𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗗, 𝗨𝗡𝗪𝗘𝗗 [ 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘹 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ]
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 5
"Ooh, don't you find it strange?
Only thing we share is one last name
Did I beat you at your own game?
Typical of me to put us all to shame
Welcome to the family jewels
Coal to diamond, sold to fools
Welcome to the family jewels
Simmerin' sapphire can't keep his cool."
—ᴛʜᴇ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴊᴇᴡᴇʟs ʙʏ ᴍᴀʀɪɴᴀ
CHAPTER 5
Mikhail Beaufort
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
"M/N? Breakfast is ready," Mikhail called gently, his voice mellow with affection. No response. He waited a beat longer before softly adding,
“I’m coming in, alright?” He turned the handle and slowly peeked inside.
M/n was still asleep, curled up under his blanket, his hair a chaotic mess of dirty blond strands sticking to the side of his face. A tiny, almost pathetic snore escaped from his slightly parted lips. Mikhail chuckled quietly to himself.
“Still so charming, even like this,” he whispered, letting himself indulge in the moment. If M/n were awake, he would’ve gotten an elbow to the ribs. But now, he was free to say the things he could only ever whisper to the quiet.
He crossed the room and sat at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping softly under his weight. Gently, carefully, he brushed the stray hair from M/n's cheek, tucking it behind his ear. His fingers lingered longer than they should have.
How could a dead man feel something so alive?
Every time M/n smiled at him, laughed with him, or even scolded him, it filled something in Mikhail’s chest that he thought had long since rotted away. If only… if only he had met M/n when he was still among the living. When his skin was warm, when he still had a name that didn’t taste like mourning.
A soft ache bloomed in his chest.
He was haunted, not just by death, but by the thought of M/n slipping away. Into a marriage. Into a future he wasn't part of.
He lowered his eyes and whispered,
“Even if I lose you a hundred times, I’d still choose to find you. Every time.” A pause. Then a small, sheepish realization.
“Oh—right, we never finished counting who won last night.” The reason why M/n had overslept was because they stayed up all night playing this game called 'Monopoly' on M/n's phone.
He glanced around for M/n's phone. It wasn’t on the nightstand, so he opened the drawer. There it was.
M/n's phone. And next to it... a small, faded notebook. Worn leather. Old paper. Curious, he picked it up. Something about it tugged at his chest. It felt... familiar.
He opened the cover, and his breath caught.
_______________________________________
Today, my precious son, Mikhail Beaufort, has finally been born. God has given me a blessing. Let this blessing bring us good luck.
—Flordeliza Beaufort
_______________________________________
His eyes widened.
“…Mother?” He ran his fingers across the ink, as if by touch alone he could reach across time and feel her warmth again.
“This… This is her diary…” His heart swelled. The aching grief he had buried so long ago bubbled up as he turned to the next page, clinging to every word like a drowning man reaching for air.
Mikhail learned to write his name today. I’m proud of him.
'Mikhail was upset he couldn’t play because of a flu. Poor baby. I hope he recovers soon.'
'Today, Mikhail made me a pie while I was sick. He’s so thoughtful.'
He laughed softly, brokenly. “I remember that... it tasted awful. But she ate it anyway.”
'I’m so proud of my son. So smart. So independent. He keeps talking about buying a manor for his future spouse.'
Mikhail bit his lip, flipping the pages faster now, hungry for more. It was as if each entry poured life back into him, memories he thought lost, given back to him word by word. His mother's love wrapped around him, gentle and glowing. But then—
'Ferdinand was talking about losing Mikhail to a girl. He didn’t sound sad. He sounded… angry.'
Mikhail froze. His smile faltered. His eyes darted across the sentence again, heart skipping a beat. Angry? He turned the page.
'Ferdinand keeps chasing away the girls Mikhail gets close to. What’s wrong with him? Is he really afraid of losing his son?'
Each word dug deeper now. Not warmth, but something colder. The shift was subtle, but it tightened around his chest like a rope.
