The sleek black sedan quietly entered the familiar street in Cavite. The hum of its expensive engine was a faint whisper in the quiet night. Behind the wheel, Adrian couldn’t help but smile. Two weeks in Singapore for a big project had left him tired.
But all of that vanished at the thought that he would finally see his mother again. Next to him on the passenger seat was a small and elegant paper bag. Inside it was a box containing an expensive silk scarf. The exact design that his mother, Lordes, had once pointed out in a magazine while they were having coffee.
“So beautiful,” she had whispered then. “But only for celebrities.” Now he held it. Just thinking of Lordes’s reaction—the surprise followed by slight protest, and ultimately the sweet, warm smile that lit up his entire world—was enough to erase all his fatigue.
He stopped the car in front of the house he grew up in. The house wasn’t big, wasn’t extravagant, but it was the foundation of his being. Every corner held memories of his late father and his mother’s endless sacrifices to raise him alone. This was the reason he worked hard, the reason he built buildings—to ensure that this foundation would remain solid for life.
He got out of the car, carrying his suitcase in one hand and the gift in the other. The first sign that something was wrong was the gate. It was slightly ajar. Impossible. Lordes was meticulous about security. She always made sure everything was locked by dusk and 8 PM at the latest. A cold dread began to creep into his chest.
He pushed the gate open and walked through the small garden that used to be full of roses and sampaguita. Now the plants were withered, and the weeds were starting to grow tall. The entire house was shrouded in darkness. No light came from the windows. No sound of the radio that Lordes usually listened to while preparing dinner.
No familiar smell of sautéed garlic or steamed rice. The only thing present was a chilling silence. “Ma?” he called. His voice echoed slightly in the night. “I’m here.” No one answered. He took out his key and carefully opened the door. “Ma!” he called again, louder this time. The living room was dark.
He fumbled for the switch on the wall and the light came on, revealing a place that was clean but lifeless. The cushions on the sofa were perfectly arranged, untouched. The air was cold and still. When he ran his fingers over the surface of the small side table, he felt a thin layer of dust on his fingertips.
The dread in his chest grew and turned into fear. Where had she gone? Was there an emergency? But why hadn’t Patricia, his wife, called him? Patricia was the one he trusted to look after Lordes while he was away. He hurried into the kitchen and turned on the light, and there he stopped dead.
What he saw felt like a punch to his gut. The refrigerator was almost empty. A few bottles of water, a piece of nearly dried-out cheese, and a small piece of vegetable starting to wilt. Not a trace of the meat, fish, or fruits he regularly sent money for. This made no sense. He sent thousands every month, more than enough for a simple life.
And Patricia herself had told him on the phone just last night that she had brought Lordes plenty of food. “Don’t worry, my love. I’m taking care of Mom. She’s even happy because she has a new favorite TV show.” That’s exactly what Patricia had said. He looked at the pantry where canned goods and rice were usually kept.
His eyes widened. There was a brand-new padlock on it. A padlock he had never seen before. Who puts a padlock on their own food storage? Questions began to swirl in his mind, each one more alarming than the last. Before he could call Patricia, a sharp sound broke the silence—the doorbell.
He hurriedly opened the door. It was Aling Teresa, their oldest neighbor, who was practically like a sister to Lordes, standing there. Her face was full of worry, her eyes puffy as if from crying. “Adrian, my child! Thank goodness you’re here,” she said, her voice trembling.
She grabbed his arm, her grip tight and desperate. “Your mother needs you.” “What happened, Aling Teresa?” asked Adrian, his heart pounding like a drum. “Where is Mom? Did she call you? Is there an emergency?” Aling Teresa took a deep breath.
Her eyes avoided his, as if struggling to say the truth. “Adrian, I don’t know how to say this. But for weeks now, my child… for weeks we’ve been seeing your mother…” she trailed off, searching for the right words. “Seeing her what?” pressed Adrian, his patience wearing thin.
