You Can’t Leverage Forgiveness; You Can’t Mortgage Time

  November 12, 2035

  6:07

  Javier stares at the screen on his wrist. Bad sleep detected. The little digital letters pulse with the smug certainty of a doctor who has already decided the diagnosis before you’ve spoken. A crude fortune-teller, wrapped in mirrored steel, tethered to his veins by habit. He hates it, but can’t take it off. Not today. Not when he needs its cold hand to remind him he’s still moving, still alive.

  The Makati skyline rose like glass altars to commerce. It is burning. Not literally, of course. Just the sunrise turning office towers into bars of gold, bright enough to make them look reverent. For a moment, he almost believes the illusion. Almost. Then the building name signs and air-conditioning ducts, the half-finished skeletons of new towers, shatter the divinity of it all.

  The whispers of his dream linger. They carry no meaning now, just the texture of voices heard through thick walls. Ghosts mumbling about forgotten things. He wants to chase them, to dive back into their swampy comfort, but the alert on his wrist has already dragged him into daylight.

  He sits up slowly, bones creaking like the hull of an old galleon, and presses his palms against his eyes. A bad omen to start the day. The thought lands heavy. The city hums below, vibrating with traffic, with deals being cut, with lives spent and wasted. He breathes in, out. Manila never sleeps, but it sure as hell knows how to wake him.

  6:31

  The last taste of salt and grease still lingers on Javier’s tongue when the ding cuts through the air, precise as a guillotine. He wipes his mouth with a napkin as the elevator doors open. Victory, sharp and mechanical in her movements, and Teresa, softer but no less professional, step inside like twin heralds of industry, each with their leather briefcases like black boxes recovered from a crash.

  “Living room,” Javier gestures, his voice still touched with morning drowsiness. “You can set up there. Do you want breakfast? Nancy cooked plenty.” He gestured towards the full table.

  Victory, without looking up from her phone, says, “Later.” Her syllables clipped, military.

  Teresa smiles politely, shaking her head. “I ate before coming here.”

  Javier nods, tapping the table with his knuckles. “The fridge is stocked. Nancy can cook you anything, she’s a miracle worker in an apron. This is going to be a long day, so make yourselves comfortable.”

  They take positions like chess pieces, Victory immediately assuming control, Teresa easing into the sofa. Victory snaps open her briefcase, a sound like a pistol cocking. Papers shuffle. The atmosphere thickens.

  Her heels click against the polished floor as she strides to the dining table where Javier sits. No preamble, no small talk. “We’ve identified the secret backer of your Aunt Beatriz’s stock buying spree.”

  She places a folder before him like it’s evidence in a trial. The paper inside smells faintly of toner and fresh ink. Javier flips it open.

  The name stares at him from the first page in a bold, serif font: Astra Global Holdings. Company profile underneath, neat and sterile, a corporate CV dressed in numbers.

  Javier leans back, scanning the name as though it were an old flame in a crowded room. He’s heard it before, somewhere between the clinking of champagne glasses and the muffled speeches of men who ran empires. Maybe he met the family once, in a ballroom gilded with chandeliers, or at the tail end of some garden party where politics smelled faintly of roses and gin. But there’s no memory of doing business with them. No ledger entries, no contracts, no ties. Just the name, floating like a half-remembered dream.

  “Astra…” he murmurs, tasting the word. It feels familiar and foreign all at once, like recognizing a shadow but not the face.

  Victory continues.

  “Astra Global is owned by the Kuazon family,” she says, pacing as she speaks, every heel-strike a period. “They used to be small time, think plastic furniture, plastic packaging, cheap household goods. The kind of brand you’d see stacked in a provincial mall and in squatter general stores. ” She taps the folder. “Then they dabbled in real estate. Ten years ago they struck gold, we’re talking billions of pesos, with the Taguig lakefront developments. Since then they’ve been highly aggressive, banking, retail, expansion after expansion. They don’t play coy.”

  She leans closer, her perfume a sterile corporate blend. “Marius believes they want to take control of your family’s landbank. They could funnel it straight into their manufacturing empire.”

  Javier doesn’t answer. He lets the words hang there, like smoke in the air after a candle has been blown out. He doesn’t digest them. He simply marks them down in the mental ledger where names and numbers are stored for later consideration. To think too much now would poison him before the day even starts.

  He turns to Teresa instead, a gentler presence. “Teresa, updates. Who’s selling their stocks?”

  Teresa adjusts her glasses, opens her notes. Her voice is calm, meticulous, free of Victory’s sharpness. “So far, four percent have committed to sell to Beatriz. Another four percent have already completed the transaction.”

