Some men lie with charm. Others with silence.
The sky behind the glass windows of the Carreon Holdings boardroom was already overcast, despite the early hour. Manila's skyline seemed swallowed by ash. It's seems like a warning.
Leo Carreon, seated at the head of the table in a crisp tailored suit, clearly wasn't present in this meeting.
Every word from his executives echoed—heard, yet meaningless.
His ballpoint pen tapped repeatedly against the table, each tap a tick of the countdown to his own paranoia.
"Mr. Carreon?" A soft voice from his right, an executive. Cautious. Yet tinged with apprehension. "Shall we proceed with the mergers—"
He didn't answer.
He returned a slow, sharp glance, enough to halt the executive mid-sentence. Silent glances exchanged around the table. Tension. Fear.
Before him: a confidential printout. It wasn't part of the agenda. It was different—and far more important.
S.V. Del Fierro's financial dossier.
He'd spent the entire night reading it. And even now, the question echoed in his mind: How had his assets grown to this magnitude in just five years?
No trail.
No birth certificate.
No identifiable presence before 2020.
But now… he held shares in Dominic Vega's former company.
Worse—he'd infiltrated the inner circle of the Carreon Group itself.
A shadow that had suddenly appeared. And now, sharing wealth that wasn't his.
Leo closed his eyes, briefly, and let out a deep sigh.
No trace.
No birth records.
No investors.
Yet he held shares in Dominic's companies…
He opened his eyes again, this time sharper, more cunning. Who the hell are you, S.V. Del Fierro?
He stood abruptly, clearly unconcerned with the remainder of his VP's report.
He passed the senior officers, who had fallen silent, exchanging nervous glances, the question hanging in the air: What was it about Del Fierro? And why had he suddenly become Mr. Carreon's target?
Reaching his executive private lounge, he pulled out his secure phone. He tapped the shortcut that went directly to Gab—the man he tasked with making things disappear or tracking them down.
"Gab, secure line. We're on the clock, right?" Leo asked, standing before the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the city as if a storm were brewing.
"Yes, sir. What's going on?"
"Put a tail on him. S.V. Del Fierro. I don't want him to disappear from my radar."
"Sir…?"
"I want to know where he sleeps, who he talks to, what buildings he enters. I want every fucking shadow he casts reported to me. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. Full surveillance protocol?"
Leo clenched his jaw.
He stared at his reflection in the glass—and behind it, a shadow that wasn't his.
"Double it."
After hanging up, a notification appeared on his phone.
1 Voice Message
Unknown Sender.
He didn't immediately check it. But before he could unlock it, it played automatically.
The voice was digitally distorted.
Sharp.
With a metallic echo.
Like a robot deliberately stripped of its humanity.
But there was coldness.
Anger.
Familiarity.
You stole my life… Now watch me steal yours.
The air suddenly grew heavy.
He wasn't just alive… He had a plan. And I'm the target…
Leo's world stopped.
His body froze. His hand trembled as he slowly placed his cell phone on the table.
Silence. But the air was heavy. As if a presence had entered the room.
FLASHBACK.
Suddenly, everything was on fire.
Flames erupted from the engine, wild and alive—devouring the car in the middle of the night like a hungry beast.
Inside, a silhouette screamed.
Clinging. Begging. Reaching out for help
But he just stood there—still... watching.
Laughing as Dominic burned.
Now, you burn to ashes, you may now rest in peace, Dominic…
A tire exploded. Heat rippled through the air like a curse released.
Still, he didn't move.
He just watched as the fire swallowed everything.
The body.
The soul.
The truth.
Until the only thing left... was silence.
He just stared as the car burned until it slowly disappeared from his sight.
BACK TO THE PRESENT.
When he opened his phone again—there was an attachment.
[Attached File: burningcar.jpg]
One of Us Stayed.
The thumbnail loaded. And when it appeared…
A car. Wrecked. Overturned on the side of the road.
Engulfed in flames. Smoke billowing in the darkness.
In front of the vehicle—a silhouette.
A man.
His fists clenched tight.
Not moving.
Not leaving.
And inside the car—something was moving.
A shadow struggling to get out.
But it was too late.
And he…
Was just watching.
But it wasn't just any man…
The stance was familiar.
The appearance was familiar.
Familiar… but impossible.
Leo recoiled. He dropped his phone.
It can't be…
But it was crystal clear.
Someone was looking at the camera before getting into the car.
And if that wasn't a ghost—it was a nightmare resurrected.
Ghosts don't send warnings. They send flowers.
One afternoon in the penthouse office of the Alvaro Foundation. Quiet. An overcast sky outside. Only the sound of the wall clock could be heard, along with the gentle tapping of the keyboard as Celeste hunched over her screen, scrutinizing the month's financial report.
There were funds that didn't match. Missing. And with everything she was doing, she no longer knew if it was just stress or if someone was deliberately doing this.
How is it that 2 million pesos is missing from the outreach fund again? she muttered to herself, irritably deleting a cell in the Excel sheet.
A knock came.
Her secretary, Myra, entered, carrying a large bouquet. An elegant bouquet of red roses, fresh, still with droplets of water. It looked like it came from an expensive florist.
"Ma'am," Myra said cautiously, "There's a delivery for you. No sender information. But there's a card inside."
Celeste frowned.
Red roses?
Years had passed since someone had sent her these. And the last time someone had touched her heart like this… was a long time ago.
No one sends her red roses anymore. Not since…
She slowly stood up.