Finally, she looked him straight in the eyes, her gaze full of pity. “For weeks, she’s been knocking on doors here in our neighborhood. So thin, trembling. Holding an empty bowl, begging for food.” Aling Teresa’s words were like nails hammered into his ears. It felt as if the world had stopped spinning.
“What? Begging for food? That’s impossible, Aling Teresa!” Adrian shook his head. A bitter laugh escaped his throat. “You must be mistaken. I send thousands every month. Patricia, my own wife, is taking care of her. Making sure she has enough food and everything she needs.”
A sad smile formed on Aling Teresa’s lips. She shook her head gently. “My child, that’s what we thought at first too. But we saw it, we saw it with our own eyes. Last week, she knocked on our door. She asked for just a little rice. She said she was hungry, Adrian. Your mother… she was hungry.”
The floor seemed to collapse beneath Adrian. His mother. The woman who wouldn’t let him sleep on an empty stomach, even if it meant she went hungry herself. The woman who would feed him the last piece of food on their plate during their hardest times. And now she was begging. “Where is she? Where is she now?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, broken and filled with a pain he couldn’t comprehend.
Aling Teresa pointed to the other end of the dark street where a small light came from a lamppost. “She’s there. She might be heading to Mang Manuel’s house. Maybe there’s some leftover porridge from their dinner.”
He didn’t hear the rest of what the old woman said. He dropped the gift box he was holding. A loud thud echoed as it hit the concrete floor. The lid opened, and the shimmering silk scarf spilled out. Its luxurious fabric clung to the dust and dirt—a perfect symbol of the beautiful but hollow truth he had believed. His vision was now fixed solely on the direction Aling Teresa had pointed. His feet began to move, first slowly, then into a desperate run toward the nightmare waiting for him under the dim lamppost.

Every step Adrian took felt weighted. The night air was cold, but he didn’t feel it. The only thing that prevailed was the burning fire of confusion and fear in his chest. As he approached the lamppost, a shadow gradually took shape—a hunched figure standing outside Mang Manuel’s door.
And there, under the dim and flickering yellow light, he saw her—his mother. But this wasn’t the Lordes he had left just two weeks ago. The woman before him was now just a shadow of her former self. Her once-healthy frame was now painfully thin.
Her shoulders, which used to be held high, were now slumped as if bearing the weight of the world. Her clothes hung loosely, almost slipping from her bony shoulders. Her white hair was messy, and her face, even in the darkness, showed profound exhaustion and sorrow. She held a small porcelain bowl.
She extended it slightly to Mang Manuel, who was at the door. Adrian heard his mother’s cracked and trembling voice. Words that shattered his soul. “Just… just a little broth, Manuel. Just to have something in my stomach.” She couldn’t take it anymore. That sight was a dagger that stabbed straight into his heart.
“Ma!” Adrian’s cry was full of pain and disbelief. Lordes turned at the sound of his voice. In an instant, their eyes met. Adrian saw the shock in his mother’s eyes, quickly replaced by deep shame. Her hands trembled violently. A sharp sound of breaking porcelain echoed in the quiet street as she dropped the bowl.
Its pieces scattered on the cement, along with the little porridge that was supposed to fill her stomach. She took a step back, then another, as if wanting to hide in the darkness. She didn’t want her own child to witness her lowest point. But Adrian wouldn’t let her. In a few large strides, he reached his mother and hugged her tightly.
There, all of Lordes’s remaining strength crumbled. The body Adrian embraced was so light, almost just skin and bones. He could feel every vertebra in her back through the thin fabric of her clothes. A weak sob escaped the old woman’s throat, followed by a series of cries. A hug that held within it hunger, sorrow, and shame.
“Forgive me, my child!” she whispered between sobs, her face buried in Adrian’s chest. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.” “That’s enough, Ma,” Adrian replied, his own voice trembling and breaking. He held back his own tears. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Come on. Let’s go home.”