  Javier leans back, runs the numbers in his head. “She needs fifteen to secure half the company. Four plus four is eight. Leaves her seven percent short, eight for a majority.”

  He looks up, expression unreadable. “And us? The eleven percent we need?”

  Teresa doesn’t hesitate. “Your cousins Andres, Fernando, Lourdes, Carmela, and Cristobal. Together they represent three percent. They’ve committed not to sell. They’re solid.”

  Javier exhales, voice low, almost muttering to himself as he traces the math aloud. “So… both Beatriz and I still need seven percent to reach half the company. Eight percent more to take a majority.”

  Teresa nods, confirming the arithmetic. “That’s correct.”

  The room seems to dim under the weight of numbers, percentages hanging heavy in the air like storm clouds. The contest has been reduced to a race for seven percent. Seven thin, slippery points of ownership. Enough to decide the fate of a dynasty.

  “Your uncle Ramon holds two percent,” Teresa continues, her tone cautious, careful as if laying a sharp instrument on the table. “He’s still undecided. We could make a move on him before Beatriz secures his stocks.”

  The name lands like a rotten fruit in Javier’s stomach. He lets out a groan, rubbing his temple. “Uncle Ramon,” he mutters, the words sour. The very same uncle he’d schemed to eject from the boardroom last weekend. The irony stinks.

  “I’ll call my father,” Javier says at last, his voice a low growl of resignation. “He can try to convince Ramon to vote in our favor.” He straightens, the weight of inevitability pressing on his spine. “In the meantime, where are we in terms of capital?”

  Teresa adjusts her papers, eyes scanning figures like a surgeon reading vitals. “The rest of your family is waiting for you to offer a better price than Beatriz. If we buy six percent, without counting Ramon, we’ll need at least nine hundred million pesos to outbid her.”

  Javier closes his eyes, already knowing the answer before she delivers it.

  “We only have one hundred million in the bank right now,” Teresa says. “Liquidating your investments will take time. Securing more capital will take time.”

  The silence that follows is punctured only by Javier’s leg bouncing under the table. He notices it too late, his nerves betraying him. With a sharp exhale, he pushes back his chair and rises, pacing the floor like a caged animal. One hand clutches his waist, the other dragging through his hair. Breath in. Breath out. The air feels heavy, metallic.

  “Start liquidating my stocks,” he says finally, decisive in tone if not in heart. His voice fills the apartment, echoes against glass and marble. “I’ll make some calls.”

  He pivots toward Victory, who has been silently watching, sharp eyes cutting through the tension. “Contact Marius, I need him.” Javier orders.

  Victory gives a short, efficient nod, already reaching for her phone. The name Marius hangs in the room like the first drop before a downpour, inevitable, electrifying, dangerous.

  8:36

  The elevator dings again, metallic and cold. The doors part to reveal a man encased in a suit that looks less like clothing and more like armor, black, sharp, pressed into submission. His face is carved from corporate stone: the kind of older gentleman who has spent decades surviving boardroom battles and looks none the softer for it.

  Before Javier can summon a word, Victory rises to her feet with soldierly precision. “This is Edward Valderama,” she announces. “Marius’s financial advisor. Marius is occupied with another matter, so Edward will be here on his behalf.”

  The name rolls heavy in the room, and Javier feels the weight of it press against his ribs. He forces himself forward, extending his hand. “Mr. Valderama,” he says, polite but strained. “Forgive me if I can’t be more courteous. The situation…” He lets the rest hang in the air, the gravity of it self-evident.

  He turns toward Teresa, about to request the usual ritual of numbers to get Edward caught up, when Edward raises a hand, silencing the motion like a judge quieting a courtroom.

  “There’s no need,” Edward says, voice gravel smoothed by decades of negotiation. “I helped Marius prepare for this. I know Montejo Holdings’ books. I know your personal finances, Se?or Montejo.”

  The words slide across the floor like oil. Javier feels the skin between his shoulders tighten, a ripple of unease creeping up his spine. A stranger claiming to know the contours of his life more intimately than he himself does, it should spark anger, resistance, suspicion. But his mind is already crowded, the room too full of percentages, names, and deadlines. No space left for more doubt. He accepts it, swallows it like bitter medicine, and moves on.

  “All right,” Javier says, exhaling through his nose. “Then tell me, what are our options?”

  Edward adjusts his tie, slow and deliberate, then clasps his hands before him like a priest delivering bad news. “I heard you’re considering brute force, buying up shares. That is a losing battle. Astra Global has deep pockets, and they’re liquid. Every counteroffer you make, they can crush with a higher bid. A bidding war is blood in the water. I’ve seen them before.” His eyes grow distant, haunted.

