Hostile Affection

Chapter 19: Reunited

Troye’s POV

Two Years Later

The soft chime of the captain’s voice stirred me awake.

“We’ll be landing in Manila in ten minutes.”

For a moment, I just sat there—blinking into the thin morning light filtering through the airplane window. Below, the city stretched like a tapestry of gray and gold, alive even before I could bring myself to feel it.

Eighteen hours. That’s how long it had taken to fly back home.

Home.

The word felt strange—like something borrowed. It rolled around in my mind, unfamiliar and fragile, as if I had to relearn what it meant.

I was coming back because my mother had asked me to.

Because my father—stern, powerful, unbending—was now a shadow of that man. Bedridden. Liver failing. The doctors said it could happen any day now. Maybe even today.

And despite the shouting, the years of silence, the way he’d erased my name from the family, I came back. Because even after everything, that man was still my father.

When the plane’s door opened, the humidity of Manila hit like a memory. Warm. Thick. Almost suffocating. It clung to my skin the way nostalgia does—uninvited, familiar, relentless.

A chauffeur offered to carry my bags, but before I could answer, I saw them.

My mother.

Tara.

Kent and Kiana.

They stood by one of the black SUVs parked outside the VIP terminal—polished, waiting, gleaming under the early light. Tara waved both arms in the air, her smile breaking through the heavy ache in my chest. My mother—elegant even in her composure—gave me a small, proud smile. And behind them, Kent and Kiana looked exactly the same—like two pieces of my old life refusing to fade.

Kiana was the first to reach me, her arms tight around my shoulders.

“Troye! My God, you’re glowing! Is that New York skincare or heartbreak?”

I huffed a laugh into her hair. “Probably exhaustion.”

Kent laughed too, then hugged me, firm and solid. “You look good, man. Like, author-who-owns-a-publishing-empire good.”

“Don’t start,” I muttered, but the teasing was a comfort. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.

Then came my mother—her perfume soft, her touch steady as ever.

“Welcome home, hijo,” she said in a voice that still made me feel like a boy.

And Tara, already crying. “We missed you so much.”

When I hugged them—one by one—the dam I’d built around myself cracked. Eight years. Eight years since I’d last held my mother. Eight years since Tara had tucked a stray curl behind my ear and told me I’d be okay. I swallowed hard.

“I missed you too,” I said, my voice rough. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“You’ve grown into yourself,” Tara said, her hands framing my face like she was memorizing me. “And we’re proud of you. Every inch of the man you’ve become.”

My mother smiled faintly. “You chased your dreams and caught them. You made us proud. Even your father…”

She trailed off, and silence settled between us.

Kiana sniffed, wiping under her eyes. “Damn it. I didn’t plan to cry today.”

“I’m not crying,” Kent said, his voice suspiciously tight. “Just allergic to family reunions.”

Their laughter was soft and unguarded—the kind that made everything else fade for a moment.

We drove through the chaos of Manila traffic, the cars gliding past jeepneys and honking taxis until the noise thinned and the road turned private. As the wrought-iron gates of our estate swung open, I caught sight of it again.

The house.

Three stories of Spanish architecture, surrounded by century-old trees and trimmed hedges that hadn’t changed in a decade. The same marble pillars. The veranda where my mother used to drink tea. The fountain still trickling in the circular driveway.

Home.

Not modest. Not forgotten. But grand. Imposing. Pristine.

And yet…

I couldn’t shake the hollow in my chest.

Because beauty doesn’t erase the memories that haunt it.

Inside, the air smelled of jasmine and polished wood. The chandeliers sparkled like nothing had ever gone wrong. The furniture looked untouched, the floors immaculate. Time hadn’t dared disturb this place.

But I remembered everything.

The guest room where I’d cried myself to sleep after a fight.

The second-floor hallway where I once stood, listening as my father said he didn’t recognize the son he’d raised.

This house was magnificent—but not all magnificence was kind.

We gathered in the sitting room. Fresh flowers arranged on the table, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, the clink of porcelain as servants offered me cold calamansi juice. I declined gently, needing air more than sugar.

Then a familiar sound—a soft bark.

“Chase?” I blinked as our old golden retriever limped toward me, tail wagging furiously. “You’re still alive?”

