JANUARY 2026
LILLIAN
The elevator ride dragged, a slow, vertical descent into a world that had become entirely unmoored. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a piercing, microscopic hum, casting a harsh, clinical glare over the linoleum flooring. Every step down the long corridor felt completely detached—rubber soles squeaked against the polished floor, and a metallic taste of adrenaline remained dry on the back of the tongue. My hands felt unnaturally cold, heavy objects at the ends of my sleeves that didn't seem to belong to me at all.
Outside the heavy glass doors of the condominium complex, Liam stood by the passenger side, holding the door open. He should have been in Madrid with Cassie, basking in the sunlit warmth of their honeymoon. Instead, his dark suit was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot from a shared nightmare, as he helped to shoulder the unbearable weight of Isaac's death. The stark injustice of it brought a sudden, sour wave of guilt. After everything that had broken between us, there was no logical reason to deserve his comfort. Yet, he stayed.
Liam kept his hand on the frame, his gaze fixed on the pavement as he opened the car door for me.
I hesitated.
The open car door loomed like a threshold. Getting in meant accepting the destination. It meant facing the reality of a formal wake. Facing the family. Facing Isaac, preserved in a polished wooden box.
When the door closed behind me, it cut off the city sounds, replacing them with the low, steady vibration of the engine.
Liam didn't speak during the drive, and I was grateful for that. Words would have broken me. The silence between us stretched tight and heavy, a fragile truce against the grief that threatened to tear through the cabin if anyone dared to breathe too loudly. Outside the glass, the city blurred into a collage of gray concrete and flashing yellow traffic lights. Pedestrians navigated the sidewalks, children ran along the curbs of Western Bicutan, and street vendors set up their carts under the fading afternoon light. Life continued, entirely indifferent to the sudden absence of a man who had commanded so much space within it. For the first time, it hurt to watch a world that no longer included him.
When the limestone facade of the funeral home finally came into view, a profound, hollow numbness settled deep in my chest. My lungs didn't lock; they simply felt empty, drawing in air that did nothing to warm me.
This was the end of the line.
Liam parked, turned slightly in his seat, and whispered, "I'm right here." But his voice arrived as a distant, muffled frequency, entirely drowned out by the static roar of silence in my ears as I stepped out into the sharp, cold air.
Every step toward the entrance felt like drifting through a dream where the physics of the world no longer applied.
And then—I walked into the wake.
My eyes instantly found Isaac's family.
His mother looked small in her chair, her shoulders curved inward, fragile and hollowed out by loss. Beside her stood his father, red-eyed, rigid, and vibrating with a dangerous, quiet fury. Cassie and Tito Lucian stood just behind them, surrounded by relatives whose hushed prayers created a low, vibrating drone against the walls. The room was thick with mourning.
I froze at the doorway, a sudden, blinding heat flaring up my neck as the weight of their collective sorrow pressed against me.
Should I continue walking?
Should I turn around and flee?
But before I could decide, I saw him. Isaac's father, a man built of stone and pride, stood near the casket. The moment his eyes landed on me, the grief in his lined face curdled instantly into a sharp, venomous rage.
"You," he hissed. The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the hushed prayers like a blade, drawing every eye in the room. He stepped away from the casket, his face flushing a deep, dark crimson. "You have the audacity to show your face here?"
The older man stepped forward, his voice cracking with a terrifying, raw rage that echoed off the high ceiling. He pointed a trembling finger directly at me. "He died chasing you! He threw away his life, his future, everything—for a woman who couldn't wait to leave him! Tell me, Lillian... was it worth it?"
I couldn't even blink. My vision focused entirely on the microscopic twitch of his jaw. The accusation was an absolute truth, and instead of crying, I felt my posture go entirely rigid, locking me in place under the execution of his words.
Before the older man could close the distance between us, Liam stepped directly into his path. Without a word, Liam anchored his weight between us, placing a firm, unyielding hand flat against Mr. Ramirez's chest. The physical barrier was silent but absolute, shielding me from the grieving man's fury.
"Enough, Roman."