  Javier feels his jaw tighten. “Then what do we do?”

  Edward’s eyes narrow, sharp as scalpels. “I heard you’re liquidating assets,” he says, voice low but unwavering. “Good. Continue that. More liquid capital is always useful. But listen closely, the first order of business isn’t buying. It’s cutting off Beatriz at the knees. Find a way to get Astra to back off. Cut off her source of funding, and the spree ends.”

  From the inside pocket of his armored suit, Edward produces a folded scrap of paper. It looks almost absurdly out of place, too fragile for his iron demeanor. He lays it in front of Javier.

  “That,” Edward intones, “is the personal number of Elaine Kuazon. Chairman of Astra Global. Talk to her.”

  Javier picks up the paper. The digits sprawl across it hastily, almost desperate, as though scrawled in the backseat of a moving car. He stares at them, feeling the ink press against his skin like a brand. His chest tightens. “Ok. Ok, ok. I’ll… I’ll have my people speak to her.”

  A faint flicker passes over Edward’s face, bemusement, disbelief, maybe even disappointment. Then he says flatly, “No. You have to personally reach out to her.”

  Javier shakes his head, tries to make it sound rational, strategic. “I have people who are better talkers than me. Their chances of convincing her to back off, they’re higher.”

  Edward rises from his seat, his figure casting a long, uncompromising shadow across the room. “Elaine Kuazon is an old-fashioned woman. She responds to presence. To sincerity. To the weight of a personal touch. Send your proxies, and you’ll insult her. Go yourself, and she’ll at least listen.”

  The pressure in the room spikes like barometric doom. Javier swallows, forces the words through clenched teeth. “Don’t worry, I’ll speak to her… eventually. But first contact… I’ll have my people handle that.”

  He doesn’t wait for the reaction. He pushes back from the table, almost stumbles toward the study. The door shuts behind him with a heavy thud. Alone now, Javier presses his back against the wood, chest heaving.

  He drags a long, shaky breath into his lungs. The numbers on that scrap of paper throb in his pocket like a second pulse. The world feels suddenly smaller, airless, as though every path forward narrows to a single line scratched out by someone else’s hand.

  9:12

  A knock. Then the study door eases open before Javier can give permission. Teresa’s face, pale in the dimness, peers in. Her voice comes soft, measured.

  “There’s been a development.”

  Javier, stretched across the sofa like a man washed ashore, doesn’t lift his head. “Lay it out.”

  She glances back toward the living room, hesitation flickering in her posture. Then she slips fully inside, closing the door behind her. The sound of the latch clicks like a secret being sealed.

  “Beatriz just secured another two percent,” she says. Her words land without cushioning. “Beatriz offered them 5000 pesos per share.”

  Javier presses his palms to his eyes, the world behind his lids swimming red and black. “Of course.”

  “There’s… something else,” Teresa adds carefully.

  “What.” The word escapes flat, already exhausted.

  She flicks through her phone, hesitation drawing out the seconds. “I wasn’t sure if it was even worth bringing up. But I didn’t want you blindsided.”

  She crosses the room, hands him her phone. On the screen, a headline:

  “Cracks in the Marble: Gossip and Speculation Swirl Around Montejo Holdings Power Struggle.”

  Javier’s stomach folds in on itself. A lead weight dropping. Family laundry, dragged out into daylight for the masses to paw at. He wonders who leaked it, but the question withers before it even forms fully. Irrelevant. The cat’s not just out of the bag; it’s already scratching furniture and shitting on the floor. Nothing he can do about it now other than clean up the mess.

  He scrolls. The article is a swamp of rumors, some sharp and accurate, others absurd and fevered. Words like “dynasty,” “succession,” “legacy” float up from the murk. Then a line snags him like a hook: a personal comment, about him.

  “Whether Javier Montejo has the character and ability to steer the company remains in question. Sources whisper of indecision, of youth mistaken for innovative leadership, of a name propping up a hollow man.”

  His throat locks. He doesn’t read further. Doesn’t need to. He snaps the phone shut in his hand, then offers it back to Teresa with a face carefully blank.

  The silence in the study is heavy enough to drown in.

  Javier breaks the silence with a voice scraped raw. “Are the others here?”

  Teresa nods. “Tony, Ligaya, Bernard, and their aides. They’ve already set up in the living room. Ligaya’s working on smoothing things over with your Aunt Corazon and Uncle Francisco. Each of them holds one percent.”

  She scrolls through her notes. “Bernard’s been on the phone with Elaine Kuazon. No progress so far. Tony’s chasing capital, but the markets are moving slow.”

