Narrator’s Point of View

When Manolo arrived at the mansion, he moved quietly toward the room where Rosy was held. Dimitri and Peter followed closely, their expressions tense, understanding the gravity of what was about to unfold.

The door swung open, revealing Rosy seated on the bed, blindfolded and tightly bound at her wrists. The sight tightened Manolo’s chest, but he forced himself to stay composed. Emotion could not dictate the law of the organization he had built—loyalty was absolute, and betrayal is unforgivable.

He removed her blindfold and untied her hands, gesturing for her to face him. Preston and Inigo stood nearby. Their eyes met, heavy with years of shared history. Rosy remained silent, shame and fear freezing her tongue.

“This… is what you choose, Rosy, after all these years together?” Manolo asked, his voice is calm but edged with a sharp undertone of hurt.

Tears shimmered in Rosy’s eyes, but she did not speak.

“I treated you like a mother,” he continued, voice weighted with grief and anger. “I provided for your family, sent your children to the best schools, ensured they never wanted for anything. I raised them as my own.” He paused, letting the words settle before noting the tears streaking her cheeks.

“I… I was blinded, Son,” she confessed, her voice cracking. “Blinded by the fortune Antonio promised me.”

“Forgive me,” Rosy whispered, almost pleading. “I never wanted it to come to this.”

Manolo stepped forward, his movements deliberate. For a fleeting instant, his arms opened as if to embrace her—but duty demanded a harsher reckoning. His hand went to the revolver at his waist, and there Manolo ended Rosy’s life instantly.

“I loved you like a mother, Rosy,” he murmured, his voice lost in the stillness. “But I cannot allow you to destroy everything we built.”

Preston and Inigo caught her lifeless body. Manolo’s order was terse, and unwavering “Give her a proper burial and ensure her family is provided for.”

He turned, leaving the room heavy with the echoes of lost trust. Dimitri and Peter followed silently, their expressions grave.

Meanwhile, Scarlett’s own storm brewed in Manila. She was arguing with her father in the kitchen, resisting his insistence on sending her to Baguio. Friends and her boyfriend were all in the city, and the thought of leaving them behind ignited frustration and fear.

Her father’s commands were unyielding. Servants carried her packed luggage down the stairs, placing it neatly in the waiting car.

Scarlett’s patience snapped.

“Dad! I don’t want to go! My life is here!” she yelled, her voice trembling.

“It’s for your safety. You need to obey,” Antonio shot back sharply.

“What safety? Dad, please… let me stay!” she begged.

“No. Listen to me, Scarlett,” he snapped, silencing her protests.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “I hate you!” she screamed, storming past him into the car.

Inside, she sank into the seat, burying herself in the plush leather. Her mind replayed her words—I hate him… I hate him…

Her phone rang, breaking her spiral of anger. Eunice’s name flashed across the screen. Relief and mingled with lingering irritation as Scarlett answered.

“Hey! Girl, what’s up?” Eunice’s cheerful tone sounded almost alien in the tension.

“I don’t even know what got into him,” Scarlett muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Wait, Who?”

“My dad,” she said curtly.

“What happened?” Eunice pressed.

“He wants me to go to Baguio,” Scarlett replied, her voice tight.

“Oh… that sucks. How are we going to hang out then?”

“I don’t know… I’ll keep you updated,” she murmured, cutting herself off as Eunice suggested throwing a party to cheer her up.

“I don’t know what will happen next,” Scarlett admitted finally, hiding her anxiety behind a faint, brittle smile. “But I’ll let you know.”

“Fine. Just shoot me a message, okay?” Eunice replied.

“Bye,” Scarlett said, ending the call and slipping the phone back into her bag.

Marcelo, assigned to escort Scarlett safely to Baguio, had already been briefed thoroughly. He made a quick stop at a grocery store for provisions, knowing the journey ahead would be long and exhausting.

Back in the car, he found Scarlett asleep, her breathing soft and even. Gently placing the groceries beside her, Marcelo restarted the engine, driving through the dimly lit streets. Only the flickering streetlights and the faint hum of the tires punctuated the tense silence.

Marcelo’s thoughts were heavy with the responsibility he bore—the fragile life of the girl in the back seat, the dangerous rivalry between Antonio and Manolo, and the storm Scarlett carried even in her sleep.

The night stretched on, quiet but full of peril. And while Scarlett dreamed fitfully, the wheels of conflict continued to turn, setting the stage for the battles yet to come.