We were having a family dinner tonight at one of our relatives' homes—a formal event where everyone wore polite smiles like masks. It had only been days since the fight with Razen, and the silence between us had grown louder with every call he ignored. But tonight, I had to pretend everything was fine.
My mom sat to my left, Chase to my right. Across from me was Aunt Christy, my father's younger sister and the mayor of Makati. Her husband, Tito Louie, sat beside her, and their son Mico—basically the poster boy for perfection—sat upright and proud. Next to them were Aunt Frost, my father's older brother and a congressman, his ever-silent wife Lynelle, and their daughter and son, Leon and Freya, who was both busy texting under the table.
It felt like I was seated across from the idealized version of everything our family expected us to be. And apparently, that version didn't include Chase.
"So, how's law school, Victoria?" Tita Christy asked, slicing into her medium-rare steak with all the precision of a scalpel. "First year, right? Is it hard?"
I paused mid-slice. "It's… definitely challenging, Tita. We go through heavy readings every day—case digests, codals, constitutional law. But I can manage."
"I see," she said with a nod. "Well, you'd better work hard. You're the only hope your father has left… unlike your brother, who only knows how to party." Aunt Christy said full of insults.
I froze. My grip on the knife tightened. I glanced at Chase. He wasn't looking at her—he was staring down at his plate, his jaw clenched, fingers wrapped around his fork like it was anchoring him in place.
"Mom, your words," Mico muttered, a feeble attempt at softening the blow.
"I'm just being honest," she replied with a shrug. "Chase, look at Mico. Second year in Legal Management, Dean's Lister. If only you'd followed what your dad wanted for you… maybe your father wouldn't have felt the need to pressure your sister into law school."
"Christy," my mom said calmly but firmly. "Chase is in his third year of Business Administration. That's still aligned with what this family values. Not every path needs to look exactly the same."
"She was right, Christy. Be gentle to Chase, he's still learning." Uncle Frost said glancing at Chase.
But it wasn't enough. Not for me.
"Auntie," I said, my voice sharper than I intended, "I know we all love comparisons at this table, but maybe tonight, we could pretend we're just family—not a political dynasty holding auditions."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"No, seriously. If the only way to be accepted in this family is to become a carbon copy of some political ideal, then maybe we're the ones failing. Not Chase. Because for a family obsessed with perfection, we're awfully good at shaming our own when they don't fit into the mold. Chase is doing just fine. He's studying, he's enduring the pressure, and most importantly, he's trying."
"I didn't mean it that way, Victoria—"
"You did," I cut in. "You meant exactly that. You humiliated him in front of everyone—for what? To remind the room that Mico's the golden boy? Good for him. But tearing someone else down doesn't make your son's accomplishments shine brighter."
Chase looked at me, surprised. His hand loosened around his fork.
I wasn't finished.
"You keep saying I'm the hope of the family. But don't put all of that on me just because Chase didn't turn into the version of a son Dad dreamed up in his head. We're not projects. We're people. And honestly? I'm proud of him—even if none of you are."
The table fell silent. Even the clinking of cutlery stopped.
Mom reached beneath the table and gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
Aunt Christy opened her mouth, clearly ready to snap back—but instead, she lifted her wine glass and took a long sip.
And then—
"Enough."
The word cut through the silence like a blade.
My Dad, Xyrus Oligario, finally looked up from his plate. His fork hovered mid-air, steak untouched. His gaze—sharp, commanding—locked on mine. It hit like ice against my spine.
"You've said enough, Victoria."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
His glare said it all—
How dare you?
How dare you speak up?
How dare you challenge me?
The air was heavy with unspoken tension.
"I will not have this discussion at the table. Not like this. Not with that tone," he said, voice still even—but thunder rumbled beneath it.
I met his gaze. My throat burned. A part of me wanted to shrink, to apologize. But the larger part—the one that had learned to survive in his shadow—held steady.
Beside me, Chase shifted slightly, almost reaching for my hand under the table. But he didn't.
No one else spoke.
Even Aunt Christy, never one to back down from a verbal spar, sat in silence.
My mother kept her gaze low, lips pressed tightly together.