  Javier sits upright, bones aching as if weighted with centuries of family ghosts. He presses his hands to his knees, grounding himself in the fabric of the sofa, then pushes himself to standing. His shadow lengthens against the wall as though reluctant to follow.

  “All right,” he says, clipped and final. The word is both decision and armor.

  He moves toward the door. Teresa falls into step behind him, quiet, efficient, carrying the residue of bad news like a briefcase she cannot put down.

  The latch clicks open. The study exhales them back into the condo.

  The living room hums with overlapping voices, the rustle of papers, the low static of phones pressed to ears. Faces turn as Javier steps in. He scans the room, Tony is bent over a laptop, Ligaya is mid-conversation, Bernard is frowning at his phone. Victory is slouched on the sofa typing away at her phone, but Edward is nowhere in sight.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Javier clears his throat, the sound sharper than he intended. The room stills. He gathers his words like cards fanned clumsily in a nervous hand, then lets them fall one by one.

  “First… thank you all for coming.” His eyes move across them, searching for steadiness in their faces. “I know how much I’m asking of you. And I know this fight…” he hesitates, tasting the word, “…this fight against Aunt Beatriz isn’t going to be easy. She’s got backing, she’s got momentum. But we have something else.”

  He exhales through his nose, forces a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I believe in your abilities. In the work you’ve already put in, and the work still ahead. If we hold our ground, if we push smart, we can win this. I have to believe that. And I want you to believe it too.”

  “I want everyone to be contacting all undecided shareholders and convince them not to sell to Aunt Beatriz. Use all the contacts you have to reach them.”

  Ligaya raises a hand and asks. “What’s our counter offer to shareholders who wants to cash out?”

  “Good question.” Javier responds, pauses as he gathers the math. “We don’t have Astra’s warchest, so we have to play it conservatively. Start at three thousand per share, cap the offer at four thousand.”

  His hand tightens briefly at his side before he lets it drop, casual, as though nothing’s amiss. “So. Let’s get to it.”

  The words hang in the air, a fragile scaffolding, built for his people, yes, but also to keep himself standing.

  10:16

  Javier is leaned in with Teresa and Victory, their hushed discussion cut short at the sight of Ligaya on the phone. Her voice had changed, bright, urgent, alive in a way Javier had never heard before. Excitement radiated off her in waves, like static building before a storm.

  "Yes, yes, yes, thank you, thank you so much." She ended the call, her hand trembling slightly as she set the phone down.

  Javier straightened in his chair, heart quickening. Please let this be it.

  "Good news?"

  Ligaya turned to him, and there it was, a smile. Not her usual clipped nod, not her polite neutral frown. A real smile. He felt disarmed by it, almost young again.

  "Not only did your Aunt Corazon and Uncle Francisco agree to refuse Beatriz’s offer," she said, her voice almost glowing, "they’ve pledged their votes to you as proxy. And they convinced their children to do the same. Together, that’s four percent of the company."

  Javier froze, as if the air had suddenly grown too sharp to breathe. Four percent. He whispered it under his breath like an incantation. Then it hit him. "That’s… that’s incredible. That means…” He turned, grabbing Ligaya in a sudden embrace, the tension of the last days breaking in a rush of relief. Around them, Teresa clapped her hands together, Bernard let out a low whistle, and a ripple of celebration broke through the room.

  When Javier pulled back, his eyes shone with something fierce and fragile.

  "We’re only four percent away," he said to the room, his voice carrying with it both gravity and wonder. "Just four. Keep working, don’t stop now. Keep those calls going. We can do this. We will do this."

  The cheer that answered him felt like the spark of a match in a dark cavern.

  The room still hummed with celebration when Javier slipped away toward Tony, who was half-hidden behind the glow of his laptop, fingers drumming, jaw tight. Numbers and graphs danced on the screen like fever dreams.

  "Tony," Javier said, lowering his voice. "With that four percent secured… how much do we need to grab the rest?"

  Tony didn’t look up. His eyes stayed glued to the flickering charts. "One percent will cost about a hundred and fifty million if we want to outprice Beatriz, give or take. To buy four, we’re staring at six hundred. Right now I’ve only managed to liquidate fifty from your assets. The PSE’s crawling. Foreign markets where you’ve got accounts haven’t even opened yet."

  Javier felt the soda-can dryness in his throat. "What about loans? Or outside capital?"

  Tony sighed, fingers pausing over the keys. "I’ve been knocking on doors all morning, banks, friends with deep pockets. Nobody’s interested in financing a bidding war. They see it as setting cash on fire. Banks think the risk is too high, and honestly, they’re not confident you can pay them back if the price balloons beyond four thousand pesos per share, which it will.”

