She pushes him away—
yet he keeps coming closer,
as if distance was never meant for them.
❤️
The morning following the dinner blowout was deceptively quiet.
Keifer had barely slept, his mind replaying the way Jay had looked at him—vulnerable for a split second before the steel shutters of her "survival" mode slammed shut.
He was ready to spend the day proving to her that she didn't have to face his father alone.
But Don Alberto Watson didn't play defense. He played to win.
While Jay was in the kitchen preparing a light breakfast for Donya Elena, the front doors of the mansion swung open.
Two footmen followed behind a woman who moved as if she already owned the deed to the house.
Cheska entered, her designer heels clicking sharply against the marble. She wore a smirk that matched the expensive luggage being wheeled in behind her.
"What is she doing here?" Keifer's voice boomed from the top of the stairs. He descended rapidly, his face contorted in disbelief.
"She is here at my invitation," Don Alberto announced, stepping out of his study with a smug composure.
"Cheska's father and I are finalizing the Alcantara merger. Since Cheska is his lead consultant, it only makes sense for her to stay here to 'help' with the logistics. We have plenty of guest rooms, after all."
Keifer reached the bottom step, his eyes flashing. "This is my home, Dad. You don't just bring her in here without—"
"Actually, Keifer," Cheska interrupted, gliding toward him and placing a hand on his arm, "it's purely business. Though, I must say, the house feels a bit... cluttered lately."
At that moment, Jay entered the foyer, still wearing her kitchen apron, a tray of tea in her hands.
She stopped mid-step, her gaze moving from the piles of luggage to the way Cheska was clinging to Keifer's arm.
Cheska's eyes raked over Jay, lingering on the apron with a look of feigned pity.
"Oh, good! You're already working. My luggage needs to go to the East Wing, and I'd like a sugar-free matcha latte sent up in ten minutes. Be a dear and don't burn the milk, will you?"
The foyer went silent. The household staff, who had grown to love Jay, looked down in discomfort.
Keifer's jaw tightened so hard it looked like it might break. He stepped away from Cheska, moving toward Jay, but before he could speak, Jay's mask clicked into place.
She offered a small, polite nod, the perfect picture of a gracious hostess. "Welcome to the Watson home, Cheska. I believe the butler, Ricardo, will handle your bags. As for the latte, I'll let the kitchen staff know your preferences."
"Jay, you don't have to—" Keifer started, his voice thick with frustration.
"It's no trouble, Keifer," Jay said, her voice like glass—clear and cold. "We have a guest. We must be hospitable."
She turned and walked back into the kitchen with a poise that made Cheska's smirk falter.
Jay didn't cry until she was behind the swinging doors, and even then, she only allowed herself one sharp intake of breath.
Cheska wasn't just a guest; she was a weapon.
Don Alberto wasn't trying to help with a merger; he was trying to remind Jay exactly where she stood in the hierarchy of his world.
As Keifer stood in the foyer, caught between his father's cold stare and Cheska's triumphant grin, he realized the "Golden Cage" had just become a battlefield.
And for the first time, he feared that Jay's "smiling through the pain" strategy wouldn't be enough to survive the girl who had come to take her place.
Cheska didn't waste a single hour. By the following afternoon, she had turned the Watson mansion into her personal stage.
She lounged in the solarium, scattering documents across the floor, and intentionally leaving a trail of minor disasters for Jay to find.
"Oh, Jaspher," Cheska called out as Jay walked by. "I spilled my red wine on the white rug. It's a Persian silk, so it needs very specific care. Since you're so... handy with domestic work, I figured you'd do a better job than the maids."
Jay stood at the edge of the room. She could feel the eyes of the household staff on her—Manang Alice and the younger girls were vibrating with indignation.
Jay knew that if she ordered the staff to do it, Cheska would complain to Don Alberto that Jay was "abusing" the help.
If she didn't do it, Cheska would claim Jay was a lazy hostess.
"Of course," Jay said, her voice a calm, steady stream. She knelt on the floor, her silk skirt pooling around her, and began to dab at the stain with practiced precision.
Keifer found her there ten minutes later. He froze at the entrance of the solarium, his heart twisting at the sight of his wife—the girl who was supposed to be his partner—on her knees cleaning up after a woman who looked down on her.
"What are you doing?" Keifer's voice was a low growl.
Cheska didn't even look up from her tablet. "She's being a good little hostess, Keifer. Don't be so dramatic."
Keifer walked over, grabbed the cleaning cloth from Jay's hand, and pulled her to her feet. His grip was firm but gentle. "Go upstairs, Jay. Now."
"Keifer, it's fine," Jay whispered, her mask beginning to crack under the intensity of his gaze. "It's just a stain."
"It's not just a stain, and you know it," he snapped, his eyes burning with a protective fire.
He turned to Cheska, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "If you spill something again, call the professional cleaners. If you speak to my wife like she's your employee again, I will personally throw your luggage into the driveway. Business merger or not."
Cheska's eyes widened, her smug expression finally faltering. "You wouldn't dare. Your father—"
"My father isn't the one living in this room with me," Keifer countered.
Late that night, the house was silent. Keifer couldn't sleep. He went down to the kitchen for a glass of water, only to find the light under the laundry room door flickering.
He pushed it open and found Jay. She was standing over the sink, scrubbing a blouse—one of Cheska's expensive silk tops that had been "accidentally" smeared with makeup.
He don't know that Chesaka has told the maid that if it is not cleaned up till morning, she'll tell keifer's father that she stole her jwellery, but her kid was ill at home, so jay took it from her.
Jay's back was to him, her shoulders slumped in a way she never allowed them to be in public.
"Jay," he said softly.
She jumped, spinning around.
Her eyes were red. Not from crying, but from pure, bone-deep exhaustion. "I didn't want the maids to get in trouble, Keifer."
Keifer felt a surge of hatred for the games being played in his home.
He walked over, took the silk blouse out of her hands, and dropped it—wet and ruined—into the trash can.
"Keifer! That's thousands of pesos—"
"I don't care," he said, turning her around to face him. He took her hands in his; they were pruned from the water and smelled of lemon bleach.
He brought them to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that made Jay's breath hitch.
"Listen to me," he whispered, his forehead leaning against hers.
"No more masks. No more 'Sunshine Girl.' From this moment on, you don't lift a finger for her or my father. You are a Watson. You are my Watson. I don't care about the contract. I don't care about the year. I am going to make them regret every second they made you feel small."
Jay looked at him, and for the first time, she didn't see the "Golden Boy" or the "Contract Husband."
She saw a man who was willing to burn his world down to keep her warm.
The fear was still there, but as he held her hands in the dim light of the laundry room, the safety she had tried so hard to run from finally caught up to her.
A/n :
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