Mang Manuel, who had been watching quietly, approached and gently tapped Adrian’s shoulder. “Take her inside Teresa’s house first, son. She cooked some hot soup. She needs to eat.” Adrian carefully guided his mother. One arm was wrapped tightly around her waist. She could barely walk. Every step was heavy.
When they arrived at Aling Teresa’s house, he carefully seated her in a chair in the kitchen. Aling Teresa immediately placed a bowl of hot soup in front of Lordes. The smell of the hot broth, chicken, and vegetables seemed like a miracle in the cold night for Lordes. It was the smell of life. Her hands trembled as she slowly reached for the spoon.
With the first spoonful, she closed her eyes, savoring the warmth that crept down her throat and into her cold stomach. And along with that warmth, tears she could no longer hold back flowed. They quietly fell from her eyes, dropping into the soup she was eating. Adrian stood to the side, a silent witness, unable to move.
Every spoonful his mother took felt like a sharp object stabbing his conscience. It felt as if a huge rock had lodged in his throat, preventing him from speaking, from breathing. He approached her and gently held her unused hand. It was cold and so thin. “Why? Why didn’t you call me, Ma?” he finally asked, his voice choked and full of pain.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lordes looked down at the floor, her voice full of shame. “I tried, son. I called you repeatedly, but you didn’t answer my calls. I texted you. I thought… I thought you were busy. I didn’t want to be a burden to you.” Adrian immediately took his mother’s cellphone from her dress pocket.
As expected, the screen was cracked and it wouldn’t turn on. “Just a moment, Ma,” he said to Aling Teresa. With her help, he used her old laptop to open Lordes’s social media account. And what he saw almost shattered what remained of his being. Dozens of missed calls and messages. “Five weeks ago: ‘My child, how are you? Always take care there.’
‘Four weeks ago: ‘Adrian, the rice is almost gone. Your wife said we need to save for now.’ ‘Three weeks ago: ‘Son, there’s no more food in the house. Please tell Patricia. She’s not answering my calls.’ ‘Two weeks ago: ‘Help me, my child. I’m hungry now.’ ‘A week ago: ‘I’m scared.’” Each word felt like a punch to his chest. How had he not seen these? How had he not felt them?
He took out his own state-of-the-art phone. He opened the settings. And there it was, under the list of blocked numbers—his mother’s number. Blocked. He couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t done this. He would never do this. So who had? The answer came like lightning—clear and terrifying. Patricia. She was the only one with access to his phone. She was the only one who knew his password. His trust in her had been absolute. But why? What was the reason?
Before he could think further, there was a knock at the door. It was Marcela, their former housekeeper who had served them for almost 20 years. Her eyes were also red. When she saw Lordes, she ran and hugged the old woman. “Doña Lordes, thank God you’re safe,” Marcela said, sobbing. Then she turned to Adrian.
“Sir Adrian, forgive me. I should have told you sooner,” Marcela said, her voice trembling. “What happened, Aling Marcela?” “Ma’am Patricia fired me. Two months ago,” Marcela explained, her voice shaking. “She caught me secretly giving food to Doña Lordes. She said I was defying her orders, that there was some diet to follow.”
“A diet?” Adrian almost shouted. “Since when has my mother been on a diet?” Marcela shook her head, tears continuing to flow. “That was just her excuse. But there’s something more important I need to give you.” She took something from her bag. An old, thin notebook. “Doña Lordes asked me to keep this for her. She wrote everything down here. She was afraid Patricia would see it.”
Adrian’s hands trembled as he took the notebook. A diary. He opened it to a page in the middle. He immediately recognized his mother’s handwriting, but it was shaky, strained, and full of sorrow. “Date: Two months ago. Adrian called earlier. I told him I was fine so he wouldn’t worry. But the truth is, I only ate stale bread all day. Patricia said prices in the market were too high and we needed to save.”