Tara laughed through tears. “Barely. He’s on his ninth life.”

I sank to my knees and buried my hand in his fur. Chase pressed his head against my palm like no time had passed. For a brief, fragile second, I let myself breathe.

They talked around me—Tara about her interior design firm, Mom about my next book, Kiana teasing Kent about the espresso beans he ordered for the café. Their voices blurred into the gentle hum of belonging. I’d forgotten what that sounded like.

So much had happened in two years.

I hadn’t abandoned the café—not really. Even from New York, I’d stayed connected, working with Kent and Kiana through late-night calls, checking on inventory, planning expansions. The business had grown faster than we imagined. My public reveal as Midnight Montefalco turned the café into a literary landmark—tourists came just to sit where I once wrote.

Now, with the third branch under construction, I’d promised to take a more hands-on role. It felt symbolic. Like coming full circle.

But not everything that came full circle was easy.

Because through them—through whispers and updates I never asked for—I learned about Nicco.

I told them not to tell me. I told them I didn’t want to know.

But they told me anyway.

And then… I learned the truth.

Tobias.

My own brother.

He had been the one behind the video—the fake, grainy clip that burned Nicco’s life to ashes. He had hired an editor. Paid for silence. Spread lies until truth drowned.

When I found out, I was standing on the rooftop of my apartment in New York.

I still remember the wind cutting through the night, the skyline spread out below me, my phone glowing in my palm as I read the report.

Nicco’s name on every line.

Tobias’s confession.

The sentence.

I remember gripping the cold railing so tightly I thought my fingers would break. The air tasted like metal. The city moved beneath me, unaware that my world had just split open again.

If I had known…

If I had only known… would I have stayed?

Would I have fought harder?

Or would I still have run?

Those were the questions I never dared answer.

Nicco had pressed charges. Tobias had gone to prison. The family name—once untouchable—had finally fractured under its own weight. My mother cried for weeks. My father refused to speak of it.

And I—

I stopped writing for a while.

Because every word I tried to put on paper came out as him.

The way he used to stand behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, smile half-hidden when he thought no one noticed.

The sound of his laughter when I said something stupid.

The warmth of his hand when he reached for mine, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It’s strange—how time moves forward but feelings stay exactly where you left them.

Now, sitting in this same house that had witnessed every version of me—the scared boy, the angry son, the man who ran—I felt that ache crawl back under my skin.

My father was dying.

My family needed me.

And somewhere beyond all of this… was Nicco.

A man I loved once.

Maybe still did.

I didn’t know anymore.

I only knew this—I was home.

And whatever waited here, I would face it on my own terms.

***

Nicco’s POV

The office hummed with its usual morning rhythm—the soft clatter of keyboards, the faint hum of the air conditioner, and the low voices of architects discussing load-bearing walls and sustainable materials.

I stood at the center of it all, pointer in hand, in front of the wide glass wall where the digital projection of a boutique hotel blueprint glowed pale blue against the room’s minimalist decor.

It was the kind of morning I liked: structured, predictable, controlled.

“If you orient the café wing to the east,” I said, tracing my finger along the rendered design, “you’ll capture the morning light perfectly. Natural lighting floods the space for most of the day, and you’ll cut down energy costs by nearly forty percent.”

The client, a sharp-eyed woman dressed in tailored beige, leaned forward. “That’s exactly what I had in mind. You really understand how a building should breathe.”

I smiled faintly. Not too much. Just enough. “That’s what we build here. Structures that live.”

She nodded, visibly pleased. The meeting ended with a firm handshake and a promise to finalize the deal by next week.

When the door closed behind her, I exhaled quietly.

Another project in motion. Another day that began and ended exactly how it should.

And for me—that was enough.

---

Jacob appeared before I could sit back down, two paper cups of coffee in hand and a grin that screamed trouble.

“One latte, one black—guess which is yours?”

“If you put milk in mine again,” I said, without looking up, “I’m billing you overtime.”

He snorted, handing me the black. “You’re no fun. I was hoping you’d live a little.”

“I live plenty,” I said, setting my cup down beside the tablet filled with drafts. “I just don’t do it with dairy.”

We ended up standing by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city skyline. From here, the world felt distant—a grid of traffic, tiny buildings, and lives that didn’t intersect with mine unless I designed them.

