Andi arrived in Batangas early, but she immediately felt the weight and richness of the land the moment they passed under the hacienda's archway. Vast. Quiet. The kind of silence that makes you wonder if people actually live there—or if ghosts were just peeking out of the windows of the huge house.
And when she saw the mansion…
She let out a long breath.
It looked like a scene straight out of her grandmother's old telenovelas. Old-yet-new. Spanish-modern. Thick walls, arched windows, massive pillars—yet freshly painted, with a clean garden and modern cars parked at the side.
If she didn't know it belonged to her family, she might've thought it was a film set.
The car stopped. The driver quickly stepped out to open the door for her.
As soon as her foot touched the ground, she noticed three household staff lined up by the stairs, wearing dark blue uniforms with lace collars—traditional-looking, but not over the top.
"Buenos días, Señorita Andrea." They bowed in unison.
Andi blinked. It was the first time in her life anyone had called her Señorita. She was forced to give a gentle smile—the kind of soft Maria Clara smile—because she honestly didn't know how else to react.
"Good day," she answered softly, almost demurely, partly out of necessity and partly out of shock.
She stepped inside.
When the grand doors opened, cold air greeted her, along with the scent of wood and the muted echo of luxurious, careful footsteps.
And there—seated on sofas like they were in their own throne rooms—were some of the Dela Vuega family members.
Women and men dressed in barong and bestida like Doña Victorina and her companions. Rigid posture, thick pearls, perfectly arranged hair as if constantly ready for a photoshoot.
The first to approach her was an elderly woman with a fan, a sharp nose, and an "I judge you" expression in every blink.
"Ah… so you're Catalina's daughter." Her voice was soft but heavy.
Andi smiled politely, Maria-Clara-mode-on. "Yes, I'm Andrea."
"Hm." The old woman leaned closer, as though checking whether Andi was real or made of clay.
A younger man in a barong—too handsome but clearly snobbish—stood up. "Welcome to Batangas, cousin." He kissed her on the cheek like they'd been close since childhood.
Then another followed. And another. Every smile was picture-perfect, but their eyes didn't move.
But Andi remained composed, calm, with a Maria Clara aura. Because if there was anything she inherited from her mother's lineage… it was poise.
"Sit down, hija," one of the aunts said. "Your grandfather told us you would visit."
Andi sat properly, slowly, almost as if centuries-old etiquette was possessing her.
"Hacienda Dela Vuega is one of our oldest properties," said an uncle wearing a monocle. Yes—a monocle, like an extra from El Filibusterismo.
"It carries a great responsibility," added another aunt.
"But we're not worried," the snobbish cousin inserted, smiling smugly. "Because you look much more… cultivated than we expected."
Translation: We thought you were a promdi.
But Andi simply smiled. Gentle. Tension-free.
"I can manage the hacienda. I just need to see everything myself," she said—soft but firm.
The relatives exchanged looks, clearly impressed even if they didn't want to show it.
Then someone leaned forward. "You sound so much like your mother."
And for a brief moment, Andi felt a sting in her chest.
But she maintained the smile. Just like her mother would've done.
---
She was immediately led to the balcony overlooking the entire property.
Vast fields. Workers tending to the soil. Pastures with cattle. Mango trees heavy with fruit. Thirteen small huts for workers. Wide and expansive lands—like a sea of green.
"This is what your sibling wants?" A cousin asked. "All of this—for a child?"
Andi smiled. "He's not just a child. He's one of the true heirs of the Dela Vuega."
Silence fell.
A true child of their bloodline. A leader.
This was their land. Their history. Their family's old wounds and old power.
And somewhere far away, back at home, Gesly was probably still playing games, completely unaware that his older sister now held half of his future in her hands.
---
She didn't waste time. After speaking with the relatives inside the mansion, Andi decided to do what needed to be done: tour the entire hacienda.
"I want to see the fields and the people. Not just the documents," she told one of the caretakers.
The Dela Vuega officials exchanged glances—clearly not used to a señorita who wanted to walk into the fields herself. But who were they to refuse? She was the heiress. And more than that—grandchild of the owner.
"This way, Señorita Andrea," the caretaker said as they walked from the mansion toward the rice fields.
The sun was bright but the breeze was cool. The air smelled of soil, leaves, and life.
Andi wore a simple white blouse and dark denim jeans, black leather boots with small heels—like a modern Maria Clara with a hint of badass energy. But on her first step onto the mud—
Squish
She didn't complain. Showed no discomfort. Not even a hint of irritation.
The workers looked at her—then at her boots—then at her calm, clear face, as if she never got dirty at all.
"Señorita… you might get mud on you," one farmer said nervously.
She smiled, simple and light. "It's alright. This is part of the job."
And that's when the whispers began.
"Is she really a Dela Vuega?"
"Huh? For real? The granddaughter of the owner?"
"She's beautiful—like Maria Clara."
"But she's not snooty, huh? She's stepping into the mud."
"Her voice is so gentle. Calm."
"Feels different. Not like the rich people we see on TV."
With every question she asked—
"How's the harvest?"
"Any issues with irrigation?"
"Are you getting enough fertilizer?"
—the workers stared in awe. They didn't expect a Dela Vuega who knew how to listen. They didn't expect someone who introduced herself politely, used "po" and "opo," and treated them like people—not employees.
Andi walked with them along the narrow path. Hot, dusty, sometimes slippery with mud—but she didn't slip, didn't complain, didn't ask for shade.
"You're the Don's granddaughter?"
An older farmer—like a father figure to the rest—approached and bowed slightly.
"If you don't mind, Señorita… is it true you're the Don's grandchild?"
Andi stopped walking. Took a deep breath. Smiled warmly.
"Yes. He's my grandfather. My mother was his only child."
The workers exchanged glances. Some muttered "Jose Santa Maria." Some looked up to the sky as though thankful. Some whispered, "So pretty… must have Spanish blood."
"I'm here because I want to know what needs fixing," Andi added. "I'm not perfect. But I'll do my best."
Everyone paused. Silent. Then suddenly, someone clapped. Then another. Until the entire group of workers was applauding.
"Thank you, Señorita!"
"Thank you, Ma'am Andi!"
Andi blushed, but simply smiled. Noble. Light. As if the weight of the hacienda wasn't on her shoulders—but a responsibility she was ready to embrace.
And far away in Manila, Bella was probably draining her gadget's battery from playing games, while Gesly and Alonzo argued over who was the real MVP first.