He continued reading. His heart beat faster with each word. “Date: One month ago. It’s been three days. Only water and a few crackers in my stomach. It hurts so much, but I don’t want to complain. I don’t want to be a burden to my son. I love him so much.” Adrian closed his eyes, but he turned the page.
The date written there was like a blade that cut his heart. “Date: Three weeks ago. It’s my birthday today. I am seventy years old. No one remembered. Patricia left early with her friends. They left a lot of trash from their party last night. In the trash, I found a piece of cake. I took it. It was delicious.”
He dropped the notebook. A loud thud echoed as it hit the table. He covered his face with his hands. He was panting as if he had run a marathon. *Seventy years old.* His mother’s birthday, and he had forgotten. He was busy signing a big contract in Singapore, and his mother—his mother—had eaten leftover cake from the trash. He could no longer hold back. Tears fell from his eyes. Tears of anger, regret, and a profound pain he had never felt in his entire life.
As his world crumbled, a familiar sound was heard. From his pocket, his cellphone rang. He took it out. His vision was blurred by tears. On the screen was the name “Patricia,” and below it, a message: “Hi, my love, I’m on my way home. I cooked your favorite steak. I can’t wait to see you.” Each word felt like poison. Each letter was a lie. A cold and calculated anger replaced his sorrow. He wiped his tears. It was time to face the demon.
Adrian pressed the accept call button. His thumb was trembling with a mixture of pain and anger. “My love, how was the trip? Are you tired?” Patricia’s voice on the other end was sweet and gentle, like honey hiding poison. “I’m home. I’m just waiting for you. The steak I’m cooking smells so good—your favorite.”
Adrian remained silent. His silence was heavy and full of danger. “Adrian… Rian, are you still there, my love?” Patricia asked tentatively. “I’m at Mom’s house,” Adrian replied, his voice cold and emotionless, like ice that could cut. “Oh, really? I told her. She shouldn’t go out at night. She’s so stubborn,” Patricia replied. There was a hint of irritation in her tone. “Okay, I’ll pick you up so you—”
Adrian cut her off, his tone hard as stone. “Don’t come here. Go home. We’ll talk there.” “But—” “Twenty minutes,” he continued, ignoring her protest. “I’ll be home in 20 minutes, and you better be there.” He hung up before Patricia could answer.
The weight in the room was almost suffocating. Lordes, who had finished eating, was looking at him, her eyes full of fear. “Son, don’t… don’t fight with her because of me. Please,” she pleaded, her voice weak. “I don’t want to ruin your relationship.” Adrian knelt in front of his mother and held her two thin hands.
He looked at them—the hands that had carried him, cooked thousands of meals for him, and were now trembling in fear. “Ma, listen to me,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “There is no relationship in this world more important than you. None. If I have to choose, I will always choose you. Your suffering is over. I promise.” He squeezed her hands. Then he stood up.
“Marcela, Aling Teresa, thank you so much for everything. Please, take Mom to your room first, Aling Teresa. Let her rest. I’ll come back for her. I just need to finish this.” On the walk back home, every step Adrian took felt heavier. The beautiful sedan he drove now felt like a gilded cage. The success he had worked for now felt like a huge lie, built on the foundation of his own mother’s suffering.
When he entered their modern home, the smell of garlic and butter from the cooking steak greeted him. It was the smell of their perfect life—a life he now knew was a grand deception. He saw Patricia in the kitchen, wearing an expensive apron, busy preparing. When she saw him, a bright smile lit up her lips. “You’re already here, my love,” she greeted cheerfully, approaching to hug him.
But she was met with a cold and hard wall. Adrian gently pushed her away. His eyes were dark and devoid of any trace of the love that was always there before. Patricia was taken aback. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” Adrian didn’t answer. He walked to the living room and sat on the sofa, his body tense.
