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A soft knock on the door pulls me from my reverie. A maid, her demeanor respectfully distant, stands at the threshold. "Miss Pia, Don Melchor would like to see you in his study," she relays, her eyes flickering down before meeting mine again.
A flutter of anxiety brushes against my calm. Meeting with Don Melchor so soon wasn't part of what little plan I managed to cobble together in my head. Yet, refusing isn't an option. It's a summons, not a request.
"Thank you," I reply, my voice steady despite the turmoil. The maid nods and retreats, leaving me to face this next challenge alone.
As I make my way to Don Melchor's study, I can't help but wonder about the man who now offers me refuge. An enemy of my father, yet a protector in my hour of need. The irony isn't lost on me. What does he want in return? Everything comes with a price, especially in the world we inhabit.
The door to the study looms before me, a gateway to a conversation that could alter the course of my life yet again. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what lies ahead. Whatever Don Melchor's intentions, I must navigate them carefully, for in this game of shadows, every move counts.
Walking into Don Melchor's study, my nerves tighten, not just from the anticipation of this meeting but from the realization that my fate currently rests in the hands of a man I've never met. The rumors and whispers I've heard about him do little to prepare me for the person I see standing near a bookcase, absorbed in a volume until he senses my presence.
Surprisingly, the figure that turns to greet me is not a grizzled veteran of underworld tales, but a handsome middle-aged man with an athletic build, a stark contrast to my father's more sedentary lifestyle. It's impossible not to make mental comparisons between the two men, noting the differences in appearance and the aura they each carry. Don Melchor's big, dimpled smile, warm and welcoming, is a far cry from my father's often stern demeanor.
"Please, Miss Pia, come in and close the door behind you," he says, his voice friendly, yet holding an undercurrent of authority. Obediently, I comply, stepping farther into the room and softly closing the door. Despite my situation, I find myself moving toward him with a confidence I didn't know I could muster, extending my hand in greeting. "We haven't formally met. Pia Mendoza, sir."
His smile broadens as he takes my hand, his grip firm but not overpowering. "Melchor Santos, at your service," he replies, motioning me to a chair. "But please, have a seat."
As I settle into the chair, he sits across from me. "I must apologize for not being here when you arrived, but I had business in Manila," he starts with a hint of regret. "I hope you've found the accommodations to your liking?"
I nod, acknowledging his home's comfort and safety in these tumultuous times. "I have, thank you," I begin, pausing as I gather my thoughts. The question that's been burning in my mind since my arrival pushes forward, demanding to be voiced. "But I must ask, Don Melchor. Why are you helping me? I'm essentially the daughter of your enemy. What is it that you need from me?"
The question hangs between us, its significance palpable in the following silence. I observe him, trying to gauge his reaction, to see beyond the amiable facade into the mind of a man known as much for his benevolence as his strategic acumen. In this moment, more than any other, I need to understand the game being played around me—and my role within it.
Don Melchor leans back in his chair, a gesture that fills the room with tense anticipation. I am perched on the edge of my seat, my body tensed as if bracing for an impact. His gaze drifts momentarily to the bookcases lining the room before they settle back on me. There's a hesitance, a subtle shift in his demeanor that speaks volumes. It's clear he's about to share something he holds close, which may not come easily to him.
I watch him closely, noting how his fingers tap a silent rhythm on the armrest, the slight furrow of his brow as he formulates his thoughts. It's a rare glimpse into the man behind the title, a man who, despite his power, grapples with the weight of his words.
Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice steady but laced with solemnity. "Cypress and Ritchie are my niece and nephew," he reveals, his eyes with locking mine, probing my reaction. "Their mother is my sister. I'm sure they've managed to keep this quiet, since connections to someone like me might not necessarily be seen as favorable."
The revelation sends a shockwave through me, a mix of surprise and a sudden reevaluation of everything I thought I knew. Cypress and Ritchie, the architects of my escape, the ones I've trusted with my life, are tied to Don Melchor by blood—a fact they've never mentioned, likely for good reason.