'I’m worried about Mikhail. He says he wants to fall in love, but he’s scared… because of Ferdinand. I’ll talk to him.'
Mikhail’s hands were cold. He could feel his throat begin to close. The memories… they didn’t align with what he thought he remembered. Or maybe he didn’t remember. Not clearly. He turned the page with hesitation.
'Mikhail told me he was head over heels for a girl. He begged me not to tell Ferdinand. Of course I won’t. I just want my son to be happy.'
A girl. Yes. He remembered her now. The girl he fell head over heels for. The way he used to hold her hands in the garden after dark. Why had he forgotten that?
Why had everything slipped away? He flipped the next page, and froze.
It was torn. No. Ripped. Viciously. Page after page—whole weeks of writing, torn straight from the spine.
"Why? Why would she do this?" He flipped again, faster now, until he found a page still intact.
'I can’t believe it. My own husband… Ferdinand… did something unforgivable. Something horrifying. And I couldn’t stop him.'
Mikhail’s breath hitched.
No… no, wait—
'I tried. I tried to stop him. But I failed. My son, my everything, has been taken from me. Mikhail is dead. And I couldn’t save him.'
Ferdinand killed him.
The world dropped out from under him. The diary slipped from his hands and fell to the carpet with a soft thud. Mikhail staggered back, as though the words had physically struck him. He backed away from the limp diary on the floor, staring at it in disdain.
“No…” It couldn’t be. But the memories, like knives, began to dig. Screams.
The dark. The sound of someone begging. It was his voice.
Don’t—Father, please—!
He clutched his chest as the air was ripped from his lungs. “No… No no no—”
M/n stirred from the bed, eyes fluttering open at the commotion. “Mikhail…?” Mikhail didn’t hear him. his back met the wall, but something made him pause.
He turned and saw the painting.
Their family. Perfect, Painted lies. What everyone thought was a perfect family was now revealed of their filthy lie.
And in the center, standing ever so calmly, Ferdinand Beaufort.
His face. That face. Mikhail's scream caught in his throat. His body trembled uncontrollably as every memory, every suppressed, rotted piece of his death, rushed in like a flood.
The pain. The betrayal. The betrayal by his own father.
He hissed through clenched teeth, digging his nails into his own arms, trying to hold himself together.
“Mikhail!” M/n's voice was sharper now, full of panic, but still distant, as if underwater. Mikhail could barely hear anything. He remembered now.
Every. Last. Thing.
And it was killing him all over again.
'Mi...ail...mik.....Mikhail...!'
"MIKHAIL!"
A beautiful lady called out, her voice ringing like silver bells through the still night. Her white nightgown fluttered behind her as she ran, trailing like mist in the moonlight. She looked almost ethereal, like a dream.
Mikhail turned the moment he heard her. His expression, which always seemed sharp and distant in the day, melted into something warm.
"Grace," he said with a smile, catching her in his arms. "I told you not to come early. Are you cold?"
He didn’t wait for an answer. With practiced ease, he slipped his blazer from his shoulders and draped it over hers, tugging it close around her with gentle hands.
Grace laughed softly, burying her nose into the lingering scent of his cologne. "Don’t worry, I just arrived," she murmured, her voice muffled by the wool.
Mikhail's fingers brushed her cheek, tenderly. "Did your father see you?" she asked. Mikhail shook his head. "No. He drank and passed out." Mikhail took her hand and tugged gently.
"Come. The lake's clear tonight." The moonlight danced on the surface of the water as the couple sat on the grassy bank, fingers intertwined, shoes kicked off. The world felt quieter here, like they had slipped into a secret realm where only they existed.
Grace lay with her head on Mikhail’s lap, eyes turned toward the sky. Her fingers gently toyed with his. Mikhail watched her in silence, drinking in her features like he was afraid time would steal them away.
This was their world. Just them.
They had been keeping their meetings a secret, hidden from everyone except Mikhail’s mother, who gave her quiet blessing in whispered encouragement and loving glances.
