Charlene's POV
Kerill brought me to his family's company—Blue Winter.
I recognized the name immediately. It was impossible not to. I'd seen it on television countless times, featured in fashion segments and commercials. Their designs were well-known, especially their clothing. Walking into the building felt unreal, and I couldn't stop myself from staring in quiet awe.
I stayed off to the side, holding a folder I wasn't supposed to be touching.
I'd noticed it earlier when I stepped into his office. It was already open on the desk. I hadn't meant to pry. I hadn't gone in with any intention of interfering. But once I caught a glimpse of what was inside, my eyes refused to look away.
They were clothing sketches.
They were good—clean lines, refined concepts. Professionally done.
And yet, the longer I studied them, the more my brow furrowed.
They weren't bad.
They weren't wrong.
But something felt missing.
Like they needed more.
Like there was a detail that hadn't quite been finished.
I knew I had no right to think that way. I wasn't a designer. I wasn't part of this company.
Still, my thoughts wouldn't stop.
I carefully closed the folder and placed it back on the desk. I was just about to leave when a voice spoke behind me.
"What are you doing with those designs?"
I froze.
Kerill stood by the doorway, posture straight, gaze fixed on me. He wasn't angry. He wasn't smiling either.
"I—I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I didn't mean to touch them. They were already open."
He walked closer, looking down at the folder as if he knew every page by heart.
"Do you see anything wrong?"
I hesitated. I didn't answer right away. I was afraid he'd dismiss me—tell me I didn't understand what I was looking at.
"If there's nothing," he added calmly, "then say so."
I took a breath.
"It feels like something's missing."
His eyebrow lifted slightly. "Like what?"
I hesitated, then stepped back toward the desk. I picked up one sketch and pointed to a section, explaining what I felt could be improved, what might be added. I was surprised he actually listened—even though I wasn't sure myself if I was making any sense.
"And the colors," I added, my nerves stronger now than my confidence.
When I finished, he didn't respond. He only stared at the sketches, brows drawn together.
The silence stretched.
"Are you a designer?" he asked suddenly.
I shook my head. "No."
"Any background in fashion?"
"None."
He nodded once. "Then why do you sound so sure?"
I looked down at the sketch.
"I don't know," I admitted. "It just feels like it needs something more."
He picked up a pencil and studied the paper.
"If you were to change anything," he said, eyes still on the design, "what would it be?"
I took another sketch and pointed.
"I'd remove this. Add more volume here."
As I spoke, he began drawing—adjusting the sketch according to everything I said.
When he finished, he nodded slowly.
"You have taste."
I stared at him, caught off guard, unable to reply.
"There's a meeting tomorrow," he said.
I looked up. "Oh… okay?" I said, confused.
"You're coming."
"What?" Why would I?
"You'll just listen," he added immediately. "Don't speak unless you're asked."
"But I'm not—"
"I know," he cut in. "But I want you there."
I had no response.
"But—"
"No buts. Prepare yourself."
And then he walked away.
---
The next day, I sat at the far end of the conference table, quiet, listening. Some of what they discussed went over my head. Other times, I wanted to speak—but I stayed silent. I didn't feel like I had the right.
"Do you have anything to add?"
Kerill's voice cut through the room.
Had he been watching me this whole time?
Everyone turned toward me. I froze.
"Huh?" I asked.
He nodded.
I took a deep breath and slowly shared my thoughts—suggestions on the new designs, ideas that might appeal more to the public. No one interrupted me. No one reacted. The silence made my chest tighten.
When the meeting ended, I could feel eyes following me as I stepped outside—not angry, just curious.
"They liked your ideas," Kerill said suddenly behind me.
"Really?" I couldn't hide my smile.
"But don't get too happy," he added. "They didn't say anything because I was there."
My smile faded.
"That would've been perfect if you didn't add that," I muttered, walking ahead of him.
I heard him laugh softly—quiet, brief.
It was the first time I'd ever heard him laugh.
---
When we got home, I passed by Wency's room. The door was slightly open, and she stepped out—pale, unsteady.
"Wency, are you okay?" I asked.
She scoffed, then suddenly collapsed. I rushed forward, catching her.
"Oh my God—are you okay?" I gasped.
She was burning with fever.
"You're really hot," I said, lifting her back onto the bed and checking her forehead.
I called Manang Dores for the thermometer. Just as I feared, her temperature was high.
"She needs to be watched," I said. "Please call Kerill."
Wency shook her head weakly.
"Don't…"
"Wency—"
"I don't want to," she whispered. "He's busy."
"That's not an option," I said gently. "You're not well."
She didn't respond again—just closed her eyes, too tired to argue.
I didn't wait for Kerill. I got a damp towel, changed the sheets, helped her drink water. Slowly. Carefully. Thankfully, Wyl was asleep in the other room, leaving the house quiet.
I stayed with her. She didn't complain. Her fever went down slightly, but I was still worried—especially when Kerill arrived late that night.
He didn't ask questions right away. He simply entered the room, looked at Wency, then at me.
"How is she?" he asked.
"Her fever went down," I replied.
He nodded and sat beside the bed, eyes fixed on his sleeping daughter. The concern on his face was impossible to miss.
"Did you call the doctor?"
"Yes."
The doctor arrived shortly after. Viral fever. Rest. Monitor the temperature closely.
"Stay with her tonight," the doctor said before leaving. "If the fever rises again, call me immediately."
We both nodded. Silence settled between us.
"If it's okay," I said quietly, "I'll stay with her."
Kerill didn't answer right away. He looked at Wency.
"Do what you think is necessary," he said at last.
---
The night passed slowly.
I changed the towel again and again. Gave her medicine. Checked her temperature. Sometimes she woke up, sometimes she didn't. When she did, she only looked at me—as if she wanted to say something but didn't know how.
Kerill stayed the entire time. Sitting nearby. Silent. Still.
Around midnight, I noticed his eyes were closed, head tilted against the chair. He'd fallen asleep.
I didn't wake him.
"Charlene…" Wency whispered suddenly.
"I'm here," I said, rushing closer.
"It's hot…"
"I know," I murmured, wiping her forehead again. "It'll go down."
I held her hand.
By dawn, the fever finally broke.
I sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted, still holding her hand until sleep took me too.
When I woke up, it was morning—and a blanket rested over my shoulders.
Kerill stood nearby, awake, watching us.
"Her fever's gone down," I said.
He nodded. "Thank you."
"So you do know how to say that," I teased weakly.
He looked away.
"I'm going to rest outside for a bit," I said, standing up slowly.
Before I could leave, a small but clear voice spoke behind me.
"Tita…"
I turned. Had I heard that right?
"Don't go."
I smiled, tired but warm.
"I'm not leaving."
For the first time, I saw Kerill smile—not at me, but at his daughter.
I returned to the bedside, brushing Wency's hair gently.
"Get better," I whispered.