  Javier’s eyes drifted toward the wide glass windows, the skyline pressing in like a silent jury. He turned back. "How much is this condo worth?"

  Tony blinked, caught off guard. "Last I checked? Full-floor units here hover around four hundred million pesos."

  "Then see if any bank is willing to give me four hundred before lunch," Javier said flatly. "Use the condo as leverage."

  Tony sputtered. "Javier, leveraging real estate takes time, even with my contacts. Weeks, not hours.”

  "Then make it hours," Javier replied, his voice calm but sharp as glass. "At least try. Meanwhile, I’ll see who bites with the one-fifty we’ve got."

  He clapped Tony’s shoulder, firm, final, before rising. The glow of the laptop spilled over Tony’s stunned face as Javier walked off, drifting into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, the LED light spilling over him like interrogation lamps, and pulled out a soda. The hiss of the can opening was the only applause he got.

  11:49

  Nancy fussed with folded napkins and plates on the dining table while Javier hunted for distraction in the cabinets. His hands skimmed over porcelain, stemware, clattering ceramic, but no shine of silver, no promise of the new German cutlery set he’d bought last week.

  He asked Nancy where it was.

  “They’re gone po,” she said plainly, still smoothing a tablecloth. “They were one of the things that was stolen last Saturday night.”

  The cabinet door nearly cracked under the surge of his hand, but he caught himself, reined it in, let it close with a dull thud. He’d been so consumed with takeover numbers and proxies, he had managed to forget that his own home had been gutted in the night, a quiet robbery under the watch of his condo tower.

  He leaned across the marble island, the expanse of his living room stretching before him like a war room. His people sat scattered across couches and chairs, phones pressed to ears, papers splayed out like a surgeon’s tools. Javier’s moment at the cabinet was nothing, just a distraction from the family crucible closing in on him.

  The phone buzzed in his pocket. Esteban.

  He stepped out onto the balcony. Wind bit at him, the high-altitude air sharp and almost too clean, like he didn’t deserve it.

  “Javi,” his father’s voice came through, steady, but threaded with worry. “How are we standing?”

  “We just need four more percent,” Javier answered. “That’ll tip us into majority.”

  He hesitated, then asked: “Have you spoken to Uncle Ramon?”

  “I have,” Esteban said, and his tone darkened. “That’s why I’m calling. He was shaken by what you did Saturday night. He wants to hear it from you. Directly. Your side of the story. Call him. Or better, visit. He’s in his San Juan right now. Shouldn’t be a long drive if you go early.”

  “Look, Dad,” Javier said, fingers pressed to the cold steel of the balcony railing. “There’s still around eight percent floating undecided. I think I have a better chance securing the four percent from the six that Uncle Ramon doesn’t control.”

  “Javi,” Esteban’s voice lowered, deliberate, like he was trying to nail his son’s feet to the floor. “My brother has held his stake for decades. If he folds to Beatriz, the signal it sends will be catastrophic. One percent, two percent, it doesn’t matter.”

  Javier pinched the bridge of his nose. “I.. I get that, but the numbers don’t lie dad. Two percent from Ramon is still two percent I need to gamble for, and he’s already what, spooked? I’d rather chase the undecided than wrestle a ghost.”

  “You’re not hearing me Javi,” Esteban pressed. “He’s your uncle. He raised a glass at your christening. He taught you how to swim. You think a phone call from some lawyer or advisor will move him? He wants you. He wants to hear from your own words when you explain Saturday night.”

  Javier exhaled smoke though there was no cigarette in his mouth. “And if he doesn’t like what he sees and hears? Then I’ve wasted my time while Beatriz buys out the others. I already screwed up with Aunt Beatriz, I’m not going to take the same risk with Uncle Ramon.”

  “Son,” Esteban said, the weight in his tone almost breaking, “business is numbers, yes. But family is touch. You need to understand, sometimes the hand is stronger than the calculator.”

  Javier stared out over the skyline, Makati’s towers like teeth in the dark. He let the silence hang. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Javi… ”

  “I have to go,” Javier cut him off, already turning back toward the glass doors. “We’re in the middle of something here. I’ll… I’ll consider Uncle Ramon later.”

  The line went quiet for a beat, then Esteban sighed. “Don’t wait too long.”

  Javier ended the call without replying.

  14:18

  Isabelle’s voice bled out of the phone’s speaker, cool, firm, with that faint French cadence she inherited from her father. The study was dim, and all Javier focused on was this conversation.

