rose to meet him as his knees gave out. He collapsed, his body twisting on the cold marble tiles. Blood pooled beneath him, the warmth of it a cruel contrast to the icy dread creeping into his limbs.
His vision blurred. The world around him faded into muted chaos—the distant screams of his employees, the rapid shuffle of footsteps, the muffled cries of someone calling for help.
His thoughts scattered.
Freya. Carmen.
I should have told them…
A shadow loomed over him.
Someone knelt beside him—a voice, urgent but gentle.
"Hold on! We need to get him to the hospital!"
His fingers twitched. His lips parted, as if to speak, but the words never came.
And then—darkness.
At the Hospital…
The hospital corridors were suffocatingly quiet.
Freya stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She had arrived minutes ago, rushing through the emergency room doors with Carmen at her side, desperate for answers. The chaos, the doctors moving frantically, the bloodstains on the gurney—it all blurred together in her mind.
But now, standing outside the operating room, there was only silence.
Until—
The door opened.
A doctor emerged, his face weary, his eyes cast downward.
Freya felt her mother stiffen beside her.
And then—
"I'm sorry," the doctor murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "But Señor Gustavo didn’t make it."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Carmen gasped, her knees giving way beneath her. She collapsed onto the floor, sobs wracking her frail frame. Freya instinctively reached for her, but her own hands were shaking.
"No," she breathed.
No.
Her father—the man who had protected her, raised her, loved her—was gone.
Forever.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight. Her mind screamed for this to be a mistake, for someone to say it wasn’t real.
But the blood on her father’s clothes had been real.
The panic in the nurses' voices had been real.
The lifeless weight of his body beneath the hospital sheets was real.
And with that cruel, undeniable truth, her world shattered.
Her father was dead.
And in the quiet emptiness that followed, a terrifying realization dawned upon her.
Lysandra had won.
For now.
- Writer