Grace’s parents had already agreed to the marriage. They adored her, cherished her happiness.
But Mikhail… Mikhail's future had been forged with locks and keys. His father, a man whom Mikhail would never understand as to why he was against him marrying someone. If he ever knew that Grace is from the lower class, he would never allow it.
But that didn’t matter.
Mikhail had planned everything.
He had worked harder, saved every coin he earned, and bought land far beyond his father’s eye, deep in the countryside, where no one would find them. The only thing missing is him and Grace.
Their future was real. Tangible. So long as they kept their secret, their dream would live.
"You know..." Grace said softly, her voice barely above the croak of the crickets. "I've always wondered what it feels like... to be a family." Mikhail blinked at the sudden tenderness in her tone. He looked down.
"How do you imagine yours?" he asked gently, brushing her bangs aside. Grace smiled.
She turned to look at the still water, moonlight reflected in her lashes.
"Two kids." Mikhail hummed, already picturing it.
"A dog." He nodded again, smiling.
"And?" he teased, stroking his thumb across her knuckles.
She looked up at him, her eyes lighting up in that way that made his heart forget how to beat.
"To live in a cozy house… with you and our children." She laughed after she said it, light and carefree, like wind chimes in a spring breeze. Mikhail couldn't help himself. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes as he did.
"Then let’s make it happen," he whispered. "Let’s build that life. Just you and me." Mikhail smiled softly.
"Promise?" She looked at Mikhail's olive eyes.
"Promise. on Saturday night, we'll meet up here and run away. We'll get married and fulfill our dream together." Mikhail bops Grace's nose, making her chuckle.
"Alright, I'll wait for you under the molave tree."
AT dinner, the golden soup shimmered in their bowls, and quiet clinking filled the air. Ferdinand's voice cut through it.
"You seem... happy."
Mikhail paused. Just for a moment. Barely a breath. But the spoon in his hand trembled slightly before reaching his lips. Across the table, Flordeliza’s chewing halted. Her eyes flicked between her son and Husband, stiffening as the atmosphere shifted.
"Why do you ask, Father?"
Mikhail responded, recovering quickly, voice smooth again. He dipped his spoon back into the bowl. Calm. Casual. As if nothing had happened.
Ferdinand didn’t smile. He simply leaned back into his chair, gaze narrowing.
"No reason. It’s rare, is all. Joy... doesn’t suit you so often."
"Then I suppose I should wear it more often. See if it grows on me."
Mikhail smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Ferdinand said nothing at first. The candlelight cast a sharp edge to his features, highlighting the creases near his mouth. a scowl.
"Is it because of a girl?" Flordeliza stopped eating. Her eyes looked over to Mikhail. Mikhail blinked, but kept his composure.
"A girl?" He leaned back in his seat, wiping his lips with his napkin.
"What makes you think I'm happy over a girl? I could be happy for a different reason." Ferdinand’s stare hardened.
"Don’t jest. I asked you a question."
"And I gave you an answer. If joy makes you this suspicious, I’d hate to know what you'd do if I started singing at breakfast." Mikhail laughed under his breath, then took another spoonful of soup.
The silence that followed was taut. Dangerous. Ferdinand folded his hands together, elbows on the table.
"Your demeanor has changed. There’s a softness in you. A distraction. Don’t take me for a fool, boy." Mikhail's spoon stopped midair.
"I would never take you for a fool, Father. You do a fine job of reminding me."
There was a bite in his tone now, sharp and sweet, like honey laced with venom.
"Who is she?" Ferdinand’s voice dropped lower.
"She?" Mikhail feigned thought, tapping the spoon to his chin.
"Now that you mention it, the cook has been making delightful pastries lately. Perhaps I’ve fallen in love with her apricot tarts."
Flordeliza reached for her glass of water, trying to disappear behind it. Ferdinand slammed his palm down onto the table. The dishes jumped.
"Mikhail."
The air was thick now. Even the flames from the candelabra seemed to flicker slower. Mikhail’s eyes finally met his father's.