  “I’m sorry, Javier. But my mother’s stance on this is clear, she’s not interested in joining a bidding war for something that will ultimately change nothing with our JV with your company. Astra and Beatriz have already stated their commitment to the Tondo TOD project. Officially speaking, there’s nothing in it for us to fund your war against your aunt. I wish you the best, Javier, but I’m sorry. We can’t help you.”

  Javier sat still in the leather chair, shoulders slumped, the phone’s faint hum filling the silence after her voice vanished. It made perfect sense. It was airtight logic, the kind you couldn’t even be angry at. And still, the hurt coiled in his chest like smoke.

  “I understand,” he said softly, almost to himself. Then he pressed the red icon, ending the call.

  The study was quiet again, save for the distant shuffle of voices from the living room. Javier stared at the desk for a long moment, the weight of rejection hanging heavier than the city skyline outside.

  A knock. The door cracked open, and Teresa leaned in, her face polite but strained.

  “Bernard has updates,” she said.

  Javier gestured with two fingers, and Bernard slipped inside. He carried his phone like it was still hot from use, his face trying to arrange itself into confidence but failing at the edges.

  “How are talks with Elaine?” Javier asked, voice flat, clipped.

  Bernard cleared his throat. “So, uh, right, Elaine. Lovely woman, by the way, very old-world kind of grace, you can tell she still remembers when her family was, you know, in plastics. She opened with that story about their first factory in Valenzuela, how they had to beg the banks to fund new injection machines. I laughed, said I knew what that was like, I once tried to finance a fish cannery in Navotas, did I ever tell you that? No? Well anyway, she appreciated that I understood manufacturing margins. She likes people who understand margins. Then she pivoted, quite cleverly actually, to asking what Montejo Holdings under your leadership could really offer Astra, because from her view, your land bank is underutilized. I countered with… ”

  “Bernard,” Javier interrupted, but Bernard barreled on.

  “…with the TOD project, yes, but also your family’s logistics arm. I told her you were serious about turning Manila’s choke points into arteries. She nodded, but not in that yes, I’m convinced way, more like a ‘hmm, I’ll humor this man’ way. And then, she asked whether you’d be willing to trade board influence for manufacturing synergies. I said you’d consider it, though obviously I can’t bind you, right? And she told me about her son wanting to meet with more, you know, forward-thinking heirs, I think she was hinting at you, but she framed it around golf, because Elaine loves golf. I actually mentioned that time I caddied for a client at Wack-Wack, you remember that? The guy with the arthritis grip who still insisted on swinging a driver? Anyway, she laughed at that, good sign, she has a warm laugh by the way, more like your tita Corazon’s laugh when she’s already had two glasses of Rioja.”

  Javier’s face was unreadable marble. He rubbed his temple with two fingers.

  “And so…?”

  Bernard blinked, then chuckled nervously. “Right, right, so the thing is… in the end, Elaine wasn’t impressed that it was me talking to her. She said if Montejo Holdings wanted to be taken seriously, it should have been be you making the call. Not your people. You. So she’s… well, she’s going to keep backing Beatriz.”

  The silence that followed was heavy, like a lid pressed down on a boiling pot.

  Javier leaned back in his chair, staring past Bernard, as though he could see through the wood-paneled wall to where the city stretched, uncaring and immense.

  Javier dismissed Bernard with a flick of his hand, like shooing away smoke that refused to leave the room. He pulled out his phone, fingers trembling over the screen as he began punching in Elaine Kuazon’s number. The digits bled together, shaky, half-formed. Salvation or humiliation, he didn’t know which, but it was better than this paralysis.

  The door creaked again. Teresa slipped in, her face pale with the weight of something not yet fully confirmed.

  “There’s another update,” she said softly. “I’m not entirely certain yet, but I’m hearing chatter, some of your cousins have already accepted Beatriz’s offer. They held four percent, meaning…”

  The floor seemed to drop beneath him. He didn’t even let her finish. His mouth worked automatically, like machinery too old to stop.

  “That means she only needs two percent left.”

  Teresa nodded. Her eyes, dim and apologetic, said more than her words.

  “What about Tony? The loan?” Javier asked, voice thin, frayed.

  “No,” Teresa said. “No bank will release the money today.”

  The air inside his lungs turned to iron. Breathing felt like swallowing stones. He rose, pacing tight circles, dragging in gulps of oxygen that refused to satisfy. Then, with sudden violence, he stormed out of the study and into the living room.

  The crowd froze at his entrance. All eyes turned to him as he carved a straight line across the polished floor to where Tony hunched over his laptop.

  Tony looked up, startled by the ferocity bearing down on him.

  “Offer non-liquid assets,” Javier spat. “To whoever owns that two percent that’s not Uncle Ramon’s. Anyone else. Offer them pieces of this condo, even any of my cars if you have to. Just get them to sell. I don’t care how, just do it.”