And in that heavy, suffocating stillness…
I didn't regret a single word.
After that dinner, I went straight to my cousin's room, Freya. As I sat in Freya's room trying to breathe, my phone vibrated sharply.
📞 Incoming Call: Rafael (Razen's friend)
I answered immediately, a knot already tightening in my chest.
"Victoria?" Rafael's voice was low and rushed. "Sorry to call you like this, but… Razen's at Seraph Bar. He's not okay. Completely wasted. I mean, blackout drunk. And he keeps saying your name—over and over."
I sat upright. "Since when?"
"About thirty minutes ago. I've been trying to get him to snap out of it, but it's not working. He looks like he hasn't slept. He keeps mumbling about how badly he screwed things up. I've got to leave—I have a hospital shift in fifteen. Can you get him?"
"I'm on my way."
I didn't stop to explain. I grabbed my purse, fixed my hair with a quick swipe of my fingers, and moved down the hallway.
As I neared the sitting room, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses surrounded me—until I heard him.
"Victoria?" Dad's voice was calm but firm. "Going somewhere?"
Every head turned. It felt like the spotlight was back on me.
"I have to go, Dad," I said evenly. "It's important."
A beat.
Then came that voice again—sharp, clipped, and laced with false sweetness.
Tita Christy.
"Oh dear, off to save that boyfriend again?" she said, her smile syrupy and smug in her pearl necklace. "You're so loyal, darling. I only hope he's worth the scenes."
The room chuckled softly. Calculated. Unkind.
I clenched my jaw—but before I could speak, Xylia stepped in.
She set her wine glass down with grace, her expression cool and composed.
"With respect, Auntie," she said gently, "some people show up for the ones they love—even when it's inconvenient. I imagine that's difficult to understand… when your daughter's never had to hold onto someone for more than a headline."
The room froze.
Tita Christy blinked, lips parting in insulted silence.
Dad cleared his throat. "Is it Razen?"
"Yes," I said.
A pause. Then a slow sigh from the senator.
"You know his father and I go way back," he said. "If there's trouble, fine—just don't make it public. The press watches everything."
"I understand."
"I'll call his father after dinner. Let him know you're checking on him. But be discreet."
"I will."
"Then go," he said. "Quietly."
I gave a grateful glance to Xylia before walking out, heels muffled against the carpet, heart thudding harder with every step.
I didn't look back.
The music leaked through the walls—deep bass and chaotic energy—and I could already feel the migraine crawling in behind my eyes.
I shouldn't have come.
But Rafael's voice haunted me.
"He keeps calling your name."
I pushed through the doors. The scent hit me first—alcohol, perfume, cigarette smoke. People danced and laughed like nothing mattered. But everything mattered tonight.
It took seconds to spot him.
Razen was hunched in a corner booth, his body slumped like a rag doll, half-conscious, eyes barely open. An empty bottle of whiskey stood like a monument to his poor decisions. There was no one with him. Not even Rafael.
For a second, I just stood there.
Because seeing him like that—so far from the version I loved, or thought I loved—hit me in a place I wasn't ready for.
I forced my feet to move.
"Razen," I said, kneeling down beside him. "Hey. It's me."
His head lolled toward the sound of my voice. "Xy… Xylia?"
"Yeah," I whispered. "I'm here."
He looked awful. His hair was a mess, his collar undone, lips cracked. His eyes barely focused on me, but when they did, something flickered—regret. Shame. Pain.
"I'm sorry…" he muttered. "I didn't mean to… ruin everything."
My throat tightened. "Razen, what happened?"
He shook his head, or tried to. "I—couldn't stop thinking. About you. About us. I was gonna fix it… I wanted to fix it. But everything's broken."
He slumped forward, and I caught him with both arms. He smelled like sweat and vodka. My dress was already stained, but I didn't care.
"You shouldn't have done this," I said softly, holding him up. "You shouldn't have pushed me away… and then tried to drown yourself in alcohol."
"I didn't know what else to do."
I closed my eyes for a second. Steadying myself.
This wasn't the moment to argue. He wasn't sober. He wasn't ready. And I was already too emotionally worn out from that dinner to fall apart in public.