"If I were happy because of a girl," he said softly, "would that be so wrong?"
Ferdinand leaned in, his voice a threat wrapped in silk.
"That depends. a commoner who would bring a stain in the Beauforts' name? or someone who could benefit it." Mikhail's smile faded, just enough.
"Then I suppose you’ll find out," he murmured, "when it’s too late."
The table sat in silence after that, save for the faint drip of wax onto silver, and the unspoken war now simmering between father and son.
"but i digress, I assume you know better than to embarrass the Beaufort's name." Ferdinand sipped his wine. The tension is dissipating. Mikhail mentally sighs in relief, knowing he avoided nearly being found out by his father.
Though Ferdinand didn't take his eyes off of Mikhail as he sipped his wine, he sternly squinted his eyes at him, knowing that Mikhail was truly hiding something from him.
THE crackle of the fireplace was the only sound in Ferdinand Beaufort’s office. The curtains swayed gently with the wind that slipped through the barely cracked window, but the chill in the room had nothing to do with the weather.
Ferdinand sat behind his desk, his eyes remaining on a single point: the reflection in the glass of his drink. Mikhail’s secret.
Ferdinand could still hear it:
“Then I suppose you’ll find out… when it’s too late.” A joke? Perhaps.
A challenge? Most likely.
He didn’t like the softness in Mikhail's gaze. The lightness in his voice. Something had shifted. He'd raised that boy to be composed, shrewd, and calculated. Not whimsical. Not sentimental. And yet…
Ferdinand leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. The boy had flinched. The very idea of a girl had pulled something from him. Guilt? Fear?
"You're hiding something..." he muttered aloud, voice gravelly with disuse.
"And whatever it is… You think it’s worth disobeying me for."
He rose from his chair and walked to the window, swirling the drink in his hand. The manor grounds were quiet, veiled in the dim silver of moonlight. The lake shimmered faintly in the distance, obscured by trees.
Then, he paused. A figure moved near the garden path.
Ferdinand’s breath caught. He leaned in.
The silhouette. tall, and familiar. stepped lightly across the grass, shrouded in a cloak. It paused near the side gate.
Ferdinand set his glass down with a quiet clink. His jaw clenched as the silhouette disappeared into the woods.
"Mikhail?" he wondered. No, it couldn't be him...
If it were Mikhail, Where would he be going at this hour? Who would he be meeting?
He stormed out of his office, each step echoing down the marble corridor. The house was hushed; his wife was asleep. It made every creak of the floorboards under his boots feel louder.
He stopped before Mikhail’s door. It was locked, as expected. But Ferdinand always has a copy of Mikhail's room key. He unlocked it, and Ferdinand entered.
There was no sight of Mikhail in his room...
"So he is hiding something...or shall I say someone?" The room was tidy, the bed was vacant, no Mikhail. The candle at the desk had been recently used; the wick was still warm. He pulled open drawers, checked under the mattress, and scanned every bookshelf. Nothing obvious. No letters. No traces of perfume. Mikhail has to have something about that secret girl.
But the closet...He opened it and scanned the fine clothes, coats, trousers, and gloves. A small chest sat at the bottom.
Locked.
Ferdinand crouched and removed a small pin from his coat. Within seconds, the lock gave a soft click. Inside were papers, some old documents, sketches, and estate plans.
And then... a folded piece of parchment, worn at the edges. A letter. Unmarked. Ferdinand’s lips curled as he unfolded it.
But it wasn’t a letter. It was a list.
______________________________________
Funds secured for land near xxxxxxx
Materials ordered — delivery confirmed
Manor blueprint approved — Estate status: Finished.
Owner: Mikhail Beaufort
_______________________________________
He froze. Another manor, he wasn't aware of. How long has he been keeping this from him? How long did he betray the Beauforts' name?
He checked the other papers, there were thousands of letters. all addressed to the same person. Grace Aguinaldo...he opened each of them. Not only has this been going on for almost a year, but that Grace is a commoner. a low class unlike them.