He placed Lordes’s notebook on the expensive glass coffee table. Its old and tattered appearance was a stark contrast to the shiny, modern surroundings. Patricia followed, her face confused. “What’s that?” “Read it,” Adrian commanded, his voice calm but with hidden fury. Patricia took it, looking at it as if it were a dirty thing.
She opened it and began to read. A faint smile started to form on her lips. But as she continued reading, the smile gradually disappeared. It was replaced by a frown, then alarm. Her face paled. When she reached the last entry Adrian had read—the one about the cake from the trash—she looked at Adrian. Her eyes widened. “This… this is nonsense. She just made this up,” she defended, her voice starting to rise. “You know your mother, Adrian. She’s getting senile, making up stories to get your attention.”
“It was her birthday, Patricia.” Adrian’s voice was a low whisper, but it echoed throughout the room like thunder. “While my mother was eating leftovers from the trash just to put something in her stomach on her birthday, where were you? What were you doing?” He stood up, his body trembling with anger he could barely contain.
“Ah, I remember now!” she shouted back. “I was on Instagram, posting a picture of myself at an expensive spa, holding the new handbag you bought me with the caption ‘feeling blessed’! Blessed, Patricia! I didn’t know it was her birthday!” she shouted back, “And I didn’t neglect her! She’s just being dramatic! She always wants to be the victim.”
The word “victim”—the last spark that ignited Adrian’s blazing anger. The control he was desperately holding onto suddenly vanished. “Dramatic?!” His shout echoed throughout the house. “Did you even look at her? Did you see how thin she’s become? Did you feel the coldness of her hands from hunger? You call that dramatic? That?! While you live like a queen using the money I worked hard for—money that should have been for her!”
“That’s not true! I was the one taking care of her!” Patricia insisted.
At that point, something inside Adrian snapped. All the pain, regret, and anger that had built up over the last few hours exploded. In a swift motion he hadn’t thought through, he raised his hand, and a loud sound echoed in the living room.
A resounding slap landed on Patricia’s cheek.
Everything stopped. The only sound was the faint sizzle of steak frying in the pan in the kitchen. Patricia held her reddened cheek, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Adrian had never once raised a hand to her in their entire relationship.
Slowly, the shock in her eyes was replaced. A cold, dark, and dangerous fire began to blaze there. A look full of pure hatred.
“Get out.” Adrian said quietly. Every word was laced with venom. His chest was heaving. “What?”
“I said, get out of my house!” he shouted, pointing at the door. “Take your things and leave. I never want to see your face again.”
Patricia stood up straight. The pain in her cheek seemed forgotten now. A cold and dangerous smile played on her lips. “You’ll pay for this, Adrian,” she said, her voice now calm, which was even more frightening. “You’ll regret this day. You don’t know what I’m capable of. You don’t know what you’ll lose.”
She turned around. Without looking back, she walked with dignity toward their bedroom. Adrian was left standing in the middle of the living room. His palm was still numb from what he had done.
He heard the noises from upstairs—the sound of drawers opening and closing, clothes being thrown into a suitcase. The smell of burnt steak began to fill the air—a foul reminder of the burning bridge between them, the perfect life he thought he had now reduced to ashes.
And amid the smoke, he knew that what Patricia had said was not a simple threat. It was a promise. The storm had only just begun.

The next day, the sunrise seemed like a cruel reminder of the beauty of the world that Adrian could no longer see. He hadn’t slept. He had sat in the living room all night, surrounded by the ghosts of happy memories that he now knew were a grand deception.
He had taken Lordes home last night with Marcela, who had volunteered to stay and care for the old woman. He made sure the refrigerator and pantry were full before he left. But every can and every piece of bread felt like a small reparation for his colossal neglect.
Patricia’s threat—”You don’t know what you’ll lose”—echoed repeatedly in his mind. This wasn’t the threat of a hurt wife. It was the threat of an enemy.
He forced himself to get up. The pain would have to wait. What he needed now were answers.
