I woke up to the sound of rain.
Not the gentle kind, but the sharp, persistent tapping that came from every direction, windows, balcony railings, the glass walls of my life.
Manila always sounded different when it rained.
Louder.
Less forgiving.
The clock on the nightstand said 8:12 a.m.
My father's message from last night glared back at me on the phone screen: We'll talk tomorrow. Bring your composure.
Tomorrow is now.
I stood, showered, and dressed.
Not for them, never for them, but because I refused to look like defeat.
A white button-down, slacks, low bun, no jewelry except the thin gold bracelet that used to belong to my grandmother.
She was the only woman in our family who ever knew how to be gentle, and she'd died before I learned how to need that.
The car was already waiting downstairs.
Of course it was.
The driver didn't say a word during the ride.
I preferred it that way.
Conversation always felt like a transaction in this world.
When the gates of the Zobel estate opened, it was like stepping back into everything I'd tried to unlearn, gravel too neat, hedges too symmetrical, silence too expensive.
I walked past the portraits lining the hall, faces of men who built empires by swallowing other people's dreams.
One day, my picture would probably hang there too, framed in gold, wearing the same emptiness.
My mother greeted me first.
Not with a hug, not even with a smile. "You're late," she said.
"It's eight thirty."
"You were supposed to be here at eight."
"Traffic."
"Excuses," she said, the word crisp as glass. "Sit."
I did.
My father was already at the table, reading a business report like the world hadn't just watched his daughter lose a championship.
"Third place," he said, without looking up. "That's not what we sent you for."
"I know."
"You embarrassed us."
"I competed."
"Competing is for people who have nothing to prove. Winning is for people who carry a name."
I met his eyes finally. "Then maybe the name is too heavy."
He lowered the papers slowly. "Don't test me, Aurora."
"I'm not. I'm just telling the truth."
My mother exhaled, sharp and theatrical. "This is exactly what I mean when I say you've become difficult. Ever since that marriage—"
"Don't start blaming him," I cut in.
"Why not?" she snapped. "He's a distraction."
Calix's voice came from the doorway. "Then it's mutual."
They turned, startled. He leaned casually against the frame, hands in his pockets, eyes steady but unreadable. "If anyone's distracting anyone," he said, "it's you two."
"Excuse me?" my father said, his voice darkening.
Calix took a slow step forward, tone deceptively polite. "She's twenty-six, not sixteen. Maybe stop treating her like a trophy you polish for the public."
"Watch your tone, Lazaro," my father said.
He smiled faintly. "I'm watching it."
I didn't stop him.
I didn't even look at him.
I just sat there, silent, while he did something I'd never seen anyone do, speak for me.
"Do you know what's worse than losing a match?" Calix continued. "Forgetting that she's human."
My mother's lips thinned. "You have no place in this discussion."
"I married your daughter," he said, not raising his voice but making sure every word landed. "I think that earns me a seat."
The silence that followed was thick.
My father stared at him, the kind of stare that could cut through marble.
Calix didn't flinch.
I almost admired him for that.
Finally, my father spoke. "We will not tolerate mediocrity, Aurora. Not in performance, not in attitude, and certainly not in the company you keep."
"Then it's a good thing you never tolerated anything else," I said quietly.
The tension broke like glass.
My mother gasped softly.
My father's jaw tightened.
But before either of them could speak again, I stood.
"I came because you asked me to," I said. "You've said what you wanted to say. Now I'll go."
"Aurora—"
"No," I interrupted. "You wanted a daughter who wins, not one who lives. I understand that now."
Calix followed me out of the room, matching my pace but saying nothing until we reached the car.
"You didn't have to do that," I said finally.
"Yeah," he replied. "But someone had to."
The drive back to the city was quiet again, but it wasn't the same kind of silence as before.
It wasn't cold.
It wasn't empty.
It was heavy, alive with all the words we hadn't said.
—
When we reached the condo, he parked, but I didn't move to get out.
He turned to me, studying my face carefully. "You know, you don't always have to be made of stone."
I looked at him. "And you don't always have to try to fix me."
"Maybe I don't want to fix you," he said softly. "Maybe I just want to be there when you stop pretending you don't need anyone."
For a moment, I didn't answer.
Then I opened the door and stepped out, the rain still falling like it had been waiting for me to come back.
I didn't look behind me, but I heard the car door close, the sound of his footsteps following just far enough to remind me that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as alone as I wanted to be.