We had barely rolled to a stop at the curb when Mom's patience blew out like a tire on hot asphalt.
"I really don't like that girl who stopped us just now," she muttered, pressing her forehead to the passenger-side window as our sleepy subdivision drifted by in the late-afternoon haze.
I turned off the engine, its gentle rumble dying with a reluctant sigh.
"Lily, you mean?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. The name hovered between us like an untended flame—dangerous if prodded, inevitable if ignored.
Mom didn't bite. Silence stretched, taut as a violin string, until I could practically hear the hum in my ears. The web-novel I'd read back in college never bothered to explain why she hated Lily; it merely treated Mom's disdain as gospel, like some background law of gravity. But the older I grew, the less content I was with mysteries that shaped my life. Curiosity finally bullied courage to the surface.
"If you don't mind my asking…" I twisted in my seat, fingers worrying the hem of my blouse. "Why do you dislike her so much?"
For a brittle heartbeat Mom stayed completely still. Then she exhaled—slow, deliberate—like releasing air from a balloon she'd held too long.
"That girl's mother was my friend," she said, voice barely louder than the cicadas outside.
Shock pricked my skin. Nothing in the novel hinted at that twist.
"At first I adored Lily," Mom continued, eyes unfocused as though she were watching a movie projected on the windshield. "She had her mother's smile—bright, silly, generous." Her lips curled at the memory before flattening again. "But her father—some hotshot regional manager stationed overseas—was keeping a mistress. Knocked the woman up, too."
A pang radiated through my chest. "Lily's mom must've been crushed."
"She was shattered," Mom murmured, glancing down at her wedding band as if re-checking its solidity. "I begged her to divorce him before he poisoned her completely. She did, but heartbreak is a slow poison of its own." Her voice wavered, then steadied. "I worried she might do something drastic while alone with a teenage daughter, so I invited them to stay with us."
I pictured a younger Lily wandering our halls—awkward, uncertain—while Mom played surrogate aunt. The image felt surreal, like a deleted scene that changed the entire film.
"For those first months Lily was an absolute sweetheart," Mom went on, a wistful smile flickering. "I never had a daughter, so I spoiled her shamelessly—hair ribbons, baking lessons, late-night rom-com marathons." She patted my knee, warmth in her touch. "And don't fret—even if you're only my son's wife, you're still my one and only daughter now."
Gratitude welled up; I squeezed her hand. She intertwined her fingers with mine but kept staring forward, as though the asphalt ahead housed all her unspoken regrets.
"Then her mother passed—clinical depression, the doctors said." Mom's jaw tensed. "After the funeral, Lily changed overnight. She strutted through the house like royalty, snapping at the maids, sneering at the gardeners." Her nostrils flared. "She did something so unforgivable that I threw her out that same night."
My pulse quickened. "What did she do?"
The laugh that burst from Mom's throat was sharp, almost metallic.
"She tried to seduce Zion. My boy was barely twenty—home on summer break—when she slipped into his room at two a.m. in nothing but a silk robe. He shoved her out, but the damage was done. Tongues wag. Reputations crack." She inhaled slowly. "So I packed Zion off to our Singapore office before the gossip ruined him."
My stomach flipped. So that was the secret history neither Zion nor the novel ever mentioned.
"Years drifted by," she continued. "Zion didn't set foot in Manila until I summoned him for his father's fiftieth birthday. He left again, met you, and returned engaged." She finally looked at me, eyes bright with an anger still raw. "Since then—nothing. No word of Lily. But my hatred?" She tapped her sternum. "It's permanent ink."
I nodded, equal parts enlightened and unsettled. Lily's glares at Vilacorp suddenly made sense—even with Carlo Ville orbiting her like a moon. Yet a new question nagged: if Lily and Zion shared that messy past, why did he act like she was a stranger? Had the author of my old web-novel hidden it for dramatic payoff… or had Zion filed the memory so deep it might as well be fiction?
We pushed through the front door, shedding shoes and heat like cumbersome coats. The living room smelled of sandalwood and old books—late sunlight draped itself over the furniture. Zion and Father-in-law sat on the couch, heads bent in discussion. At the sight of Mom, Zion's father straightened, smile blooming like dawn.
"My dear sweetheart, I'm home!" Mom trilled, transformation instant. Gone was the stern judge; here was the giddy newlywed she somehow remained after thirty years.
Father-in-law patted the cushion beside him. Mom practically floated over, tucking herself beneath his arm with the contented sigh of a cat in a sunbeam. Heat crept up my neck at their open affection.
Across the coffee table Zion lifted his gaze to mine. With a subtle nod, he invited me to join him on the adjacent couch. I sank down, mind still churning with Mom's revelations.
"How was the shopping, sweetheart?" Father-in-law asked, tone gentle as a lullaby.
"It was wonderful, my dear sweetheart," Mom replied, resting her head on his broad shoulder.
I leaned toward Zion and whispered, "Are they always this mushy?"
He flinched as though my breath tickled his earlobe.
"Get your face away from me," he muttered, eyes narrowing.
I recoiled, rolling mine. Over-dramatic, much? Yet before I could retreat fully, his fingers curled around my wrist—warm, steady.
"Just get used to it," he whispered, a ghost of a smile tugging his lips.
His gaze dipped to my mouth; my heartbeat stumbled. For a dizzy second the room shrank until only the two of us existed—his breath skimming my skin, the faint cedar scent of his cologne.
"Zion, are you a child? Jealous of your parents' affection, so you're copying them?" Mom teased, mischief dancing in her eyes.
"This is my house, Mom. I can do whatever I want," Zion shot back, but his tone held no true bite—just playful defiance.
Mom's smile turned sly. "Then prove it—kiss my daughter-in-law."
My brain short-circuited. Before death I'd never kissed anyone but my father's cheek. Even now, months into marriage, Zion's nearness still scattered my thoughts like doves from a bell tower.
But Zion didn't hesitate. One hand tilted my chin; his thumb brushed my lower lip like a question. His mouth met mine—soft, exploring. The world tilted, seams dissolving. His fingers threaded into my hair, and the kiss deepened, slow then urgent, as though he were sealing an oath no language could hold. I clutched his shirt for balance; his tongue coaxed a quiet sound from my throat that was all surrender.
A pointed cough cracked the moment. We sprang apart, breaths uneven. I ducked my head, cheeks burning so fiercely I half-expected smoke.
"You've got more stamina than me, dear," Mom quipped, fanning herself dramatically.
I wished the earth would open and swallow me. Failing that, the carpet might do.
"Way to go, son," Father-in-law added, voice utterly earnest—as if congratulating Zion on a quarterly earnings report.
"Thank you, Dad," Zion replied, composure miraculously intact—villainous grin firmly in place.
I buried my reddened face in my palms. Shameless, this man—shameless and, though I'd never admit it aloud, disarmingly wonderful.