My name is Miguel. I’m 20 years old – tall, well-mannered, and a second-year university student in Quezon City.
I have no wealth, no family name, no connections just a boy from the province trying to earn a degree and build a better life for my family.
Everything changed the day I met Doña Carmela, a 60-year-old widow and former owner of one of Manila’s most famous restaurant chains. She was now retired, living alone in a sprawling mansion in San Juan.
I first met her at a charity event hosted by our student organization. From the moment our eyes met, I felt something shift. It wasn’t her money that drew me in, nor her looks—but her presence. Graceful. Composed. Her gaze carried both wisdom and sorrow, as if she could see straight through you.
She rarely spoke, but when she did, her words lingered. Her smile was gentle, yet behind it lived a loneliness I couldn’t explain.
❤️ “I didn’t choose their age,” she once said softly. “I chose the peace their company gave me.”
Three months after that first meeting, we became close. She told me stories from her past—a failed marriage, years of sacrifice for her business, and a heart that had long stopped believing in love. Each story felt like a confession wrapped in poetry. Without realizing it, I fell deeply for her.
One rainy night in Taguig, I knelt before her and whispered,
“I don’t care how old you are, Carmela. All I know is that I want to be with you.”
When I got home that night, chaos erupted.
“Are you insane?” my father roared. “Do you want the whole town laughing at us?”
My mother cried. “That woman is just using you, Miguel!”
My uncles and cousins murmured behind my back.
“That’s not love—it’s greed.”
But I refused to listen. I knew what I felt.
Soon after, I left home. Carmela and I planned a quiet wedding in a private garden in Antipolo, witnessed only by a few of her old friends and business partners.
After the ceremony, she took me to her mansion in San Juan. The air smelled of roses and expensive perfume. The silence felt… heavy.
That night, she appeared in a white silk nightgown and sat beside me. In her hands were three brown envelopes and a Porsche key fob. She smiled faintly and handed them over.
“Miguel, from this night on, everything here belongs to you.”
Trembling, I opened the envelopes. Inside were property titles from Makati, Quezon City, and Batangas—worth over ₱100 million in total.
“Why are you giving me this?” I stammered. “I don’t need it. I love you, not your wealth.”
She smiled—a mysterious, almost sorrowful smile—and whispered,
“If you chose me, Miguel, then you must also accept everything that comes with me. You’re marrying not just me… but my secrets.”
She paused. “I have no children. I don’t want everything I’ve built to fall into the hands of my greedy relatives who are waiting for me to die. I want to leave it all to you—but there’s one condition.”
My pulse quickened. “What condition?”
She leaned closer, her voice cold enough to chill my blood.
“Tonight, I want you to be my true husband—not just on paper, but in body and soul. If you can’t do that, tomorrow I’ll burn those deeds and change my will.”
The world seemed to tilt. Love and fear blurred into something I couldn’t name. As I reached for her, she grabbed my hand, her fingers icy against my skin.
Then her smile faded. Her voice trembled.
“My husband’s d3ath… wasn’t an accident.”
My eyes widened. The air in the room turned to ice. The envelopes on the table suddenly felt cursed.
That night, I realized I hadn’t just married a woman—I had stepped into something far darker.
The silence of the house seemed alive, whispering warnings through every creak and shadow. I stared at Carmela—my wife—while her words echoed in my mind.
“My husband’s death… wasn’t an accident.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She stood and walked to the wine cabinet. Opening a bottle of Château Margaux, she poured two glasses and said quietly,
“I’ve hidden the truth for too long. I don’t have time for lies anymore.”
She sat down beside me.
“His name was Manuel Delgado. We built everything together—the business, the reputation, the life everyone envied. But behind those smiles, there was betrayal.”
She stared at the floor.
“He had another woman, Miguel. One of our restaurant managers.”
I froze. “What happened?”
“I confronted him in Tagaytay. It was raining that night. We argued. He drove away angry… and he never made it home.”
Her eyes darkened.
“The police called it an accident—a curve, a tree, a crash. But a few days before that, I got an anonymous call. A man’s voice said, ‘If you want to live, don’t get in the car with Manuel.’”
Someone had wanted him d3ad. Maybe both of them. But why tell me this?
“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.
She met my gaze, her tone flat and bitter.
“Because they’ll come again. The ones who killed Manuel. And now that you’re on those property deeds, you’re their next target.”
The next morning, I woke to noise in the garden. Three bodyguards stood by the door. A newspaper lay open on the table:
“Mysterious Fire Engulfs Delgado Warehouse in Pasig – One D3ad.”
The photo showed one of her old properties.
“That wasn’t an acci:dent,” Carmela said from behind me. “They’ve started.”
Days blurred into paranoia. While she handled legal papers, I began digging into Manuel Delgado’s past. Reports described him as a self-made man, but buried whispers spoke of money laundering and political bribery in the 1990s.
One night, while in his old study, I found a hidden safe behind a bookshelf. It was slightly open. Inside were stacks of old documents, floppy disks—and an envelope with my name on it.
My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a photo of me taken months ago at the charity event. On the back, a handwritten note:
“Matches the description. Same height. Same bl00d type. Proceed with discretion.”
My heart pounded. What did that mean? Who wrote it?
Suddenly, Carmela appeared at the doorway.
“Miguel, what are you doing?”
I turned, holding up the photo.
“How did you get this? Before we even met?”
She stared for a long moment then smiled. A cold, lifeless smile.
“Because I’ve known you for a long time.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
“You’re his reflection,” she said softly. “Manuel had a son with his mistress. That son… is you, Miguel.”
Time stopped. The room spun.
“I don’t know if you ever knew,” she continued, “but by marrying me, you’ve reunited the bloodline that once destroyed itself.”
The weeks that followed were chaos—anonymous calls, black cars tailing us, documents disappearing. Her relatives began filing lawsuits. Lawyers threatened to reopen Manuel’s case.
I thought I had found love. Instead, I became part of a web of inheritance, bl00d, and sin that began long before I was born.
One night, while Carmela slept, I woke to the hum of an engine outside. Peering through the window, I saw a black SUV parked at the gate.
And in that moment, I realized the truth – I hadn’t married a woman.
I had stepped into a world built on lies, bl00d, and the ghosts of her past.
