The Montemayor Corporation was in a quiet frenzy. The polished walls of the high-rise building gleamed under the morning light, and the entire staff moved with nervous precision. Whispers filled the hallways like smoke.
The chairman emeritus was coming.
Ervin Dale Montemayor sat rigidly in his office, fingers drumming against his mahogany desk. Outwardly composed, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. No matter how powerful he had become, there was one man who still had the ability to reduce him to a cornered boy: his grandfather.
And right on time, the old man arrived.
Dressed in his signature dark suit, cane in hand, he walked in like he still owned the world. The staff straightened their backs, bowed slightly, and spoke only when spoken to.
Inside Ervin's office, silence followed the firm click of the door.
His grandfather looked around, absorbing every detail of the space—the books, the awards, the carefully curated décor. Then came the criticism: subtle at first, then increasingly pointed.
"You've changed the layout," he observed, walking slowly toward the windows. "The painting your father valued—it's gone."
"I moved it to the boardroom," Ervin answered evenly.
"It doesn't belong there."
There was a beat of silence.
"You've done well," the old man said at last, though the words felt more like a challenge than praise. "But don't mistake growth for permanence. You may be at the helm now, but you're still part of something greater than yourself."
Ervin's jaw tightened. "I know."
Then came a shift in tone.
"What about your wife?"
The question cut through the air. Ervin's gaze faltered, just briefly.
"She's fine," he said shortly.
"Is that all? Fine?" The old man narrowed his eyes. "She's not seen at the events, no appearances, not even whispers from your staff. Is she avoiding you—or are you hiding her?"
Ervin didn't answer.
"You're still bitter," the man added quietly.
"Wouldn't you be?" Ervin snapped before he could stop himself.
The older man regarded him, unshaken. "We all make sacrifices. Some are chosen. Some are made for us."
He walked to the door but paused before leaving. "Your responsibilities don't begin or end in the office. This family's legacy wasn't built on silence or resentment—but on action. Remember that."
Then, without another word, he left.
Ervin stood there, seething.
And then the storm broke loose.
He slammed his fists on the desk, sweeping everything off with one furious motion. Papers scattered, a glass of whiskey shattered across the floor. The sound of breaking glass echoed in the space, but he didn't care.
He hated feeling powerless. Hated being reminded that no matter how high he climbed, there were still shadows from the past clinging to his every step. A legacy he didn't ask for. A marriage he never wanted.
But it was done.
And he had to live with it.
---
By the time he got home, the mansion was eerily still. No maids greeted him at the door, no footsteps echoed in the halls.
But in the kitchen, something waited.
The table was set—for one. A simple plate of rice, sautéed vegetables and egg, and a glass of water.
He sat down, staring at the food before slowly taking a bite.
It tasted different. Not perfect—but real. A little too much salt, maybe. But warm. Human.
Not the sterile precision of his chefs.
Leigh.
Of course, it was her.
---
After finishing the meal, he walked toward his room. But just as he turned the corner, he ran into Santiago.
"She's resting," the butler informed him gently.
Ervin gave a small nod.
As he passed Leigh's room, he caught a glimpse through the slightly ajar door.
She was curled up on a couch by the window, asleep. The evening light painted her face softly, her body relaxed, unaware that she'd just soothed a man burning with anger—with nothing more than a plate of food.
He walked away.
---
The next morning, breakfast was already set on the table.
Again, it was simple. Rice, a piece of fried fish, and fruit.
Clearly, not from the kitchen staff.
Ervin stepped outside with a mug of coffee in hand.
That's when he saw her.
Leigh, standing barefoot on the stone path, watering the plants. She wore a loose shirt and pants, her hair tied up messily. Her movements were slow, unbothered, as if she belonged to another world entirely.
"Santiago," Ervin called.
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell her to stop preparing meals for me. That's the staff's job. And the gardening—she's not the landscaper."
Santiago hesitated, then said quietly, "She won't listen, sir. She enjoys doing it. I think it gives her peace. She doesn't see it as work."
Ervin didn't respond.
Instead, he turned and headed toward his car.
He opened the door, stepped inside—then stopped.
His hand rested on the steering wheel. But something pulled at him.
A moment later, he stepped back out.
His shoes clicked across the stone as he walked toward her.
Leigh didn't turn. She just kept watering the soil around a potted jasmine plant.
"You can stop pretending," Ervin said coldly.
She paused.
"Pretending to be the dutiful wife. You don't need to play house. You're not here to impress anyone."
Finally, she turned to him.
"I'm not pretending," she said, her voice calm. "I didn't grow up in comfort, Ervin. I grew up surviving. Doing things. I don't know how to sit still and be waited on. I don't want to feel like a prisoner in this house. So if it's alright with you, let me do what makes me feel human."
Their eyes met—his cold, hers unwavering.
He didn't say another word.
He simply turned, walked back to his car, and drove off without looking back.
And Leigh… she turned around again, focused on the roots beneath her hands—choosing peace, even when it was breaking her.