71

The chaos outside St. Luke's was nothing short of mayhem. Cameras flashed in rapid bursts, microphones were thrust forward like bayonets, and voices called out names —

"Mr. De Torre! Sir, a word please!""Ma'am Lea, is it true your daughter lost the baby?""Is the baby alive? Did history repeat itself?"

Even with Alex and his full security detail forming a wall around them, the press broke through. The De Torre name drew blood, and the sharks smelled it.

Lea flinched when one reporter shoved a mic too close to her face, blurting, "Do you regret not leaving showbiz sooner, ma'am? Maybe things would have turned out differently—"

That did it.

Rafael stopped dead in his tracks. He turned — slow, deliberate — and the wall of noise stilled. Cameras clicked, flashes dimmed. He wasn't angry in the way people expected; his voice was steady, measured, the kind that made the ground itself listen.

"Enough."

That one word silenced the crowd.

He stood tall in his crisp shirt, sleeves rolled, his wedding band glinting in the sunlight. Lea stood beside him, her hand trembling slightly until he reached for it, holding it firm.

"You've all had your fun for years," he began, his tone low and cutting through the air. "You've written about our business, our family, our losses — like they're public property. You've turned tragedy into entertainment."

He paused, scanning the faces before him. "But this stops now."

Someone tried to interject — a journalist asking, "Sir, are you confirming that—"

Rafael raised a hand, and the voice faltered. "You don't need confirmation about things you have no right to know," he said. "You call yourselves the press — the fourth estate, the voice of the people — yet you prey on pain. You twist stories of life and death into spectacle because it sells."

He took a breath, the tremor in his chest almost imperceptible. "You keep mentioning our son. The child my wife and I never got to hold and buried eight years ago." His voice cracked faintly but steadied again. "Every time there's a tragedy, you resurrect his memory and throw it in my wife's face. You call it coverage. I call it cruelty."

Lea looked up at him then — eyes wide, tears forming — but Rafael didn't falter. His gaze locked on the sea of cameras and microphones like he was addressing the nation.

"My wife," he said slowly, "is a woman who has given her life to her craft, to this country. She has brought honor, dignity, and pride to the Philippines more than most people ever will. Yet you reduce her to one thing — the woman who lost a child."

The murmurs began to fade. A few reporters lowered their cameras.

"She deserves peace," Rafael continued, his voice firm but never raised. "And our daughter — our grandchild — deserves it too. The last thing we need is a world already writing an obituary for a child they know nothing about."

He looked straight at one of the cameras, his voice softening but losing none of its weight. "So I'm asking you. As a husband. As a father. As a man who's already buried too much of his heart — stop."

The crowd was silent now, the only sound the hum of car engines and a few distant clicks.

"Stop weaponizing our loss," he said. "Stop milking it for sympathy, for numbers, for views. Stop making my wife relive the worst day of her life because it makes good television. You've already taken enough."

He turned slightly toward Lea, his thumb brushing the back of her hand — a small, grounding gesture that said I've got you. Then he faced the cameras one last time.

"She deserves better than this," he said, quieter now but even more devastating. "She deserves to be remembered for her songs, for her work, for the lives she's touched. Not for her grief. If you want to write something, write about the strength it takes to survive this kind of pain and still stand here with her head held high."

For a long beat, no one spoke.

Even Alex, who had been ready to intervene at any moment, stood frozen. Lea blinked back tears, trying to steady her breathing. Rafael squeezed her hand once, then exhaled, nodding toward Alex.

"Let's go."

The security team ushered them toward the car. Reporters parted, some with heads bowed, some simply stunned into silence. No one dared shout another question.

Inside the car, Lea stared out the window, her reflection ghosted by city lights and fading camera flashes. She could still feel the echo of Rafael's words, how calm yet ferocious he had been.

"Paeng..." she said softly.

He turned to her, his expression unreadable.

"You didn't have to do that," she whispered, her voice shaking.

He reached for her hand again. "Yes, I did."

Her lip trembled. "They'll twist it again."

"Then let them," Rafael said quietly. "At least now they'll have to twist the truth."

Lea smiled faintly, eyes brimming. "You were magnificent out there."

He gave a short laugh, resting his head back against the seat. "I wasn't trying to be. I just couldn't stand watching them break you again."

Outside, Manila traffic blurred past in streaks of light, but inside the car, it was quiet — peaceful, even. Rafael closed his eyes, his hand still holding hers. Lea leaned against his shoulder, her body finally relaxing for the first time in days.

For once, the world had no power over them.

And in that fleeting calm between chaos and peace, Lea realized something: for all his quiet storms and the weight he carried, Rafael De Torre had always been her sanctuary — the place where every hurt found its home and every wound was met not with pity, but with fierce, steady love.