“You were raised to inherit a crown, not throw it away for a cradle shared with someone who brings nothing but Misfortune and poverty.” Ferdinand stared at each letter with burning rage. He grabbed another letter, the recent one that Mikhail had sent to Grace.
_________________________________________
My Dearest Grace,
By the time you read this, I will have already counted the days, the hours, the moments until we run.
Saturday night.
That is when everything changes. That is when we leave behind all the rules and begin the life we always whispered about.
I’ve secured the estate, hidden beyond anyone. It’s quiet, untouched, ours. I’ve paid the workers in secrecy, and they swear their silence by coin. The land is rich with peace
You once told me you longed to know what it felt like to be a family. I have dreamed of giving you that life every night since. In that house, we'll never have to sneak around, never have to lower our voice in fear of being heard. Only laughter, only us.
We’ll get married. I don’t care if no one else blesses us. I only need yours.
My father must never find out, not until it’s too late to stop us. The moment he suspects, he will tear everything apart. But if we move quickly, precisely, we will be gone before the sun knows.
Bring only what you need. I’ll meet you beneath the weeping willow, where the fireflies first found us. Wait for me there, my love.
Soon, this world will be behind us.
And I will finally get to call you my wife.
Yours, until the end of time,
Mikhail
_________________________________________
Ferdinand’s hand tightened around the paper.
"So..." he muttered under his breath. "You're planning to run away..." Ferdinand was in disbelief. “I gave you everything. Education. Power. A future carved in gold… and you spit on it for love?” he mumbled, his tone laced with venom.
“You were supposed to carry the Beaufort name. My son… my legacy. And yet you dare to throw it away all for a commoner...? Do you take me for a fool?!" He gritted his teeth, his hands trembling from rage.
"I won’t let you become our ruin… not after all I’ve bled to make this name endure. A Beaufort does not fall. He inherits. He commands." He puts the stuff inside the box, carefully, making it look like it had never been touched.
“If you will not be the spine of this family… then I have no choice but to take matters into my hands...” His eyes narrowed with a fury that simmered just beneath the surface. He straightened his back and left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
EVER since Ferdinand discovered Mikhail's plan, he began to plan a way to preserve the Beaufort's name, even if it means doing something horrendous.
Mikhail really thought he could execute his plan flawlessly, and that's what Ferdinand wanted him to believe.
Beauforts never allowed anything to get in their way, they won't let anything, even something such as desires, be the downfall of the name.
Though Ferdinand will be generous. He'll have to hear it for himself that Mikhail is willing to turn away and ruin the name that Ferdinand had bled for.
He'll give Mikhail a chance, a chance that will determine his own fate.
The candles flickered softly above the long oak table. The Beaufort dining hall, built for opulence and pride, had never felt more suffocating, while silence clung thick in the air.
No words were spoken. Only the clink of silverware against porcelain broke the quiet. Mikhail sat straight, chewing slowly and politely. The hour crept closer. Soon, he would slip away under the cover of darkness and meet Grace where their dream waited.
Across from him, Flordeliza gently pushed food around her plate. Her eyes flickered toward her son, then toward her husband, silently pleading for this night to pass in peace.
And at the head of the table sat Ferdinand Beaufort, hands folded, posture composed, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was sharp. He hadn’t touched his food. The tick of the grand clock echoed.
Eight o’clock.
Mikhail reached for his glass of wine, masking the tremble in his hand. Ferdinand’s voice broke the silence.
“Mikhail.” His name cut through the air like a blade. Mikhail froze, then looked up. “Yes, Father?” Ferdinand dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, then slowly placed it aside. “I received a letter this morning. From the Lazaro family.”
Flordeliza’s fork paused midair. Mikhail blinked, confused. “…The Lazaro?”
Ferdinand gave a small, calculated nod. “They’ve extended their hand in alliance. Their daughter, Lady Catalina, returns from overseas next week. Elegant girl. Educated. Well-bred.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “I’ve agreed to arrange a meeting between the two of you.”
Mikhail stiffened. The words fell like ice down his spine. “…A meeting?”
