Nerissa walked past her husband's room and was about to knock when she heard him on the phone.
"I wasn't. You already know I needed time to take over. I love you. I could never do that to you."
Her breathing slowed as her heart pounded heavily.
She felt her tears slowly fall down her cheeks.
"What are you expecting? You're just here—not a wife, but for an agreement," she whispered to herself.
"But I still want to work this out… I've always loved you, George."
Tears burned her eyes before slipping down her cheeks, tracing silent trails of heartbreak. Only yesterday, they had stood beneath a canopy of flowers, exchanging vows in a wedding worth fifteen million pesos—a celebration that now felt like nothing more than an elaborate lie.
The muffled click of the phone call ending was followed by the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps approaching the door. Panic fluttered in her chest. She turned swiftly, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she hurried down the long hallway. The crystal chandelier overhead spilled golden light across her path, every shimmering reflection a reminder of the gilded cage she had stepped into.
"Are you eavesdropping?!"
George's voice cracked through the hallway, sharp and accusing, echoing in the still air.
Nerissa froze mid-step but refused to turn around. "I was just passing by… I needed a drink. I'm thirsty," she replied, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.
A sigh escaped him, heavy at first, then softening. "I know you don't like this marriage either," he said, his tone more measured now. "But let's just… be a team for the time being. I'll find a way out of this problem."
Her throat tightened. "Y-yes… Don't worry. I'll cooperate," she managed to say, forcing steadiness into her words. Then, after a pause, she added in a whisper, "I need to go back to my room."
She walked on without looking back, her pulse hammering in her ears. She heard him retreat into his own room, the sound of the door closing like a final seal between them.
From the moment the wedding ended, George had been clear—they would have separate bedrooms. This marriage was never meant to be a union of hearts, only a transaction dressed in lace and luxury.
But what Nerissa hadn't known was the cruelest truth of all: George already belonged to someone else. And that knowledge, now clawing at her heart, was enough to make her wish she had never stepped into this beautiful, gilded prison.
She grabbed her phone, cinching the belt of her bathrobe snugly around her waist.
It rang, and she quickly answered.
"Drake…" she said softly.
"I was about to pick you up today, but then I remembered—you're still in your honeymoon phase," Drake teased on the other end. "I just landed at the airport. So maybe I'll just ask you to spare me some time to go shopping instead. I'll even buy you gifts since I missed your wedding."
"I'm free tomorrow," she replied.
Deep down, she longed for the kind of honeymoon trips most couples enjoyed. But she knew too well that there would be no traveling, no romantic getaways in this pretend marriage.
"I could use some fresh air… and I miss you, Atty," she joked.
Drake's laugh was warm and wholehearted. "You just want to spend my money, that's why. Anyway, how's that man treating you?"
"He's formal. Respectful. This is just a marriage of convenience, after all. I don't think I should be asking for more."
She brushed away the fleeting thought of him ever being true husband material.
"This is why I told you to wait for me," Drake sighed. "You should've married me instead of him."
"Oh, please. Just thinking about marrying you makes me sick," she laughed.
Drake chuckled too. "So, see you tomorrow?"
"Yes, see you, Drakey."
The sharp rap on the door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Dinner is ready, ma'am," the maid's soft voice announced.
She descended the stairs quickly, her hand gliding over the smooth banister. The scent of lemon polish drifted up to meet her, crisp and clean. The house gleamed—so meticulously arranged that it felt more like a museum than a home. Not a pillow out of place. Not a speck of dust in sight.
She almost laughed. Perfect. Too perfect.
The maids had done their usual routine—cleaning, cooking, laundry—all before vanishing into their quarters. George insisted on it. He didn't like seeing them. He didn't like anyone lingering where they might intrude on his carefully guarded privacy. Even the security guards were instructed to keep their distance unless summoned.
The dining room looked like a scene from an art book: the chandelier's light glinting off fine china, a table stretched so far she could barely make out the steam rising from his plate. They sat at opposite ends, the distance between them a silent reminder of how far apart they truly were.
The silence was suffocating. She busied herself by cutting into her food, though she wasn't hungry. Tomorrow would be a small escape—she would be out of this house, if only for a day. She just needed to mention it before George wondered.
"You can go out tomorrow," his voice cut through the air—low, commanding, final. It was as if he'd plucked the thought straight from her mind. "Life here is boring. Take my card. Buy something. Have dinner out."
She didn't look at him. "That's not necessary. I can manage. I just… need some fresh air. Maybe a haircut."
The thought of eating alone twisted in her chest. Why? So you can have dinner with your mistress instead? She bit the words back before they could escape.
"You'll have two of my security men with you," he said.
"That's not necessary," she replied, her tone clipped. "Our marriage might have been public, but my face wasn't. No one knows who you married. I'll be fine without bodyguards."
He frowned. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you."
The control in his voice made her stomach turn. Bastard. Her fingers tightened around her fork, the metal cool against her skin, as if it could anchor the anger pulsing through her.
"You'll be back by nine," he added, as if reading from a list. "My family will be here to meet you."
She almost laughed—a bitter, humorless sound that stayed trapped in her throat. The more she peeled back his layers, the more she realized she hadn't married a man at all, but a precision-built machine—polished, efficient, completely incapable of warmth. Is this all marriage is to him? Orders? Boundaries? A schedule to keep? Hell. No.
His eyes narrowed. "Why are you so quiet?"
Her gaze flicked up to meet his. "Because I have nothing to say. So tell me, George—what do you expect me to do?"
The air between them crackled with unspoken words. Then she pushed her chair back, the legs scraping sharply against the floor. Without waiting for his reply, she strode past him, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. Dinner—and conversation—were over.