I had the file. I had the dashcam footage that showed Enzo's face near my father's car the night of the "accident." As we stood on the grand stage of the Architecture Gala, surrounded by the elite of Manila, I felt a surge of power.
"And now," the host announced, "a special tribute prepared by the bride-to-be, Mia Santos."
I looked at Enzo. He was smiling—that perfect, saintly smile. I signaled the tech booth. Play it. Destroy him.
The giant screen flickered. But it wasn't the dashcam footage.
It was a video of me. It was a montage of my "breakdowns" in Tagaytay, edited to look like I was talking to ghosts, screaming at nothing, and holding a knife to my own throat. Then, a voiceover from a "doctor" one of Enzo's paid associates explained my "severe paranoid schizophrenia."
The crowd gasped in pity.
"Mia, baby... it's okay," Enzo whispered, stepping forward to catch me as I froze in horror. He took the microphone, his voice dripping with fake compassion.
"My fiancée has been through so much trauma. She's confused. She thinks her father was murdered. But I will stay by her side until she's whole again."
He knelt. He didn't just propose, he claimed me in front of the world.
"Mia, will you let me protect you forever?"
With the cameras flashing and the crowd cheering for the "hero" who loved a "broken" girl, I had no choice. If I said no, they'd drag me to a mental hospital.
"Yes," I whispered, my soul dying.
The Double Tape wasn't just back. It was reinforced with steel.
We returned to our "normal" life, but the rules had changed. Enzo didn't lock me in a room, he locked me in a routine. He trusted me again, but only because he knew I had nowhere left to run.
Every morning, I woke up in his penthouse, the scent of expensive lilies mocking the smell of the Tagaytay fire.
"Time for breakfast, love," Enzo said, looking fresh and handsome in his designer suit.
He handed me a list of daily chores. He wanted me to be the Perfect Housewife while I waited for our wedding day.
My life became a series of repetitive tasks. I polished the silver, I organized his architectural blueprints, and I prepared his favorite meals. He wanted to see me subservient. He wanted to see the fire in my eyes go out.
"The windows are a bit streaky, Mia," he remarked one afternoon, not looking up from his tablet. "A clean home reflects a clean mind. Don't you agree?"
I spent three hours scrubbing. My hands were raw, but I didn't complain. I had to make him believe I was truly broken. I had to make him believe his treatment was working.
"You're doing so well, baby," he cooed that night, pulling me into his lap. He checked my phone---he had installed a Tracking App and mirrored all my messages.
"Bea and Ken are so happy you're 'stable' again. They're coming over for dinner on Friday."
I leaned my head on his chest, listening to the heartbeat of a murderer.
"I'm happy too, Enzo," I lied, my voice as smooth as silk. "I was so confused before. Thank you for saving me from myself."
He squeezed my waist, a little too hard. "That's my girl. Just keep working on those chores. It keeps the ghosts away."
MIA'S INNER MONOLOGUE:
Enzo thinks he won because he destroyed my evidence and convinced the world I'm crazy. He thinks the chores are humbling me.
He's wrong.
While I clean his house, I am mapping it.
While I organize his files, I am memorizing his passwords.
While I cook his food, I am learning which Chemicals in his cleaning cabinet shouldn't be mixed.
He wants a Fiancée. He's going to get a Black Widow.
The doorbell rang while I was scrubbing the marble floors of the foyer. It was a repetitive, mindless task----the kind Enzo loved to watch me do. It proved I was tame.
I opened the door, expecting a delivery. Instead, I saw a face that looked like an older, tired version of my own.
"Mia?"
My breath hitched. "Ma?"
Elena Santos stood there, clutching a worn-out handbag. She looked pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She hadn't visited the penthouse in months---Enzo always told me she was resting in the province, or that she was too ashamed of my instability to see me.
"Oh, my poor girl," she sobbed, pulling me into a tight embrace. She smelled of cheap soap and old cigarettes—a sharp contrast to the expensive lilies in Enzo's home.
"I saw the news, Mia. Tagaytay... the explosion...Why didn't you tell me you were getting sick again?"
I froze in her arms. Sick? Enzo had already reached her. He had been sending her money, playing the provider, while feeding her lies about my mental health.
"Ma, I'm not—"
"Shh," she pulled back, cupping my face. Her hands were rough. "Enzo told me everything. He said you've been hallucinating about your father's accident again. He said you almost hurt yourself in that studio."
"He lied, Ma! He's the one who—"
"Mia!" Her voice sharpened, fear flickering in her eyes. "Don't say that. Look at this place. Look at how he takes care of us. He sent me a plane ticket the moment you 'collapsed.' He's a saint, Mia. Without him, we'd be back in that one-bedroom shack with nothing but your father's debts."
I looked past her and saw Enzo leaning against the corridor wall, a glass of wine in his hand. He was wearing a small, satisfied smile.
"Hello, Elena," Enzo said smoothly, stepping forward to kiss my mother's cheek. "I'm glad you made it. Mia has been so lonely. She needs her mother to remind her what's real and what's... just a bad dream."
He looked at me, his eyes cold and commanding. "Right, baby? Tell your mother how much better you feel now that you're back to your chores."
I looked at my mother's desperate, hopeful face. She didn't want the truth, she wanted the security Enzo provided. She was a hostage to his bank account, just as I was a hostage to his "Double Tape."
"I feel... much better, Ma," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Enzo is right. I was just confused."My mother sighed in relief, hugging me again.
"Thank God. I don't know what we'd do if you lost a man like him. You're so lucky, Mia. So lucky."
Now, I wasn't just being watched by Enzo. I was being watched by the woman who gave me life. My mother took over the kitchen, humming as she cooked, constantly praising Enzo's generosity.
Whenever I tried to whisper the truth to her, she'd shut me down. "Mia, stop. You're getting worked up again. Do you want Enzo to call the doctor? Do you want to go back to the hospital?"
She wasn't just a guest, she was his unwitting accomplice. She was the proof the world needed that I was the one who was broken, not him.
I went back to my chores. I cleaned his shoes. I ironed his shirts. I listened to my mother talk about wedding veils and flower arrangements.
"The Psychology of a Captive is simple," Enzo whispered to me that night, pinning me against the vanity mirror while my mother was in the next room.
"When even your own mother thinks you're crazy, who is left to believe you?"
He kissed the back of my neck. I saw our reflection. He looked like a protector. I looked like a ghost.
"But I believe in you, Mia," he cooed. "I believe you'll be the most beautiful bride Manila has ever seen. Just stay focused on your work. A busy hand is a quiet mind."
I gripped the edge of the vanity until my knuckles turned white.
"Fine, Enzo. I'll keep my hands busy. I'll keep cleaning. I'll keep cooking. And while my mother helps you plan the Wedding of the Year."
I'll be finding the one thing you can't buy with your money.
The truth she's too afraid to see.