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Prologue
Pia
I'm gripping the post of my bed tightly, knuckles white with the effort to hold in a scream. Tears stream down my face, each one a testament to the pain, the betrayal, the utter despair. The leather of the belt lashes against my back again, a cruel reminder of my reality. Each strike is a line of fire, burning through my skin, searing into my soul. The pain is intense, almost beyond endurance, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil within.
This isn't the first time, yet with each session, it feels like the final straw. How much more can I bear? How much more should I endure? The torture, ordered by my father and delivered by my brother's hand, is a grotesque duty, a twisted obligation he fulfills without hesitation. It's meant to discipline, to mold me into something I'm not. Something I refuse to become.
Finally, mercifully, the whipping stops. My body slumps, exhaustion and pain warring for dominance. I press my face into the plush bedding, trying to find some solace in its softness, a stark contrast to the harshness of my reality. My brother's voice filters through the haze of agony, but his words are muffled, indistinct. Not that it matters—I've long since stopped caring about his justifications, his explanations. They mean nothing to me. Nothing he says can make a difference or undo the pain and the scars—both physical and emotional—that mark me.
At this moment, all I feel is a deep, consuming anger mingled with anguish. Anger at my father for dictating this path, my brother for not hesitating to walk it, and myself for my helplessness. The betrayal cuts more profoundly than any whip, the knowledge that my own flesh and blood could inflict such pain upon me.
But beneath the layers of pain and betrayal, there's a burning ember of resolve. It's this part of me that refuses to be broken, that clings to the hope of escape, of a life beyond cruelty and my family's expectations. As I lie there, the physical pain is a constant companion. It's this sliver of hope that I hold on to, a defiant light in the darkness that surrounds me.
Time becomes a blur, marked only by the pulsing across my back and the heavy silence that fills the room. It's unexpectedly broken by Anita, the middle-aged maid who's been more a mother to me than my own ever has. "Miss Pia, please, let me help you get ready," she pleads, her voice laced with concern that reaches through the fog of my despair.
I don't move, barely registering her presence as she approaches with hesitant steps, her eyes quickly assessing the damage inflicted upon my skin. "They're not so bad this time," she murmurs, a feeble attempt at reassurance.
A bitter, hollow laugh escapes me, echoing around the room. "This time?" I echo her words, my voice dripping with venom and disbelief. The absurdity of it—the normalization of my suffering—strikes me as grotesquely humorous.
But then, the reality of whom I'm speaking to settles in. With her kind eyes and worn hands, Anita has always been gentle with me. "I'm sorry, po," I say, the tears welling up again, the respect in my voice automatic, reflecting the culture that's shaped me, even in moments of deep personal turmoil.
Anita helps me to my feet, her touch gentle, a stark contrast to the brutality I've just endured. She starts to say something about my brother, perhaps another attempt to rationalize his actions, but then she stops herself. "No, I cannot make excuses for him," she admits, her voice thick with emotion she quickly tries to hide. "My apologies, Miss Pia, I just do not understand why…" Her voice trails off as she opens the ensuite door, leaving the question in the air—an unanswerable query that haunts both of us.
"Come on, get in there while I get your clothes," she instructs, her tone firm yet not unkind, pushing me towards a small act of self-care that feels monumental in its difficulty.
I slip out of my clothes, each movement a study in agony and resilience, and step into the shower. The cool water is a balm to my inflamed back, a brief reprieve from the constant ache that clings to my skin like a second layer. I stand there, letting my tears mix with the water, mourning not just for the physical distress but for the loss of innocence, for the betrayal, and for the heavy cloak of duty and expectation that's been thrust upon me.
The shower does nothing to wash away the reality of what comes next, of the role I'm forced to play in a game whose rules are dictated by cruelty and power. But for now, I let the water carry away the tears, if not the pain, bracing myself for whatever lies beyond the bathroom door.
Descending the staircase of what feels more like a gilded cage than a family home, I steel myself for the charade that awaits. The grandeur of our modern, open home does little to mask the suffocation I feel within its walls. As I navigate the steps, soft conversations drift up to greet me, a prelude to the performance I'm about to give.