The voice was quiet, but it commanded the room. Isaac's mother stood up from her chair. Her eyes were red-rimmed and surrounded by deep, purple shadows, but she moved with a heartbreaking, quiet grace. She stepped between us, placing a pale hand over Liam's wrist until the tension in the space deflated, and her husband finally backed away. Then she turned to me. I braced for another accusation, perhaps even a physical blow, my teeth grinding together in anticipation.
Instead, she took my cold, lifeless hands in hers.
And the rigid armor I had built over the last forty-eight hours shattered instantly.
"I'm sorry..." I sobbed, the confession tearing from my throat, ragged and wet. "I—I'm so sorry..."
Isaac's mother looked at me, her eyes softening as she took in my unraveled state.
"Oh, Lillian..."
She wrapped her arms tightly around me, and the moment she did, the emotional gravity pulled me down. I didn't collapse out of physical weakness; I simply let go, sinking into the hard carpet as she knelt with me, holding me close as I cried into her shoulder, my entire soul unraveling in her embrace.
"It's alright," she whispered into my hair, her own voice breaking as her hand gently rubbed slow, steady circles on my back, a grounding, maternal touch. "Just let it out."
I couldn't speak. I just leaned into her, sobbing quietly as she held me, offering the mercy I didn't deserve.
The sky was gray the day we buried Isaac.
It was a flat, featureless gray, a dull metallic sheet that made the entire cemetery look drained of color. The wind remained perfectly still, creating a heavy, stagnant atmosphere that felt entirely claustrophobic. People arrived slowly, their faces drawn, their steps heavy, and their voices hushed into careful whispers. But all I could hear was the clockwork clicking of my own detached thoughts.
The pastor's voice faded into a meaningless acoustic drone as I watched Isaac's casket being lowered into the ground. The polished mahogany wood glinted under the weak sunlight. I didn't cry. My eyes were completely dry, staring at the dark wood with an intense, hyper-focused clarity. Finality wasn't an abstract concept anymore; it was a physical box sinking into a hole.
Soft, broken sobs escaped Isaac's mother, muffled against her husband's chest. He held her tight, though his own large shoulders shook with a silent, heavy sorrow he couldn't hide.
Liam stood between me and Cassie, his brow furrowed in a mask of worry. He drew us close, his palms warm against our backs to hold us steady, while they watched the rich, dark soil swallow what remained of Isaac.
I couldn't look away from the casket. My chest felt tight, but it was a cold, constricting pressure, like a band of steel wrapping around my ribs, keeping the grief perfectly contained.
When the pastor finally closed his Bible, people stepped forward with flowers. White roses. Orchids. Each one a final goodbye.
I approached the grave last.
I held the single white rose I had brought. My fingers were steady now, frozen by the chill of the afternoon as I lowered it onto the casket, watching it fall through the shadows.
"I'm sorry..." I whispered.
A sudden, sharp gust of wind picked up, brushing my cheek like a cold, parting farewell.
The funeral ended, but I remained anchored to the grass, drifting into a dissociative daze where the cemetery around me seemed to lose its depth, flattening into a painted backdrop. Most of the mourners had already retreated to their cars, but a lone figure lingered by the edge of the path. It was Liam. He approached me slowly, his leather shoes sinking slightly into the damp sod.
"Lillian, we should go," he whispered, returning from the car to check on me.
I didn't answer right away. I just stared down at the fresh earth, at the white roses sitting on top of the soil. It looked so small against the vastness of the grave.
"Lillian?" Liam's voice was softer this time, a gentle tug trying to pull me back to reality.
"Okay," I whispered.
My legs felt incredibly heavy, a dull ache radiating through my joints as I finally turned my back on that plot of land. Liam walked beside me, his hand hovering near my elbow, keeping a watchful eye on my uneven stride. But I didn't falter. I just kept moving mechanically until we reached the car. The door clicked shut, sealing us back into that familiar, suffocating silence.
Liam started the engine. He didn't ask where we were going; he just assumed he was taking me back to my apartment—back to my self-made prison of cardboard boxes and gray shadows. He shifted into drive and the car began to roll forward, leaving the cemetery behind.