“A courtship,” Ferdinand clarified, as if it were nothing more than a business transaction. “Which will end in marriage. Naturally.”
Flordeliza’s eyes widened, her voice cracking softly. “Ferdinand, you never mentioned—” He didn’t even look at her.
“It wasn’t necessary.” Mikhail leaned back slightly in his chair, forcing himself to remain composed even as panic built in his chest.
“You’ve decided this without consulting me?” “There is nothing to consult,” Ferdinand said simply. “It is your duty.” A silence settled, heavy and suffocating.
Mikhail's voice came low, but tense.
“You said I’d be free to choose when the time came.”
Ferdinand’s eyes didn’t waver. “You misunderstood.”
“Then I don’t agree.” A beat. And Ferdinand’s brow lifted. “Is that so?”
Mikhail swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He couldn’t let this spiral not now, not so close to freedom.
“I’m saying... perhaps we should wait. Marriage is a lifetime decision.”
“Indeed. And lifetimes are built on legacy, not impulse,” Ferdinand said, his tone soft, controlled, too calm. “Unless… you have some reason to object? Some hidden affair you’ve failed to mention?”
Mikhail's breath caught.
He knew...Ferdinand knew about Grace...how!?
He smiled faintly, carefully.
“No, Father. I was just surprised.” Ferdinand’s gaze stayed fixed on his son for several long, piercing seconds.
“…Good,” he finally said. He lifted his wineglass. “I’m glad to know your loyalty is still intact.” Flordeliza’s eyes were rimmed with unease. Her lips pressed tightly together, but she said nothing.
Then Ferdinand leaned back into his chair, the gold rings on his fingers glinting in the candlelight. His voice dipped lower.
“We are Beauforts. We do not bend to sentiment, Mikhail.” A pause. “Legacy is a flame passed down from father to son. One drop of water, one weakness… and it dies. Understand that.”
Mikhail didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat had gone dry. Ferdinand raised his glass slowly, the red wine swirling like blood. “Tomorrow,” he said,
“You’ll begin preparing for the engagement.” The clock chimed again.
Inside, Mikhail sat frozen, caught in the jaws of a man who did not speak threats, he lived them. Ferdinand took a final sip of his wine and spoke again, but with lethal weight.
“I hope you rest well tonight, son.” A long pause. “Tomorrow begins the rest of your life.” But what he meant was far darker.
If Mikhail defies him tonight, it wouldn’t be the wedding Ferdinand prepared for. It would be a funeral.
And the name “Beaufort” would remain spotless, even if it was stained with his own son’s blood.
How unaware you are, Mikhail Beaufort.
After dinner, Mikhail hurried to his room, heart pounding louder than his footsteps. He slammed the door behind him and threw himself into motion—packing his bags in a hurry, grabbing only the essentials.
He opened the closet, reached behind the coats, and pulled out a small wooden box. He opened it. Inside were the letters he and Grace had exchanged. every promise they’d made, every plan whispered through ink. But one letter caught his eye. The paper edges were crumpled near the fold.
His chest tightened.
“When?” he whispered. “When did he—?” Mikhail shook his head violently. No time to fall apart now. "I’ll just leave early… he won’t know.” He slid the bag under his bed and pulled the sheets over himself, lying back and staring at the ceiling.
ten o'clock
But sleep never came. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling with shallow panic. Every second stretched like a wire under tension. Something was going to go wrong.
Someone like his father was unpredictable.
And if he really wanted to stop him, Ferdinand would do anything.
“I have to fight,” he muttered under his breath. “Even if it kills me.”
He swallowed the rising panic, his mind screaming through the possibilities. Did he know? “No,” Mikhail muttered. “I’ll just leave early… he won’t know.”
Suddenly, A knock. Mikhail flinched, wondering if that was his father behind the door. The door creaked open, and the warm flicker of a hallway lamp spilled across the floor. It was his mother.
“Mama?” Mikhail sits up in his bed.