She stood there staring at the bouquet, as if something was unusual about it.
"Where did this come from?" she asked.
"No information, ma'am. The guard didn't see who dropped it off. A delivery boy just got off the elevator… then disappeared."
A chill ran down Celeste's spine.
Silently, she took the card tucked among the flowers. She opened the card, but it felt like she was opening her entire being.
Still like red roses? - D.
D…???
Not "David."
Not "Dylan."
Not "Damian."
Not anyone…
Dominic…
The ballpoint pen fell from her hand. It clattered on the floor.
She suddenly sat down. Her hands trembled, still holding the card.
No one else knew that.
They didn't know that. Leo didn't know. Damian didn't know. Her mother didn't know…
She immediately stood up.
She rushed to the mirror on the side of the office, a large panel overlooking their entire driveway and the road that snaked between the condos.
Her eyes scanned the surroundings.
She looked at each car. Every shadow. Every possible silhouette on the rooftop across the street.
Nothing.
No one.
No car.
No Dominic.
Only the roses remained.
Bleeding red against her pristine glass desk.
Like guilt.
Like memory.
Like a warning.
She picked up the bouquet again and held a stem, but she let out a small cry when her finger pricked on a thorn.
Ouch .she whispered, as blood welled from her finger.
But that wasn't the only thing that hurt.
As she wiped the wound, she noticed something under the flowers.
It wasn't immediately obvious.
But there was a small item taped to the stem of one of the flowers.
It was matte black. About the size of a candy.
She looked closely.
A memory chip.
MicroSD.
Hidden. As if slipped in so that only she would see it.
Like a message that shouldn't be intercepted by others.
Slowly, she removed it.
A strange mix of fear and excitement filled her chest. Every hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
Holding the USB chip, she sat down again, as if it would give her the truth she'd been trying to bury for five years.
She pressed the intercom.
"Myra, please close all the blinds. And don't disturb me, no matter who comes."
"Yes, ma'am."
Celeste stared at the chip.
And whispered to herself. If you're alive… then who the hell did we bury?
Every powerful man hides two things: his wealth… and his face.
The night glittered at a high-profile charity gala at the Lucent Hotel. Champagne sparkled like gold in fluted glasses. Diamond laughter filled the room. And every guest seemed to carry a secret beneath their expensive jewelry and custom-made suits. Power mingled with perfume. Lies clinked with every glass raised.
But one name was whispered in every corner, at every table, on every edge of the ballroom.
S.V. Del Fierro.
Even before his arrival, tension hung in the air. Like an approaching storm—silent, yet felt in the wind. All eyes were fixed on the door near the grand staircase. Raised eyebrows. Whispering lips.
A silence that seemed to strangle the entire room.
Then he arrived.
A shadow first.
A presence you didn't see immediately, but felt on the back of your neck.
Then a step. And another.
The sound of his shoes on the marble—like the ticking of a clock of revenge.
Slowly.
Surely.
S.V. Del Fierro, dressed in a black-on-black, tailor-made suit, deliberately minimalist—yet every stitch exuded power.
Around his neck, a silver tie pin—not flashy, but sharp. His hair, sleek. His posture, like a king in his own kingdom.
He walked like war and wealth wrapped in skin. And even before he spoke, the impact was there. The air seemed to stop.
In the bar area, Celeste sat quietly, holding a half-empty glass of red wine. Her gaze was sideways, but her soul already knew who had arrived.
He walks like he owns the world… she murmured to herself. But he used to walk like he loved me.
She forgot how to breathe.
Every rustle of Del Fierro's leather shoes scraped against their buried past. Memories intruded between the drops of wine and the lights.
He approached investors, politicians, media personalities. Kissing hands. Sealing deals. Smiling that dangerous smile. Laughing like a god who never died. But as he laughed with the crowd, his eyes were scanning.
He wasn't mingling.
He was hunting.
Until—their eyes met.
The world.
Froze.
There were no other people.
No music.
No lights.
Only them.
Two ghosts of the same tragedy.
Celeste stopped breathing.
She seemed to see again the sea of fire. The box. The coffin. The mistake.
She stared at the man whose face shouldn't have returned.
" You wear his face…' she whispered to herself, barely moving her lips. "But are you him?"
Del Fierro walked toward her.
Gently. Surely. His movements weren't hurried, but neither were they slow. As if savoring each step for her. As if deliberately letting her feel the weight of the past with every inch of distance.
Celeste didn't retreat.
She held her ground, even though she felt her knees trembling.
But her fingers curled around the wine glass
She wanted to throw it.
She wanted to embrace him.
She wanted to scream.
But nothing. She remained silent, a picture of control, yet cracking within.
He stopped.
One step away from her.
Too close for lies.
Too far for truth.
His voice was familiar, but colder. More controlled. As if each word had been measured and sharpened.
"Good evening, Mrs. Carreon."
That name—like acid on her tongue. It struck her heart like a bullet.
She looked him straight in the eye, and replied, "You wear his name…But I know his secrets."
The space between them was filled with words never spoken, sleepless nights filled with tears, secrets unspoken even in prayer.
He leaned in, just enough for his lips to graze the shell of her ear.
And in a voice so low, so dangerous, so Dominic. "Then maybe it's time you remember yours."
Time stopped.
Celeste gasped.
She blinked.
She turned to answer, but he was gone.
He was gone.
Like a ghost.
Like regret.
Like revenge.