Jacob was scrolling through his phone, probably a mix of client updates and random memes. Then he stilled.

“Hey,” he said. “You’ll want to see this.”

I took a sip of my coffee before glancing over.

And froze.

The photo was slightly grainy, zoomed in from a crowd—but I’d know that silhouette anywhere.

Troye.

He stood in the airport’s arrival area, looking nothing like the ghost I’d memorized two years ago. No hoodie. No shadows. Just a tailored button-down, dark slacks, a leather duffel in one hand. Those same glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, the ones that always slid down when he got too focused writing.

He looked calm. Maybe even… lighter. The world moved around him, yet he seemed to exist apart from it—like stillness wearing human form.

My heart didn’t lurch the way it used to. It only paused. Once. Then resumed.

Jacob must have noticed. “My cousin works ground staff. Said the guy looked familiar, so he sent me this. I almost deleted it—then I thought, no way, that’s your Troye, right?”

Your Troye.

The words landed softly but echoed too loud in my head.

I stared for another second before handing the phone back. “Thanks.”

“That’s all?” Jacob frowned. “Just—thanks?”

I nodded once. “Just thanks.”

He lowered his phone slowly. “You okay?”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The air in my lungs felt steady, grounded. “I’m not the same man who waited on a goodbye that never came.”

Jacob blinked.

“So yeah,” I added, voice low but certain. “I’m okay.”

He studied me for a moment longer, like he was trying to find the lie in my face.

“Sure about that?”

I turned back toward the window, the city below glittering in midday light. “Let’s just say I hope he finds whatever he came back for. But if he’s looking for the version of me he left behind…” I took another sip, eyes on the skyline. “…he’s already too late.”

Jacob’s expression softened, equal parts disbelief and respect. Then he smirked. “Well, in that case, I’m stealing your corner desk if you disappear again.”

A small laugh escaped me—quiet but real. “Try it and I’ll redesign the floor plan just to box you out.”

“Ruthless.”

“Efficient.”

We went back to work.

The photo—already deleted from his messages—was gone in seconds, swallowed by the normal rhythm of our day. Drafts. Deadlines. Site inspections. Life.

---

But it lingered. Not in the screen, but somewhere quieter.

I’d imagined this moment so many times—that I’d see him again by chance, in a crowd or a passing car. That he’d call. That I’d hear his name from someone’s mouth and everything would collapse.

But when it finally happened, it didn’t collapse.

It simply settled.

Like dust after a storm.

Two years ago, the sound of his name alone could have torn something open in me. Now, it was just a name that belonged to someone I once loved so fiercely that I forgot who I was without him.

But love isn’t a permanent wound. It scabs. It scars. It teaches you where your softness used to live.

And if you’re lucky—it teaches you how to build again.

Troye left without goodbye, and I spent months searching for answers that never came. Anger turned to exhaustion. Exhaustion turned to silence. Then silence, eventually, became peace.

And maybe peace wasn’t the same as closure, but it was close enough.

I learned to stop asking why.

Why he didn’t stay.

Why I wasn’t enough.

Why it had to end so quietly, like a door shutting between heartbeats.

There’s a kind of freedom that comes when you stop needing to understand the things that broke you.

I found mine somewhere between late-night drafting sessions and early-morning walks with Piper and Scarlet. In the laughter of my friends who refused to let me drown. In the way my hands no longer shook when I reached for the pen that used to write his name.

In time, the ache faded into something else—not absence, not even regret. Just… gratitude.

Because for all the pain, Troye had given me something real. A version of love that taught me what I deserved, and what I couldn’t allow again.

And that mattered.

So when I saw that photo—the clean lines of his shirt, the quiet in his eyes, the weight he carried that didn’t belong to me anymore—I didn’t feel loss.

I felt distance.

And in that distance, I found myself.

---

By noon, the office had returned to its steady rhythm. Jacob was arguing with the design interns about symmetry; I was reviewing the next project proposal. The world kept spinning, and I—finally—wasn’t standing still.

Outside, the sky was painfully clear. The kind of blue that made everything look possible again.

I leaned back in my chair, stretched, and caught my reflection faintly in the glass. My hair was shorter now, my face sharper around the edges. But the man looking back wasn’t the one who waited two years ago, heart in pieces, hoping for a message that never came.