I watched the gates recede in the side mirror. A sudden, sharp prickle of irritation flared in my chest—an irrational anger at the thought of going back to my empty apartment, to stare at the ceiling and drown in my own thoughts. I couldn't go back there. Not yet.
There was one place left. One place where the ghost of him was loudest.
"Kuya," I rasped, the word scraping against my dry throat.
Liam glanced at me, his brow furrowed with instant concern. "Yeah, Lil? Do you need me to pull over? Are you sick?"
"Don't take me home." I swallowed hard, staring straight ahead through the windshield. "Take me to Isaac's."
The car drifted slightly across the lane marker before Liam corrected the steering wheel with a sharp jerk. He didn't say anything for a long moment, the silence stretching tight between us. I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter until his knuckles showed white.
"Lillian... I don't think that's a good idea," he said gently, his tone laced with caution. "You've been through too much today. Going there... it's only going to hurt more."
"Please," I whispered. I turned to look at him, my eyes burning with a desperate, heavy plea. "Just drive me there... Please."
Liam looked at me, seeing the raw, broken edges I couldn't hide. He let out a long, defeated breath and signaled to change lanes.
"Okay," he murmured. "Okay."
The drive across the city was a blur of concrete overpasses and a bruised gray sky. The afternoon light was dying rapidly, casting long, somber shadows over the streets. I kept my forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, watching the familiar landmarks appear one by one.
As we neared the high-end residential district of Makati, my pulse began to race, a rapid, frantic tapping in my wrists. Finally, the car slowed down.
Liam pulled up to the sleek, modern canopy of the luxury high-rise. The building stood tall and imposing, its glass facade reflecting the bruised colors of the evening sky. It was the building where Isaac's penthouse was.
The security guard at the gate looked at the car, his expression instantly shifting as his eyes locked onto my face. The morning papers and the online tabloids had already plastered my wedding photo across every major news outlet, branding me as the infamous central figure in the high-society tragedy. Recognizing me instantly from the headlines, his eyes filled with a deep, sorrowful pity. He offered a somber, respectful nod and opened the barrier without asking for an ID or an entry permit, honoring the legal access I still held while the annulment remained unfinalized.
Liam drove up the sweeping concrete ramp and brought the car to a final halt right at the main entrance. The polished glass doors of the lobby loomed just a few feet away, brightly lit, warm, and utterly terrifying.
"We're here," Liam said softly, shifting the car into park.
The engine hummed softly in the background, a low vibration that felt entirely detached from the cold numbness freezing my limbs.
"Do you want me to come up with you?" Liam asked, his hand resting on the back of the passenger seat as his eyes searched my face.
I looked at the bright, immaculate lobby beyond the glass doors. "No," I whispered, my voice barely finding its way out. "I need to do this alone."
He didn't argue. He just gave my shoulder a gentle, supportive squeeze. "I'll be right here. I'm not leaving, Lillian."
Getting out of the car felt like stepping into an alternate reality. The air-conditioned cold of the lobby hit me, carrying the familiar scent of expensive white tea and polished marble. The concierge didn't ask questions. He kept his eyes carefully averted, staring at his desk out of respect for a grief—and a public scandal—too heavy to look at directly.
The elevator ride to the penthouse was a vertical blur. My reflection in the mirrored walls looked like a ghost—pale skin, dark circles, wrapped tightly in a black dress and coat that felt looser than it had this morning.
The doors slid open, revealing the private foyer. There was only one door on this floor.
Isaac's door.
My legs moved on autopilot until I was standing right in front of it. The dark metal and glass loomed over me, solid and unyielding. It looked exactly the same as it had the last time I was here.
My breath caught in my throat. I reached out, my hand hovering inches away from the sleek, digital lock panel.
What am I doing here?
A sudden wave of nausea hit me, the reality of my intrusion twisting in my stomach. This wasn't my home anymore. I had signed it away. I had walked away.
I let my hand drop to my side, my fingers curling into fists against the fabric of my dress. I turned around, intending to press the elevator button and run back to Liam's car, back to the safety of my own dark apartment. But I stopped and turned back.
With a trembling index finger, I tapped the black glass panel. It woke up with a soft, electronic chime, the blue numbers glowing in the dim light of the foyer.