He continues, a note of protectiveness threading through his words. "And I respect this because I, too, do not want to bring harm to them." It's a declaration, a glimpse into his priorities that adds layers to the man sitting before me. Despite his reputation, his familial ties and the care he exhibits towards them shine through, painting a complex picture of loyalty and discretion.
The room seems to hold its breath, the magnitude of his admission hanging in the air. I'm left grappling with this new information, reassessing my situation through a lens I hadn't anticipated. The revelation ties me closer to Don Melchor. It adds depth to Cypress and Ritchie's actions—a depth borne of family loyalty and a hidden support network I hadn't realized I was part of.
I inhale sharply, the pieces of this intricate puzzle slowly coming together, yet leaving me with more questions than answers. Facing Don Melchor again, I can't help the skepticism gnawing at me. "I had no idea about your connection to Cypress and Ritchie. However, this revelation doesn't quite address my initial query. Why extend your aid to me?" My tone carries a hint of mistrust, reflecting the complex web of alliances and betrayals that define our world. "Given my presence here could potentially provoke my father—and considering his not-insignificant capacity to retaliate—I'm compelled to ask: what's the real reason behind your help, Don Melchor? What do you stand to gain?"
Leaning forward, the seriousness in Don Melchor's eyes matches the tone of the conversation. "Cypress mentioned your sharp intellect; I see she wasn't mistaken. Let me be frank," he begins, his voice a mix of respect and candor. "While my initial intention was to assist my niece's best friend, discovering your lineage inevitably introduced an ulterior motive."
He pauses, allowing the implication of his words to sink in. I nod slightly, indicating my understanding and prompting him to continue.
"Your father's recent alignment with El Diablo has…complicated matters for my operations. Issues have arisen, creating disruptions that cannot be overlooked," Don Melchor explains, his voice measured. "These are intricacies you needn't concern yourself with, except…" He hesitates, a brief shadow of reluctance crossing his features before he composes himself again.
"Miss Pia, the harsh reality is that your presence here may serve as leverage should I need to persuade your father to reconsider his actions. It's as straightforward—and as complex—as that."
His stark and unembellished admission lays bare the strategic calculations at play. For a moment, I'm caught off guard by his openness, the revelation of his strategy unsettling yet oddly refreshing. It's a rare glimpse into the unvarnished truth of our existence, where human lives are chess pieces on a board governed by power, loyalty, and, sometimes, betrayal.
As Don Melchor's words fade in the silence, I'm left to ponder my role in this high-stakes game. The notion of being used as leverage is not unfamiliar in our circles, yet hearing it articulated so plainly is a jolt to the system. It forces me to confront the reality of my situation, the delicate balance of being a victim and a player in a game far larger than myself.
I nod, steeling myself to reveal a piece of my truth that might complicate my refuge here. "I understand. However, you should be fully aware of my circumstances since it could add another layer to my staying here. You see, I'm engaged—" But my confession is abruptly cut short.
Don Melchor rises in one swift, startling movement, and despite my surprise, I fight to keep my composure intact. He crosses the room to my side, leaning on the desk with a familiarity that belies the gravity of our conversation. Taking my hand in his, he addresses me with an unexpected tenderness. "Child, you underestimate what I know about you. Rest assured, I conducted thorough research long before Cypress gave me her plan."
I'm struck by how deeply he's delved into my life, a notion that's both comforting and unnerving. "When I learned who my niece's best friend was, I felt compelled to keep a watchful eye. The fear that someone might connect her to me was ever-present. And in the process, I discovered…" He trails off, turning away, his sentence looming like a dark cloud.
The pause gives me a moment to digest his words, but when he resumes, his gaze laden with disgust, I'm compelled to look away. "How? How do you know?" The question escapes me before I can stop it. I've never shared the extent of his knowledge, especially in detail, with Cypress. "I don't even tell Cypress," I whisper, pulling my hand back.
Don Melchor's response is to direct my gaze back gently but firmly to his. "I have someone on the inside of your home," he confesses, a blend of assurance and regret. "I placed them there because my niece visited you, and, well…"