  Tony’s jaw fell open. He started to speak, but Javier was already turning away, already moving, the decision ripping through him like lightning splitting a tree.

  “Where are you going?” Tony called after him.

  Javier’s answer cut the air clean:

  “San Juan.”

  And he was gone, leaving behind the whir of laptops, the hushed panic of aides, and the impossible weight of numbers that no longer obeyed him.

  14:57

  The SUV rolled into San Juan after a crucifixion of traffic, horns blaring like angry brass in a broken orchestra. Inside, Javier sat rigid, eyes hollow, while Teresa worked two phones like dueling pistols, call after call, unanswered. She shook her head. A silent verdict: no.

  The car slowed before Uncle Ramon’s mansion, pale walls glimmering behind manicured hedges. Javier didn’t wait. Before the SUV even rolled to a full stop, he flung the door open, ignoring Teresa’s startled cry.

  The humid afternoon slapped him in the face as he strode up the walkway, lungs pumping as though he’d run a mile instead of sat cocooned in chilled air. He stabbed at the doorbell. Waited. Nothing. Pressed it again, harder, as though force would conjure his uncle from the shadows.

  Teresa caught up, heels clicking. Javier turned to her, gesturing sharply: no one. No one’s home. He drifted to a side window, cupping his hands to peer into the darkened interior. Empty. Dustless silence.

  “Maybe he had an emergency,” Javier muttered, half to himself.

  And then the door cracked open. A maid stood there, small and apologetic in the rectangle of light.

  “Is Uncle Ramon home?” Javier asked, breath still heavy.

  “Ah, no, sir,” the maid said. “He just went out… a dinner date.”

  Javier blinked. “Dinner date? With who?”

  “I don’t know the details, sir. Just… a restaurant near Timog.”

  That didn’t narrow it down at all. The entire Quezon nightlife was a sprawl of neon-lit possibilities. A labyrinth of dead ends.

  Javier forced a polite nod. “Thank you.”

  Back at the car, Teresa’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the message, her expression sharpening.

  “It’s from Victory,” she said. “Marius wants to know, have you talked to Beatriz at all, this whole time?”

  Javier slid into the SUV, his hands tightening around the seat edge. “No. Why would I?”

  Teresa didn’t answer. She only looked at him, quiet, a thought trapped behind her eyes like a moth against glass.

  Javier ordered the driver to head towards Timog, they’ll figure out where in Timog his Uncle is on the way there. The driver nodded at the order, flicking the signal, and left the driveway.

  Teresa’s voice cut through the hum of traffic:

  “Tony pulled it off. He exchanged your shares of Cavite Country Club for the two percent. Clean trade. That means it’s just your uncle now.”

  The should have landed like champagne, bubbles rising, relief fizzing at the edges of his chest. Instead, it sat in him like a stone. Uncle Ramon, the last holdout.

  “Good news, right?” Teresa prodded, searching his profile.

  “Yeah,” Javier said, but the word was airless, a ghost of conviction.

  Because now it was all funneling down to one man. Javier’s camp had 49% secured, Beatriz’s camp had the other 49%. The shares stacked neatly in his favor, his two percent sitting neatly in the middle, every piece of the puzzle clicking into place, except for the jagged edge that was Ramon Montejo.

  Outside, the shadows of streetlights flew by, relentless. Inside, Javier’s head filled with that dread, soft, invasive, unshakable. A feeling that something wasn’t adding up, that the car was carrying him forward while his mind begged for a red light, a break, a breath.

  But there was no space for that now. The machine was moving. The city, the deal, his father, Ramon, Aunt Beatriz. Everything pressing forward, whether or not he was ready.

  He straightened in his seat, knuckles whitening around his phone. “We’ll narrow it down,” he told the driver, though the words were more for himself.

  No space to doubt. Not anymore.

  16:50

  “This is it? This is the restaurant, right?” Javier asked, his voice a touch too quick, too brittle.

  The car idled under the glow of a Japanese lantern sign, the painted kanji swaying in the humid afternoon air.

  “I think so,” Teresa said, peering through the tinted glass. “Your cousin Raul swore he went here, unless there’s another spot on this street with the exact same name.”

  “Alright. Thank Raul for me.” Javier pushed the door open before she could respond, stepping into the sidewalk as if the air itself might swallow his hesitation.

  The hostess outside the entrance wore a professional smile, a mask lacquered by repetition. Javier leaned in, nearly whispering, “I’m to meet Ramon Montejo. Is he here?”