My mind raced back to the day he called me after I moved out. "I didn't change it," he had told me over the phone, his voice sounding completely hollow through the receiver. "In case you ever need to get your things."
I had just shoved it off then. I had been too eager, too focused on my escape to Ireland to care.
My fingers trembled as I reached out again, tapping the numbers in reverse.
3...2...5...1...2...0
It was our wedding anniversary. February 15, 2023.
The final beep echoed loudly in the quiet hallway. For a terrifying second, nothing happened. Then, a heavy click resonated deep within the mechanisms of the door, followed by a cheerful, ascending chime.
The lock retracted. The small LED light flashed green. The door was unlocked.
As the door creaked open, a familiar silence welcomed me—deep, heavy, and almost suffocating. I stepped inside, and my breath hitched.
There on the wall, hanging precisely where my shadow used to fall, was the small oil painting he had told me about in the car. The brushstrokes of the Irish coast were vivid, capturing a wild, lonely sea under a heavy sky—the very place I was supposed to escape to. Seeing it there, exactly where he said he would put it, felt like a physical blow. I stood before it for a long beat, staring blankly at the frame, realizing it was the last thing he had arranged for us before the darkness took him.
Finally, I tore myself away and walked up the stairs, navigating the wide steps by touch alone.
I wandered deeper into the house until I reached his room. I pushed the door open, inhaling the faint scent that still lingered on his pillows. Fresh cotton. A little of his cedarwood cologne. A little of him.
I sank into the mattress, the weight of my body sinking into the heavy comforter. The house was so quiet, a heavy, suffocating pressure that felt like an anchor dragging me down into the sheets.
The heavy, suffocating silence of the room was suddenly shattered by the sharp, metallic buzz of my phone in my lap. The screen illuminated the dim room, casting a harsh blue glow over the sheets.
I didn't want to look. I wanted to bury myself in his scent and pretend the world outside didn't exist. But the screen blinked again, a barrage of push notifications flooding in.
My trembling fingers lifted the phone. It was a lifestyle and business news alert, a headline that felt like a physical blow to my chest:
TRAGIC END TO A HIGH-SOCIETY UNION: Billionaire Heir Isaac Ramirez Dies Days After a Petition for Annulment
Beneath the bold text was a photograph.
It was a picture from the annual summer gala two years ago. In the photo, Isaac was looking down at me, his hand resting securely on the small of my back. He wasn't looking at the cameras; he was looking only at me, a rare, genuine smile softening his usually guarded features. I was laughing at something he had whispered, my eyes bright with a hope I had tried so hard to suppress.
A single tear spilled over my lashes, landing directly on the cold glass of the screen, right over Isaac's face. I smeared the moisture away with my thumb, tracing the sharp line of his jawline in the photo.
Why did we end up here?
As my thumb lingered on his image, the phantom voice of his father violently punctured the quiet room, echoing in my mind like thunder.
"He died chasing you! He threw away his life, his future, everything—for a woman who couldn't wait to leave him! Tell me, Lillian... was it worth it?"
The words tore through me, sharper now than they had been at the wake, arriving with the weight of absolute truth.
My breath hitched as a wave of realization and agonizing confusion crashed over me.
Questions began to claw their way up my throat, frantic and chaotic. What did Mr. Ramirez mean? Did Isaac not want me to leave? If he wanted me to stay, why did he sign the papers so quietly? Why did he let me walk away into the dark without a single word of protest?
I had so many questions. A lifetime's worth of them. But the absolute, crushing finality of the dirt I had just watched fall over his casket hit me all over again.
He was gone.
He had taken all the answers with him, leaving me with nothing but shadows.
An iron weight of guilt settled deep into my bones, heavy enough to slow the rhythm of my heart. I pulled his pillow against my chest, gripping the fabric until my knuckles turned white, burying my face in the fading scent of his cologne.
Just let me turn back time.
Let me save him.
Let me stay.
"Please..." I whispered desperately to the empty, uncaring room.
But the clock on the nightstand just kept ticking forward, a silent, rhythmic progression that left me entirely alone in the house where we used to pretend to be happy.