Flordeliza stepped in quietly, her expression soft.
“I knew you were still awake,” she said gently, closing the door behind her.
He stood, trying to hide the quiver in his jaw. “I was just… about to go to sleep..." he lied.
She smiled faintly, knowingly.
“You don’t have to lie to me, anak. I know what tonight means to you.”
Mikhail’s throat tightened. “Then… you know what I’m about to do?”
Flordeliza nodded slowly. She stepped forward, brushing his cheek with her hand. “I don’t know all of it. But I know you’re choosing love. And that’s something I could never be ashamed of.”
She cupped his face and pressed a long, trembling kiss to his forehead, then whispered, “Whatever happens, don’t look back in fear. Only forward. I will always be proud of you.” Mikhail nodded, barely holding back the emotion choking his voice.
“Thank you, Mama,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “For everything. For teaching me how to cook, how to be a man, and to love..." from the corner of Mikhail's eyes, a tear shed it's way out.
“And now you’ll use it,” she smiled faintly. “For the woman you love. Just promise me one thing. Don’t lose yourself in the war. Be Mikhail. Not the heir. Not the name. Just you.” Flordeliza chuckled.
"Why are you getting sad? You'll finally be with the one you love, my dear Mikhail...and this is the face you make?" Mikhail's tears trailed down his cheek but were soon wiped away by his mother.
Tears burned at the corners of Mikhail’s eyes.
“I wish I could stay by your side through it,” she whispered. “But you’ll have to be strong alone.”
“I am—because of you,” Mikhail said, gripping her hand. “You gave me everything. Taught me how to hold onto my heart, even in this house.” Mikhail's voice trembles, nuzzling his head on his mom's hand.
“You look so much like your father when he was young…” she whispered. “But you love like me. I’m proud of that.” Mikhail sniffles, letting go of Flordeliza's hand.
"I will miss you, Mama..." Mikhail softly whispered, giving his mom a final hug.
"Your mother will miss you more..." Flordeliza smiled bitterly.
"You should prepare, you have a long journey tonight" She smiles. With a final look, loving, aching, and uncertain, Flordeliza stepped away, fingers lingering on the door frame before closing it.
Mikhail was feeling less nervous than before because of his mom. He'll do anything in the name of love, anything for Grace, for his freedom. Mikhail was determined as he lay on his bed.
He checks the clock.
eleven forthy. It's time. Everyone should be asleep. Mikhail quietly exited his room, bags in hand. He descended down the stairs
He was so close.
The golden handles of the front door gleamed softly in the dim of the moon's light, like two beacons calling him toward freedom. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the weight of the entire Beaufort legacy was clinging to his ankles, begging him not to leave.
His heart was pounding, no, slamming in his chest. Not just from the fear of being caught. But from hope. From desperation. From the overwhelming thought: “Just a few more steps… and I’m free.”
His fingers hovered over the handle. He could feel the cool metal humming against his skin.
Grace was waiting. She would be at the edge of the estate now, He imagined her eyes lighting up when she saw him. He imagined her whispering his name, her smile, the warmth of her hand in his.
It would all begin tonight.
The life they wanted. The life they deserved. He took a deep breath.
And then—
“Going somewhere?” A chill sliced down Mikhail’s spine. He turned slowly.
Behind him, standing in the shadows of the hallway, just at the edge of the candlelight, was Ferdinand Beaufort.
Mikhail hadn’t heard him approach. The man moved like a ghost. Like a vulture already circling.
“Father,” Mikhail breathed, pulse racing. “I… I was just—” Ferdinand stepped forward, his expression unreadable. Calm. Controlled.
Deadly.
“You were just what?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Stepping out for air? A late-night stroll?” He tilted his head. “Or perhaps running away from everything that was built for you?”
Mikhail’s throat was tight. “You knew...” “No,” Ferdinand corrected, “I anticipated you.” The silence between them stretched, coiling tighter with every breath.
“I had hoped,” Ferdinand said slowly, “that our conversation at dinner would remind you where your loyalties lie.” Mikhail’s grip on the door handle tightened. “My loyalty is to myself now. And to the future I want.”
