2

For the first time in nearly a week, the rain had stopped. The morning light poured through the kitchen window, soft and forgiving, but Rafael still hadn't found his voice.

He sat at the dining table, untouched breakfast in front of him, phone screen dark. He looked like a man suspended — breathing but not moving, thinking but not speaking. Lea had stopped trying to fill the silence. It had become a living thing between them, something she could almost hear humming beneath the sound of the ceiling fan.

When Liam finished his meal, she sent him off to play and lingered in the kitchen, eyes on Rafael's stillness. The phone was there, within his reach, yet he hadn't touched it once.

By midday, she returned to her desk, opened her laptop, and saw the message she'd sent two days ago — her email to Ramona — still sitting in the "Sent" folder. She hadn't told Rafael yet. She didn't know how.

And then, at 1:42 PM, her inbox pinged.

Subject: Re: Request for a Brief Conversation From: Ramona Joselle S. Cojuangco

Lea clicked before she could think twice.

Good afternoon, Mrs. De Torre,

Thank you for your kind message. I was indeed surprised to receive it, but I appreciate your courtesy. I'm open to meeting with you. Please let me know what time and place would work best.

Respectfully, Ramona J.S. Cojuangco

Lea exhaled softly. The reply was professional — precise, restrained — but there was warmth beneath the formality. A willingness. She typed back immediately:

Dear Ms. Cojuangco,

Thank you for your gracious reply. Please feel free to contact me directly should it be easier to coordinate via phone. My personal number is below.

Warm regards, Lea Salonga-De TorreTVN, Board of Trustees De Torre Vision HoldingsPH: (+63)9824569876

She hit send, sat back, and waited.

It didn't take long. Her phone buzzed five minutes later.

Unknown Number: Hi Mrs. De Torre, this is Ramona. Or, well—Ellie, actually. That's what most people call me.

Lea smiled faintly at the screen.

Lea: Ellie. It's lovely to meet you, even through a screen.

Ellie: Likewise. I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time.

Lea: Not at all. Congratulations again on the bar results. Your parents must be very proud.

Ellie: Thank you. I think they are. :)

That was how it started.

For the next few days, they exchanged short, careful messages — polite at first, then gradually more open. Ellie wrote with the measured tone of someone raised in formality but longing for ease. She asked about Lea's work, joked about caffeine dependency during review season, and once admitted that she'd always admired Lea's discipline from afar.

Lea never mentioned Rafael. She wanted Ellie to reach her without the weight of names or histories. Each text was a thread, light but deliberate, weaving something fragile between them — trust, curiosity, maybe even the beginnings of affection.

But secrets, like rain, have a way of seeping through cracks. He stood by the bedroom door that night, arms crossed, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through the air. "You've been speaking to her."

Lea froze, her phone still in hand. "Paeng—"

"How long?"

She hesitated. "A few days."

Rafael's jaw tightened. "You went behind my back."

"I reached out because you couldn't."

His tone rose — controlled but seething. "That wasn't your decision to make, Lea. You didn't have the right to interfere."

She stood then, meeting his glare head-on. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from fury held in check. "Need I remind you that I am your wife, Rafael? I am Mrs. Lea De Torre," she said, steady and clear. "And in this — this — all rights belong to me. Because you are my husband, and I'm watching you disappear. I can't just stand by while I lose you."

Her tears fell before she could stop them, quiet but certain. The sight struck him harder than any retort. Rafael's anger faltered, the edges of it collapsing inward until all that was left was shame.

He dragged a hand through his hair, voice cracking. "I wasn't angry at you," he said hoarsely. "I'm angry at myself. I've been hiding like a coward."

He stepped forward before she could move, gathering her into his arms. "I'm sorry," he whispered against her hair. "I didn't mean to shout."

Lea clutched him tightly, her face pressed against his chest. "I know. But you can't keep shutting us out, Paeng. You have a family. You have me. Whatever this is — whatever it brings — we'll face it together. But you can't lock us out. Not me. Not Liam."

Rafael exhaled shakily, the weight of days finally breaking through his composure. His hands tightened around her waist, as though grounding himself in the one thing that hadn't crumbled.

"I don't deserve you," he murmured.

"You do," she said simply. "You just have to remember it."

He pulled back just enough to look at her — really see her. The distance that had clouded his gaze for days lifted, replaced by something raw, human, painfully present.

Then he kissed her — not out of habit, not from comfort, but with a hunger for connection he hadn't dared to feel since the day in the lobby. For the first time in days, he was there. The man she married. The man she'd fought for.

When they finally parted, his forehead rested against hers. "Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For reminding me I'm still here."

Lea brushed her thumb against his cheek, catching the remnants of his tears. "Then stay," she said softly. "With us."

He nodded, and this time, he didn't look away.

Outside, the night hummed with the soft rustle of leaves and the faint call of distant thunder — not a storm this time, but a promise that something was about to change.

Inside, in that quiet room, silence no longer meant distance. It meant healing.