23

From the top floor of TVN, the skyline of Taguig shimmered in the late afternoon haze. The storm outside had quieted, but inside the De Torre conference suite, the air was electric — every screen, every phone, every voice tuned to one man's next move.

Senator Joey Cojuangco was retaliating.

And the De Torres were watching it unfold.

The wide OLED screen on the wall flickered to life, showing the Senate media room in real time. Joey stood before a podium, flanked by aides and a flag. His suit was immaculate. His voice calm. Every gesture rehearsed.

"I want to begin by saying that I love my daughter. What you've seen over the past few days is deeply painful — for me, for my family, for everyone involved."

Lea folded her arms as the statement played. "He's not starting a defense. He's staging grief."

"Unfortunately," Joey continued, "my daughter has been manipulated by individuals who seek to benefit from this... situation. This is not a story of truth. It's a story of exploitation."

Rafael's jaw tightened. His reflection caught in the glass window beside him — eyes dark, fists clenched. "He's calling me an abuser without saying the word."

Across the room, Doña Beatriz sat by the end of the long conference table, back straight, cane resting beside her chair. She didn't flinch. "That is how men like him work. They do not destroy truth directly — they bleed it with pity."

"We are initiating a Senate ethics inquiry into the recent transactions of De Torre Vision Holdings with government-linked media entities," Joey's voice rang on. "It's time to ask: how much of this so-called truth was bought?"

Lea slammed her pen against the table. "He's moving it into politics. He's turning your life into legislation."

Rafael exhaled slowly, forcing calm into his voice. "He's cornered. He's trying to take the fight to a place where emotion doesn't matter. Where his name still means something."

"As a father," Joey added, "I fear for my daughter's well-being. As a public servant, I fear for our nation's moral compass."

Beatriz laughed — a short, sharp sound. "And as a coward, he fears losing control."

Silence settled when the broadcast ended.

The aides muted the TV. The buzz of the newsroom returned faintly through the glass — voices, phones, footsteps — but inside the conference room, it was just them: the De Torre family and the echoes of a man trying to rewrite their story.

Rafael leaned back in his chair, staring at the blank screen. His voice was quiet, almost hollow. "He's using the system he built to erase the daughter he raised."

Lea reached for his hand. "And the man who gave her back her name."

He turned to her, the tension breaking slightly at the warmth in her touch. "She's the only one who matters in all of this, Lea. The rest—"

"—the rest is noise," she finished softly. "And we know how to deal with noise."

Beatriz rose slowly, her cane clicking against the marble floor. "You cannot silence a Cojuangco in public, Rafael. You silence him in legacy. You outlive him."

Rafael looked at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You sound like you've done it before, Lola."

Her eyes glinted. "Twice."

Lea smiled faintly, but the moment was brief. The tension was too thick, the stakes too high.

A knock on the glass wall — Alex, the head of their Forbes security. He stepped in quietly, his expression grave. "Sir, we've confirmed what we suspected. A group from the Senator's press team was spotted near the Forbes property earlier this afternoon. They were asking around the village about you, Mrs. De Torre, the girl, and even the little boy."

Lea straightened. "They're going after the children now."

Rafael's tone dropped. "Then tighten everything. No one gets in or out without clearance. We'll move to the penthouse tonight. We'll be safer there. Lola, it's about time you find out where the penthouse exactly is at."

Beatriz nodded in approval. "Good plan, Rafael. Let the storm rage outside. You protect the hearth."

Later that evening, as the sun dipped behind the glass skyline, the three of them remained in the dimly lit office — the faint glow of the city below casting fractured reflections across the floor.

Rafael stood by the window, his hands braced against the glass. The city lights glittered beneath him like a constellation of questions he couldn't yet answer.

Lea joined him quietly. "He won't stop, you know."

"I know."

"Then we don't, either."

He turned, meeting her eyes — the resolve there as fierce as his own. "You shouldn't have to keep fighting my battles, Lea."

She shook her head gently. "They're not your battles anymore, Paeng. They're ours."

Behind them, Beatriz's voice floated from the table — soft, almost nostalgic. "When I was your age, I thought survival meant winning. But sometimes, survival is just staying visible long enough for truth to grow roots."

Rafael smiled faintly. "You think truth has roots, Lola?"

Beatriz's gaze was steady. "It does. You just watered it today."

Outside, the billboards on EDSA lit up — some with Joey's smiling campaign face, others now replaced with TVN's new tagline: "TRUTH ABOVE ALL — A De Torre Vision."

Two names, two legacies. One trying to erase. The other refusing to fade.

And as the night deepened, the De Torres didn't speak of strategy or revenge. They just stood together in silence, watching the city pulse beneath them — a reminder that power shifts, but truth, once spoken, never goes back to sleep.