He was someone rebuilt.

Someone whole.

The past had walked through the terminal that morning, yes—but I had already chosen my direction. Forward. Always forward.

Because healing doesn’t always come with closure.

Sometimes, it arrives quietly.

In the calm voice you use when ghosts appear.

And you realize, at last, you don’t owe them an echo.

***

Troye’s POV

The mansion was shrouded in silence—the kind that seeped into the bones, heavy and patient. It was past ten. Everyone else was asleep, but I moved through the halls like a ghost who had forgotten how to rest.

A silver tray balanced in my hands: rice porridge, a glass of warm water, and three small pills arranged in a line. My steps were soft, but inside, every footfall echoed with years of resentment, fear, and aching silence.

As I passed the east wing, the portraits caught my eye. My father, Timothy, shaking hands with presidents. Timothy cutting ribbons, Timothy standing in front of the family company’s emblem. His legacy framed in gold, smiling for cameras. But there was no photograph of me—not as a boy, not as a man. As if I’d never belonged here.

But I had. Once.

I stopped in front of his door. My hand hovered over the knob. The memory hit like a whisper too loud to silence:

You are no longer my son.

It lived in me still, burned into marrow.

I inhaled. Exhaled. Then turned the knob and stepped in.

The air was cool and sterile. Eucalyptus balm and hospital soap clung to the space. The low hiss of an oxygen concentrator filled the quiet. And there, propped up by pillows, wrapped in thin blankets, was my father.

Timothy Mondejar—once a man of presence and command—looked small. Diminished. But when he turned his head and met my eyes, the sharpness was still there, buried beneath exhaustion.

“Troye,” he rasped. His tone surprised me—rough, yes, but not unwelcoming.

“Dad,” I said softly, setting the tray on the bedside table. “You skipped dinner. I brought you something light.”

He tried to straighten up. I adjusted his pillows before he could. My hands moved automatically, practiced from the last few days. Stirring the porridge. Checking the temperature. I didn’t look him in the eye. I couldn’t—not yet.

When I finally offered a spoonful, he hesitated for a moment… then opened his mouth.

For a while, that was all we did. I fed him. He ate.

Then, his voice broke the rhythm. Barely above a whisper.

“I saw the press conference. Two years ago.”

My hands froze.

“Midnight Montefalco,” he went on. “You took the stage. Removed your mask. The world gasped.” His lips quirked faintly. “But I didn’t. I just… stared. Long after the cameras stopped flashing.”

My pulse thudded once, hard.

“I bought your books the next day,” he said. “Every one of them.”

A quiet breath escaped me. “And?”

“I read them all,” he said. “From beginning to end. I didn’t know how much I’d missed. How much you’d carried. The loneliness. The hunger for a father’s voice.”

I looked up then. My father’s eyes were wet.

“You told the world what I should have asked you in private,” he said, his voice trembling. “And when I saw you up there—strong, self-made, loved—I realized I’d spent years turning my back on the one thing I should’ve been proud of.”

I set the spoon down. “You didn’t just turn your back,” I said quietly. “You erased me.”

He nodded, slow and deliberate. “I did. I was afraid—of what people would say. Of what it meant for the legacy I built. But now I see… a legacy without love is worthless. And I’m sorry. Son, I’m so—”

I didn’t let him finish.

“I’m not here for apologies,” I said. My voice was even, but it shook underneath. “I’ve lived without your approval for years. I learned how to survive without it. But I came back because… despite everything, you’re still my father. And I couldn’t let this end without trying.”

His lips trembled. “Do you hate me?”

“I did,” I said. “For a long time. But hate fades when you stop feeding it. I stopped waiting for you to change and started becoming someone for myself.”

He reached out—a hesitant gesture. “And what you became…” His voice cracked. “It’s more than I ever dreamed for you.”

There it was. The words I’d waited for my whole life.

Not whispered to my mother. Not buried in rumors. But spoken to me, from him, looking me in the eye.

“I’m proud of you, Troye,” he said. “And I’m ashamed it took the world seeing you first before I opened my own eyes.”

The tears came before I could stop them. Quiet, but unstoppable.

I set the bowl aside, then reached for his hand. It was cold, paper-thin, trembling. I held it like something fragile.

