83

The following morning, the villa felt quieter than usual — like the whole house was still recovering from the electricity of the previous day. The cameras were gone, the crew had left, and what remained was the faint echo of applause that had filled their home after Liam's stunning performance.

Lea was in the kitchen early, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, staring absently at the steam curling upward. She was proud, yes, but also conflicted — her son's talent was undeniable, yet it came with a sense of déjà vu. Fame was never a playground; it was a battlefield disguised as a dream.

Rafael padded into the kitchen barefoot, still in his robe, a sight rare enough to make her smile.

"You didn't sleep," he said quietly, reaching for his coffee.

"I couldn't."

He leaned against the counter beside her. "Still thinking about yesterday?"

Lea exhaled. "Mike called this morning. He said they're editing the scene and he swears Liam's footage is gold." She paused. "Paeng, he's seven. What happens when the world wants more?"

Rafael took a slow sip of his coffee. "Then we do what we've always done. We protect him."

She looked up at him. "And if protecting him means holding him back?"

Rafael smiled faintly. "Then he'll forgive us one day for loving him too much."

By mid-morning, the calm of their morning shattered when the doorbell rang. It was Mike, holding a laptop and two USB drives, a grin stretched across his face.

"I couldn't wait," he said, barely containing his excitement. "I brought the final cut. You have to see it."

Lea and Rafael exchanged wary glances but followed him to the living room. Liam, who had been playing with Soleil in the den, heard Mike's voice and came bounding in.

"Tito Mike!" he shouted, running into the director's arms.

"Hey, superstar!" Mike chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Ready to see how you look on screen?"

Liam gasped. "We're watching it now?"

Lea smiled gently. "Alright, let's see this masterpiece."

The scene began. The soft lighting of their villa framed the boy perfectly — warm tones, gentle shadows. Liam's voice carried through the speakers, and for a moment, it was like watching a smaller version of Lea. His delivery was precise but unforced, emotional yet natural.

Then came the line. "Please don't go. I'll be good this time."

Lea covered her mouth again, tears forming all over. She had cried when it was live, and here she was, crying again. Rafael sat perfectly still, jaw tight, eyes on the screen.

When the credits rolled, even Neri — who had been quietly watching from the doorway — was misty-eyed.

Mike turned to them. "I told you. He's magic."

Rafael let out a slow breath. "He's trouble, that's what he is."

Lea laughed through her tears. "He's ours, that's what he is."

Later that day, word spread within the industry. Mike's editor had leaked a short clip to the internal network at TVN — not maliciously, just as a preview. But it was too good to keep contained. By evening, the clip had made its way into social media circles, shared privately among actors, producers, and journalists.

The headline by the next morning: "Liam De Torre — The 7-Year-Old with His Mother's Soul."

Lea groaned when she saw it on her tablet at breakfast. "Oh no."

Rafael peeked over her shoulder. "Oh yes."

She glared at him. "Paeng, this isn't funny. We didn't approve any release!"

"I know," he said calmly, buttering toast. "But look at the comments. It's all good press. They're calling him the future of Philippine television."

"Exactly!" she snapped. "He's seven! He should be worried about math quizzes, not Q ratings."

Rafael chuckled softly. "I remember a seventeen-year-old girl who said the same thing to her mother when she got her first Broadway role."

Lea glared harder. "Low blow, mister."

Before she could continue, Liam appeared in his pajamas, hair sticking up, rubbing his eyes. "Mama, Papa... why are people online calling me 'baby Lea'?"

Lea froze. "You what now?"

"I saw it on TikTok." He shrugged innocently. "They said I look like you and act like you."

Rafael tried — tried — not to laugh, but it came out as a snort.

Lea turned to him sharply. "Not. A. Word."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"Your face did!"

By lunchtime, the calls started.

Talent agencies. TV networks. Endorsement offers.

Even Boy Abunda called, jokingly asking if he could book an interview with "the youngest De Torre prodigy."

Lea was overwhelmed. "I just wanted him to act for one scene!"

Rafael, now amused beyond reason, leaned against the wall and whispered, "Lei, you created a star. There's no undo button for that."

"Then you deal with it," she said, handing him the phone.

Rafael sighed, answering the call with his CEO tone. "Good afternoon. Yes, this is Rafael De Torre. No, my son is not signing any contracts until further notice. Yes, he's seven. Yes, he still has homework."

Lea couldn't help laughing at how absurdly calm he sounded.

That evening, when the calls finally died down, the three of them sat together on the patio, the warm light of dusk spilling across the garden.

Liam was curled between them, watching the koi swim lazily in the pond. "Mama?" he said softly.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Was I good?"

Lea looked at him, her heart swelling. "You were more than good. But do you know what made me proudest?"

He looked up, curious.

"You didn't do it to be famous. You did it because you wanted to tell a story."

Rafael added quietly, "And because you listened. That's rare, anak. The world talks too much. But you — you listen."

Liam smiled, resting his head on his father's arm. "Can I do more one day?"

Lea and Rafael exchanged a look — that familiar mix of pride and fear.

"Maybe," Lea said. "But not today. Today, you just be our son."

"Okay," he whispered.

And for the rest of the evening, they sat in comfortable silence — a family that had once again found itself in the public's gaze, yet, beneath all the noise, knew exactly who they were.

The De Torres were used to the spotlight. But that night, under the soft glow of their garden lights, they chose something brighter.

They chose home.