He opened his laptop on the coffee table where Lordes’s diary still lay. He logged into his personal online banking account. The first thing he looked at was the special account he had made solely for Lordes’s monthly allowance. PHP 5,000. Every first of the month, without fail. He opened the transaction history. The deposits were there, clearly listed. But what made his breath catch were the subsequent transactions.
Just hours after each deposit went in, every month, the exact amount of Php 5,000 was immediately transferred out. Every transfer went to a single account number he didn’t recognize. For almost a year, not a single centavo had remained in Lordes’s account for more than a day.
All the money he had sent, the money that should have sustained his mother, had been systematically stolen.
A cold sweat trickled down his forehead. He took his phone and called his accountant, Roberto, who was also one of his trusted friends.
“Rob, sorry for the bother. I know it’s early,” Adrian said, trying to steady his voice. “But I need a huge favor. There’s an account number here. I need to know who owns it. Immediately.”
He gave the number. “Sure, Adrian. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back,” Roberto replied, sensing the weight in his friend’s voice.
While waiting, he tried to call Patricia. Straight to voicemail. His anger was gradually replaced by a deeper, more terrifying feeling—fear. This wasn’t simple theft. This was a plan. A calculated deception.
Minutes later, his phone rang. Roberto.
“Adrian,” he began, his voice low and serious. “Are you sure about this number?”
“Yes. Why?”
“The account is registered under Leonardo de Guzman,” Roberto said.
*Leo de Guzman.* It felt like ice had dropped into Adrian’s stomach. Leo. Patricia’s younger brother. The young man he had treated like his own brother. The shy but brilliant architect he had taken from being an intern and molded into one of the best in his company. He had entrusted him with major projects. Introduced him to important clients. Leo.
The betrayal was a sharp knife. But discovering that the knife was also wielded by someone he considered family was a poison spreading through his entire system.
Before he could process everything, a loud knock on the door caught his attention. A delivery man was holding a large brown envelope. “For Mr. Adrian Salvador,” the man said.
He signed for it and closed the door. The envelope was from a well-known law firm in Makati. His hands trembled as he opened it. Inside was a thick sheaf of legal documents—a petition for annulment, and with it, a formal demand for the division of their conjugal properties.
Everything was listed—the house they lived in, their cars, their investments, and the most painful of all—a demand for 50% ownership of Salvador Designs, the company he had built from sweat and blood. The 50% he had so kindly and trustingly placed under Patricia’s name as co-owner when they got married.
But there was another document underneath. A collection of promissory notes and loan agreements. For huge amounts, and all of them were under the name *Lord Salvador*. Her signature was there, but it looked forced and shaky. The loans were from lending companies known for high interest—loans amounting to millions of pesos.
Patricia hadn’t just stolen. She had also sunk her into debt. She had put his mother’s name in a financial trap that was impossible to escape.
His phone rang again. He expected it to be Roberto again, but an unfamiliar number appeared. He answered it.
“Mr. Salvador. This is Atty. Reyz, legal counsel for Crestwood Holdings,” said a formal voice. Crestwood Holdings—their largest client, who had commissioned a multi-billion peso condominium project they were currently completing.
“Yes, Reyz,” Adrian replied, forcing a professional tone.
“I’m calling to formally inform you that the board has decided to put the project on hold indefinitely, effective immediately. We will send a formal notice within the day.”
“What?” Adrian asked, shocked. “The project is running smoothly. We’re ahead of schedule.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Salvador, but that’s all I can disclose for now. We received a better proposal,” the lawyer said, his voice emotionless. “From a new company, Visionary Designs. It seems they have access to plans that are surprisingly almost identical to yours. But at a lower cost.”
Adrian turned his gaze to his laptop. In a flash, he typed: Visionary Designs. A newly registered company. Not much information except for the name of the sole registered owner and president: Leonardo de Guzman.
All the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell into place, forming a picture so ugly and evil. Patricia hadn’t just robbed him. She hadn’t just slandered him. This was a corporate takeover, a coup.