“I forgive you,” I said. “Not because you earned it. But because I don’t want to carry what you couldn’t give anymore.”

His breath caught.

Then I leaned forward and hugged him.

It was awkward at first—two men, years apart, unsure of how to fit forgiveness between them. But when his arms came up, frail and shaking, and gripped my back, it felt like something shifted inside me. Something heavy.

He cried quietly against my shoulder. I closed my eyes.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t the outcast son. I was simply his son.

And for the first time, I believed that love, even the broken kind, could survive.

---

It’s been a week since I moved back into my parents’ house.

Each morning now begins the same way—with me carrying that same silver tray up to the second floor. Porridge. Medicine. Patience.

It still surprises me, this version of my life. I never thought I’d become the kind of man who would feed his father by hand. Not after everything he’d said, after the years he spent pretending I didn’t exist.

But maybe forgiveness wasn’t a grand moment. Maybe it was this—small, quiet acts repeated until they became muscle memory. Hot soup. A clean blanket. Listening to stories I’d once rolled my eyes at.

And in the evenings, I write.

My fingers move across the keyboard, steady again after months of silence. The novel taking shape on my laptop isn’t the one I planned to write, but it feels like the one I needed to.

In two years, my life had changed completely. I’d become the face behind Midnight Montefalco. No more hiding. My books were in bookstores around the world, topping charts, dissected by critics who had no idea how personal every line was.

But for all the fame and praise, there was still one absence that never stopped hurting.

Scarlet.

I missed her more than I could admit aloud.

When I left, I had trusted Kent and Kiana to care for her. But now, she was with Nicco.

That thought alone twisted something in my chest.

Scarlet…

I missed her—the weight of her, her quiet loyalty, her warmth on the cold nights I spent alone in New York.

I wanted her back. But taking her back meant facing Nicco.

And I didn’t know if I had the right. Not after disappearing. Not after breaking him with nothing more than a text message.

The thought alone was enough to shut my laptop. I pushed away from the desk, breathing through the ache in my ribs.

That’s when my phone rang.

Kent.

“Hey,” I said, answering quickly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just wanted to remind you about the meeting today—with the engineer for the third branch.” His voice sounded weak, almost groggy. “I can’t make it, man. My stomach’s been wrecked all morning.”

“Did you take anything?”

“Yeah. Didn’t help much. Can you go in my place? I already set the appointment.”

“Of course,” I said without hesitation. “Just send me the address.”

A minute later, the message came through: Orion Works.

I got dressed, told Mom I’d be out for a few hours, and drove into the city.

Orion Works stood like a shard of steel against the skyline—modern, clean, efficient. The kind of building that belonged to someone who understood precision.

The receptionist greeted me with a smile. “Good morning, sir. How can I assist you?”

“I’m here for an appointment on behalf of Kent Fontanilla,” I said. “Business partner.”

She checked her tablet, nodded. “Yes, Mr. Mondejar. Right this way.”

She led me down a quiet corridor and into a sleek conference room.

“The assigned engineer will be with you shortly,” she said before leaving me alone.

I exhaled. Adjusted my sleeves. Tried to shake off the unease settling low in my stomach.

And then the door opened.

The world stopped.

Nicco stepped inside.

For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.

Two years. Two years of distance. Two years of imagining this moment—and none of it had prepared me for the reality of him standing there.

He looked… unchanged. And yet not. His posture straighter. His eyes colder. A sleek black suit fit him perfectly, but his expression was unreadable. Professional. Detached.

“You’re here,” he said. His voice was calm, but distant—like we were nothing more than strangers meeting for the first time.

I wanted to say something. Anything. A joke. A greeting. An apology. But no words came.

He was standing right in front of me, and yet he felt unreachable.

I’d spent so long rehearsing this reunion in my head—imagining anger, forgiveness, something—but I hadn’t imagined this silence.

Nicco’s gaze flicked over me once, impersonal. Then he moved to his seat, flipping open a folder.

And I realized, with a sinking ache that hollowed out my chest, that I was looking at a man who had healed without me.

A man who had moved on.

And maybe that was the punishment I deserved.

Because the moment our eyes met again, I understood—

To him, I was no longer the man he once loved.

Just a memory he had already learned to live without.