Chapter Four
1267 Words
Dinner of Daggers
The Montara mansion in Forbes Park, Manila, loomed like a gilded cage. Nifty stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror, adjusting the pearl earrings her mother had gifted her on her 16th birthday—*“Wear these when you need to remember who you are,”* she’d said. Tonight, Nifty needed every shred of that memory. Her father had summoned her to a “family dinner,” a phrase that reeked of ulterior motives.
She’d chosen her outfit like armor: a black leather miniskirt, a cropped blazer with gold chain detailing, and boots sharp enough to stab someone’s ego. Adam Lockwood would be there, she’d been told—the man her father called “the future,” but whom she’d privately dubbed “the Robot in a Suit.”
The dining hall dripped with opulence. A chandelier shaped like a swarm of crystal fireflies cast fractured light over the mahogany table, set with heirloom *porcelana* plates and gold-cutlery. Marcus sat at the head, his *barong Tagalog* crisp and starched, while Richard Lockwood occupied the opposite end, sipping whiskey with the grim focus of a man dissecting a business deal. Adam stood by the window, his silhouette framed by Manila’s skyline. He turned as she entered, his gray-green eyes narrowing.
“You’re late,” Marcus said, not looking up from his wineglass.
“Traffic,” Nifty lied, sliding into the seat beside Adam. “Or maybe I just wanted to make an entrance.”
Adam’s jaw tightened. “Some of us value punctuality.”
“Some of us value *fun*,” she shot back, reaching for the *sinigang* broth ladle. The tamarind-scented steam curled between them like a challenge.
The meal began in silence, broken only by the clink of silverware. Nifty picked at her *crispy pata*, her stomach churning. Marcus and Richard exchanged coded remarks about “legacy” and “loyalty,” while Adam dissected his *kare-kare* with surgical precision.
Then Marcus set down his fork.
“Enough games,” he said, his voice a landslide. “You both know why you’re here.”
Nifty froze, a chunk of *bagoong*-slathered eggplant halfway to her mouth. Adam’s hand stilled on his water glass.
Richard leaned forward, his cane propped against the table like a weapon. “Thirty-eight years ago, your fathers made a pact. A union of families, of empires. It’s time to honor it.”
“*Union*?” Nifty snorted. “This isn’t the 1800s. Are you gonna trade cows next?”
Marcus’s fist slammed the table, rattling the *lechon* platter. “You will marry Adam. By the end of the year.”
The words hung in the air, thicker than the *sinigang*’s sour tang. Nifty’s laughter cracked like ice.
“Marry *him*? Mr. Spreadsheet-For-Brains? No thanks. I’d rather swim in Manila Bay during a typhoon.”
Adam’s voice was lethally calm. “The feeling is mutual. I don’t partner with liabilities.”
“Liabilities?” Nifty’s chair screeched as she stood. “You’re the one who looks like you’ve never laughed in your life. What’s your idea of fun, Adam? Alphabetizing your sock drawer?”
“At least my socks aren’t front-page news.”
“Enough!” Marcus roared. “This isn’t a debate. The contracts are signed. The press release is drafted. You’ll announce the engagement at the Tokyo hotel launch next month.”
Nifty’s pearls felt like a noose. “You can’t *force* me.”
Marcus’s smile was arctic. “Try me. Marry Adam, or lose your inheritance. Every peso, every property, every *pearl*.”
Her mother’s earrings burned against her skin.
Adam rose, his voice slicing through the tension. “This is absurd. You can’t chain us to a drunken promise—”
Richard’s cane thudded against the marble floor. “You’ll do your duty, Adam. Or have you forgotten who paid for Harvard? Who *built* you?”
For the first time, Nifty saw Adam’s composure fracture—a flicker of raw fury in his eyes, quickly smothered.
She turned to Marcus, her voice trembling. “Why are you doing this?”
His gaze faltered, just for a second. “The empire needs stability. *You* need direction.”
“Direction?” She gestured wildly at Adam. “You’re selling me to the highest bidder!”
“No,” Marcus said quietly. “I’m saving you from yourself.”
The words hit like a slap. Nifty stumbled back, her boots catching on the rug. Adam’s hand shot out to steady her, his grip firm and fleeting.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, wrenching away.
He leaned close, his whisper a blade. “Believe me, this isn’t my choice either.”
The room spun. Nifty’s eyes darted to the family portrait above the fireplace—her mother’s painted smile, frozen in time. *She’d* never have allowed this.
“Go to hell,” Nifty spat, storming toward the door.
Marcus’s voice followed her. “Leave now, and you’re dead to me.”
She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Then I guess I’m dead.”
---
Adam found her on the mansion’s rooftop terrace an hour later, her silhouette outlined by Manila’s neon glow. She’d swapped her blazer for a threadbare hoodie, the hood pulled up like a shield.
“Here to gloat?” she said, not turning around.
He joined her at the railing, keeping a careful distance. “I don’t want this any more than you do.”
“Could’ve fooled me, *partner*.”
He ignored the jab. “My father’s cutting my access to the Berlin project. If I refuse the marriage, I lose everything I’ve worked for.”
Nifty scoffed. “Boo-hoo. Try losing your *entire life*.”
“You think this isn’t my life?” His voice sharpened. “Hotels are all I have. All I’m *allowed* to have.”
She finally looked at him. Moonlight softened his edges, revealing shadows under his eyes.
“Why’d you say yes?” she asked.
“I didn’t. But fighting them head-on won’t work. They’re too entrenched.”
“So what? We just… surrender?”
A smirk tugged his lips—small, dangerous. “No. We outplay them.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Got a spreadsheet for that?”
“Better. A loophole.” He pulled a folded document from his jacket. “The pact requires a marriage, but it doesn’t specify *how long*. We marry, wait a year, then quietly annul. You get your inheritance. I keep my position. Everyone wins.”
Nifty stared at him. “You’re serious.”
“Unless you’d rather run away to Boracay and wait for your trust fund to dry up.”
She hesitated. The city hummed below them, a symphony of chaos and possibility.
“What’s the catch?”
“We have to convince the world—and our fathers—that we’re in love. No scandals. No slip-ups.”
She barked a laugh. “You and me? *In love*?”
“It’s acting. Surely even you can manage that.”
She stepped closer, her rose-gold hair catching the light. “Careful, Lockwood. I’m a better liar than you think.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, just for a heartbeat. “Prove it.”
The terrace door slammed open. Marcus stood framed in the light, Richard glowering behind him.
“Well?” Marcus demanded.
Nifty slid her hand into Adam’s, their fingers interlacing in a cold, calculated mimicry of intimacy.
“We’re in,” she said.
Adam’s thumb brushed her knuckles—a warning, or a promise. “Till death do us part.”
-
- Writer