Patricia had used his mother’s money, her brother’s trust, and information from inside his own company to build a new entity that would gradually destroy him.
He dropped the phone on the table. The pain of a wife’s betrayal was one thing. But the systematic destruction of everything you’ve worked for—the theft not just of your money but of your future—was a different kind of evil.
He called Leo. It just rang and rang. No answer. *He knows. He already knows.* All of this was planned. His trip to Singapore, the signal for them to execute the final phase of their plan.
And he, the acknowledged genius in architecture, the man who could design buildings that withstand earthquakes and storms, had been so blind. He hadn’t seen the cracks in his own foundation. The gradual crumbling of the pillars he trusted until it was too late, and everything collapsed before him.
The hum of his car’s engine was a low growl that reflected the raging storm inside Adrian. Every red traffic light was a test of his dwindling restraint. The trip to the office of Salvador Designs, a place he once considered his second home, felt like a journey to a battlefield.
He didn’t take the private elevator. He walked through the main lobby. His face was hard as stone. His eyes were dark. The employees who greeted him with “Good morning, sir” stopped mid-sentence, noticing the heavy aura surrounding him. He ignored them. His vision was focused only in one direction—the glass-walled office at the end of the hallway. Leo’s office.
From afar, he could already see him. Leo was busy, his back to the door, but he wasn’t working. He was hurriedly putting documents and personal belongings into a cardboard box. His movements were frantic, like a thief caught in the act.
A cold smirk formed on Adrian’s lips. *Too late.*
He didn’t knock. He pushed the door open forcefully. A loud bang echoed as it hit the wall. Leo jumped in surprise, dropping a roll of blueprints he was holding. When he turned and saw Adrian, the color drained from his face. He looked like he had seen a ghost.
“Sir Adrian,” he stammered, forcing a smile. “You… you’re back early. I didn’t know you were coming back today.”
Adrian closed the door behind him and locked it. The small click of the lock sounded like a verdict. He walked closer. Each step was heavy and purposeful.
“Are you done packing, Leo?” Adrian asked, his voice dangerously calm.
“Ah, uh, yes, sir. I just thought I’d organize my things,” Leo said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “It’s gotten a bit messy.”
“Organize?” Adrian let out a bitter laugh. “Or maybe you’re moving to your new office at Visionary Designs?”
That name hit Leo like a hard slap. He froze, his eyes wide with terror. His pretense crumbled. “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” Adrian said, his voice suddenly hardening. He approached until they were just an inch apart, forcing Leo to step back until he was leaning against his desk. “I don’t know what’s more disgusting. Your theft, or the fact that you can still lie to my face.”
Adrian took out his phone and showed Leo the screen. There was the list of bank transfers. Php 50,000 every month going into Leonardo de Guzman’s account.
“Explain this,” Adrian commanded.
Leo looked at the phone, then at Adrian. His lips trembled. He had nothing to say. The evidence was undeniable. His silence was an admission.
“My mother’s money, Leo,” Adrian said, his voice now breaking with pain. “The money that should have been for her food, her medicine… you used it to fund your plan. While my mother was begging for food, your sister was living it up. And you, you served as her bank.”
Suddenly, Leo fell to his knees. He sobbed. His shoulders shook. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m so sorry, Sir Adrian.”
“I asked you earlier. Why did you do this?” Adrian insisted, unmoved by his crying. “I want to hear it from you.”
“It… it was Ate Patricia,” Leo said between sobs. “She’s been planning this for a long time. She said… she said you weren’t giving me enough credit, that you were just using my talent. She said if I joined her, she would give me my own company, we would be partners. I would have a future that you would never give me.”
Each of Leo’s words was like oil poured on the blazing fire in Adrian’s chest. She hadn’t just robbed him. She had also poisoned the mind of someone he considered his protégé.
“And my mother?” Adrian asked, his jaw clenched. “What did she say about my mother?”