Two maids, caught in their hurried tasks, pause to smile and nod at me with respect and admiration that feels misplaced, given the turmoil churning inside me. Their brief acknowledgment reminds me of the many faces I'm forced to wear, each a mask that hides the reality of my existence. I close my eyes for a fleeting moment. "You can do this," I whisper under my breath, a mantra of defiance against the role I've been cast in.
The light click of my heels against the marble floor marks my reluctant approach to the living room, where a small gathering shifts at my entrance. I can feel their eyes on me, each glance another burden upon my shoulders. Deliberately, I avoid my brother's gaze to preserve what little peace I can muster. Instead, my father's stare finds me, and I meet it defiantly, an unspoken challenge hanging between us.
Before I can navigate the room further, Jon Marc, my fiancé, intercepts me with a possessiveness that sends a shiver of revulsion down my spine. "Mahal," he coos, his voice dripping with an affection that my heart vehemently rejects. His compliment, meant to adorn me, feels more like a shackle, and I barely suppress the urge to recoil as his lips brush the top of my hand. "You are so beautiful," he murmurs, oblivious to the turmoil he stirs within me.
Turning away, my gaze inadvertently clashes with my mother's. Her look is stern and piercing, a silent command to play the part I've been given. There's no warmth in her eyes, only the cold expectation of duty and obedience. It's a look I've come to know well, one that speaks volumes of the life I'm trapped in—a life where every smile is a lie and every gesture a calculation.
In this moment, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and power, I've never felt more isolated. Each interaction reminds me of the chains that bind me, not just to Jon Marc, but to a family and a destiny that demands everything and offers nothing but a hollow existence in return.
"Mahal," Jon Marc's voice cuts through my reverie, pulling me back from the bleak future painted by my mother's stern gaze. His grip on my hand tightens, a physical manifestation of the control he's eager to exert over me. "I want to introduce you to someone very special," he declares, his tone leaving no room for refusal. The thought of marriage to Jon Marc Apostol, a man whose jealousy knows no bounds, sends a wave of dread through me. Silently, I comply, playing the part of the obedient fiancée, while inside, a storm of resistance brews.
Then, the tranquility of the evening shatters. A scream pierces the air, followed by another, their echoes a chilling reminder of the world I belong to. Instinct kicks in, honed by years of living under the shadow of my father, Don Angelo Mendoza, and his notorious cartel. Breaking free from Jon Marc's grasp, I dash for cover, every muscle tensed for action.
As I round the corner toward the kitchen, a sudden force pulls me aside. Prepared to scream, to fight, my teeth find only air as a hand clamps over my mouth. My heart races, adrenaline surging as I struggle against my captor, but the effort is futile.
Then, a soft yet urgent whisper reaches my ear. "Don't hurt us; we're here to save you." The hand releases me, and I face my would-be assailants, ready to confront them.
My lifelong friend Cypress stands before me, her eyes wide with urgency, while her brother Ritchie looms protectively behind her. My confusion must be evident because Cypress hastens to explain, her voice a barely audible hiss. "We're getting you out of here."
I stare at them, trying to process the sudden turn of events. "What is going on?" My voice is a mix of fear and disbelief. How did a simple evening turn into a covert rescue operation?
Before I can press for answers, Cypress grabs my hand, her grip firm and reassuring. Ritchie, always the strategist, takes the lead, his eyes scanning our surroundings for threats. "There's no time," Cypress whispers, pulling me along. "Trust us."
As we navigate the chaos, the reality of my situation sinks in. Escape, a concept I've fantasized about in my darkest moments, is suddenly within reach, initiated by the most unlikely saviors. Now, distant screams blend into the background as we move stealthily through the mansion. My heart pounds, not just from the fear of being caught, but from the glimmer of hope that, for the first time, freedom might be more than just a distant dream.
The journey from Batangas to Baguio feels endless and we still need to get to Caba from there, the hours stretching into an eternity of tension and whispered conversations. "You still haven't told me where you're taking me," I finally muster the courage to say, my voice breaking the monotonous hum of the engine.