  Her fingers danced over a tablet, the screen glow painting her features an alien blue. A pause, then a smile that confirmed too much. She gestured for him to follow.

  Javier trailed her through a labyrinth of corridors, past half-ajar doors. The rooms were scenes cut from other lives: a birthday cake glowing under a family’s laughter; men hunched over ashtrays, speaking with the measured gravity of conspirators; a woman gently scolding her child for spilling soy sauce. Every doorway was another reality, another timeline, but none of them his.

  Finally, she led him upstairs to a quiet corner, where the air grew still and faint with incense. A heavy door slid open to reveal a room staged like a theater.

  And there he was.

  At the head of a wide table, half in shadow, half in the warm pool of light from a paper lamp, Uncle Ramon.

  Ramon looked up, eyes slow and heavy, and gave the faintest nod toward the chair across from him.

  Javier obeyed without protest, lowering himself into the seat like a student summoned to the principal’s office. The paper lamp above them hummed faintly, caught in the draft. Between them, a long lacquered table that looked more like a surgical slab.

  Silence pressed down, until Ramon exhaled sharply, a sigh that carried years in it.

  “You know what cut me deepest, Javier?” His voice was low, unhurried, like the first strike of a drum. “Not that you and your cousins wanted me off the board. Not even that you thought you had the numbers to make it happen. No, what gutted me was the way you did it. Like a pack of jackals springing from the bushes on a Saturday morning. An ambush. And you, my own nephew, couldn’t even tell me the news to my face.”

  Javier sat still, spine straight, gaze steady but not challenging. His silence was not agreement, nor was it defiance, it was heavier, a silence that carried all the unspoken words he couldn’t yet risk.

  Ramon leaned forward, hands flat on the table, rings glinting. “Do you know what it feels like? To wake up after fifty years of loyalty to this family and realize you’ve been maneuvered out, like some liability? Like an aging horse shuffled to pasture?”

  Javier opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “My seat on the board,” Ramon continued, his voice softening but only to sharpen the knife, “is symbolic. You all know that. My focus hasn’t been in Montejo Holdings for years. My hotel chain in North Luzon… do you know what it’s like to build something from scratch and watch it thrive? Families check in, weddings are held, the mountain air practically sings with abundance. I didn’t need that board seat to feed my children, my grandchildren. I don’t particularly care about keeping my seat either, but I still did because it was ours. Because it was our history. And now?”

  He shook his head slowly, as if the weight of it all were almost comical.

  “To be betrayed by my own nieces and nephews, my own kin… Tell me, Javier. Was my symbolic seat too heavy for you all to carry? Or was it just convenient to cut me down while smiling for the cameras?”

  The room held the words like smoke, curling, suffocating.

  Javier’s lips parted, but nothing came. Words trembled at the edge of his throat, refusing to leap.

  He wanted to say I’m sorry, but the word felt brittle, like it would shatter the moment it touched the table between them. He wanted to explain, about the future, about what he envisioned, about why sacrifices had to be made. But under Ramon’s gaze, those explanations twisted into vanity, into arrogance, into the smug chatter of a boy playing at power.

  Still, Javier forced the words out, halting at first, then tumbling.

  “Uncle… I know I was reckless. That Saturday, I… I hought I was being decisive, thought I was thinking for all of us. Instead, I blindsided you. If I had the chance to do it differently, I would. I’d come to all of you first, I’d speak to you man to man. But I didn’t, and that was my failure.”

  Ramon’s face stayed stone, unreadable. Javier pressed on.

  “I’m not here to ask for forgiveness. I haven’t earned that. What I’m asking… begging… is that you look past me. There’s something bigger at stake. Beatriz isn’t just maneuvering for control, she’s opening the doors to outsiders. People who don’t care about our name, our legacy. They’ll carve Montejo up, sell the pieces to strangers. I can’t let that happen. Please, Uncle. Don’t do this for me. Do it to keep what’s ours intact.”

  For the first time, Ramon let out a low, bitter laugh. It wasn’t cruel, but it carried the weight of disappointment. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice low but sharp.

  “Oh, Javier. If only you reached out sooner.”

  The words struck like a hammer, but Ramon didn’t stop.

  “All weekend I waited. I told myself, maybe he’ll call. Maybe he’ll walk through my door. Maybe he’ll treat me like more than an obstacle, you know? I gave you every chance in the world to explain yourself, but you stayed silent. And now? Now you come to me only because the walls are closing in.”

  He shook his head, almost in sorrow. “You’re too late. I’ve already decided even before you entered, I’m voting with Beatriz.”

  The room seemed to shrink around Javier, the air draining out. His uncle’s verdict left no space for reply.