Leo hesitated, crying. “Tell me!” Adrian shouted.
“She said… ‘She’s just a burden,’” Leo whispered. “‘An expense that needs to be removed so we can save faster.’ She… she was the one who ordered me to block Doña Lordes’s number on your phone when you left it at the office once. She was the one who said that if anyone asked, I should say Ma’am was getting senile.’”
That’s when the last bit of Adrian’s control exploded. He grabbed Leo by the collar and lifted him from his kneeling position.
“A burden?!” he said, his face just inches from Leo’s, his eyes blazing with anger. “The woman who fed me, took care of me, the woman who treated you more like a son than her own nephew, and you called her a burden?”
He didn’t hit him. It was worse than that. He let him go as if he were a dirty rag. Leo fell back to the floor.
“Stand up!” Adrian ordered, his voice now devoid of any emotion. “Take your box and get out of this company. From now on, I don’t know you. Never show your face to me or my family again.”
Trembling, Leo stood up. He picked up his box and walked towards the door, unable to look Adrian in the eye.
“Leo,” Adrian called just before he opened the door. Leo turned around, his face wet with tears, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Return every single centavo,” Adrian said. Each word was heavy and final. “Every centavo you stole from my mother. Because if you don’t, I will make sure not only your architect’s license is gone, I will make sure you go to prison with your sister.”
Leo opened the door and ran out of the office, carrying the box of his dreams that was now a symbol of his betrayal.
Adrian was left alone in the middle of the room, panting. The triumph of getting a confession from Leo was tasteless, without satisfaction. The only thing present was the bitter truth of the double betrayal.
As he stood there amid the blueprints of towering buildings, he felt himself collapsing.
Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Marcela, and the voice on the other end was full of fear and urgency.
“Sir Adrian, you need to come home here right now!” she shouted. “There are people here from the bank. They have papers. They said… they said they’re going to take Doña Lordes’s house.”
Marcela’s words hit him like lightning. *Take the house.* Those three words were more painful than all the lies he had heard. That house wasn’t just a structure of wood and cement. It was the last bastion of his father’s memory. His mother’s sanctuary, the only wealth that money couldn’t buy.
“I’m on my way,” he shouted into the phone and ran out of the office—company matters and Leo’s betrayal temporarily set aside. There was something more important to save.
He quickly made his way back to Cavite. Every passing minute felt like an hour of torment.
When he arrived on their street, his worst fear awaited him. A white van with a bank logo was parked in front of their house. Two men in uniforms, carrying clipboards, were standing outside the gate, talking to a trembling Lordes. Marcela was beside her, tightly holding the old woman’s arm as if preventing her from collapsing.
“You have no right to enter. This house isn’t yours,” he heard Lordes say, her voice thin but with a hint of resistance.
“We’re sorry, ma’am, but we have an order from the court,” one of the men explained, a fake pity evident in his tone. “You have a large unpaid debt.”
“Debt? What debt?” Lordes asked, shocked.
Before the man could answer, a strong voice cut through the conversation.
“I am the owner of this property, and I’m telling you, no one is entering this house.”
They all turned. Adrian was walking quickly towards them, his eyes blazing. He positioned himself between his mother and the bank representatives.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I am her son,” Adrian answered firmly. “And I want to see the papers you’re talking about.”
A thick folder was handed to him. He opened it. His eyes quickly scanned the documents. There they were. The loan agreements he had seen earlier, worth millions, with his mother’s signature—obviously forged or forced. The house and lot were mortgaged as collateral. And because they hadn’t been paid for three months, the bank had the right to start the foreclosure process.
A diabolical plan. Patricia had taken the money and left the debt and the threat of homelessness to his mother.
“There’s something wrong with these documents,” Adrian said, trying to calm himself. “This signature is forged. We’re willing to take this to court.”
“That’s up to you, sir,” the man replied. “But for now, we need to do our job. We need to assess the property.”
The commotion had attracted the attention