Ferdinand’s lips twitched. not quite a smile, not quite anger. Just a silent warning. He took another step closer, lowering his voice to something colder than the marble beneath them.
“If you walk through that door, Mikhail… you will teach me that my blood is capable of betrayal.” His eyes narrowed. “And I will not tolerate betrayal.”
Mikhail didn’t answer. He stood still, his back to the door, every part of him trembling. But not with fear. With restraint.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” Ferdinand said. “You could marry Catalina. Expand the Beaufort name. You’d be powerful. Respected.” He motioned toward the door. “Or you can go to that commoner who will only bring embarrassment to our family's name and lose everything.”
A beat.
“Obey me, and you will live a life of luxury and purpose. Defy me… and you will learn that consequences don’t knock politely.” Mikhail finally turned to face him fully, the light catching the defiance in his eyes.
“If you walk out that door, there is no heir. No Beaufort future. You will kill this house with your love.” Mikhail turns away from his father.
“Maybe it deserves to die, if love has no place in it,” Mikhail spoke out, his voice was cold.
Ferdinand blinked slowly. Something shifted in his gaze. Disappointment.
But more than that—resolve. A long silence passed before he gave a slight nod.
“So be it. You’ve made your choice, son. May God grant you courage… when the price arrives." Ferdinand snapped his fingers, earning Mikhail's attention.
Mikhail’s boots barely touched the gravel when the night shattered around him. From the shadows, two figures lunged. A blur, then pain. His back slammed against the cold stone, and before he could scream, a hand wrapped like iron around his throat.
His limbs kicked and flailed, but the grip didn’t falter. One man pinned his arms while the other drove a knee into his ribs, crushing the breath from him.
This wasn’t just a warning. Mikhail’s mind reeled, heart hammering in panic. He gasped through clenched teeth, forcing out one word.
“Mama!”
His voice echoed into the dark. And then, A cold, familiar voice answered from the steps behind him.
“There’s no use screaming.”
Ferdinand’s footsteps were slow and almost amused. “Your mother is out cold. The pills worked beautifully.”
Mikhail’s eyes widened, blood roaring in his ears.
“What… did you do…?” he rasped. Ferdinand crouched beside him, lowering his voice like a secret.
“She drank her tea like always. So trusting. So... blind. If it weren’t for her softness, you would’ve been raised a proper heir. Obedient. Disciplined.” His tone curdled. “But instead, she taught you rebellion. And together, you both spat in my face.” The way he spoke about Flordeliza made Mikhail’s stomach churn. Rage surged through him, raw and unfiltered.
“I’LL KILL YOU, HAYOP KA!” Mikhail snarled, but the words turned to choking gasps when the man above tightened his grip, his fingers digging deeper into his throat.
“Bold words,” Ferdinand murmured. “You say you’d die for love. Then die with it.” Those words carved themselves into Mikhail’s fading mind before drifting into a state of unconsciousness.
Outside, somewhere far beyond the manor walls, Grace was waiting, Hopeful, blissfully unaware. Waiting for her beloved Mikhail to arrive under the Molave tree.
DICTIONARY SECTION:
ANAK — Child
HAYOP — Animal
KA — You, or indicates a person or thing shared with the root, like 'kaklase' (classmate) or 'kausap' (conversation partner).
ARCHIVES:
—Vitex parviflora is a species of plant in the family Lamiaceae, also known as smallflower chastetree or the molave tree. The name "molave" is from Spanish, derived from mulawin, the Tagalog word for the tree.
—The molave tree is a symbol of strength, resilience, and steadfastness, particularly for the Filipino people, who are encouraged to be like the molave in their ability to endure hardship.
—The status of Filipino women changed dramatically with the arrival of Spanish colonizers, who introduced strict patriarchal norms and a legal system that subordinated women to men.
—In historical Filipino culture, particularly in pre-colonial and non-Christianized communities, arranged marriages were a common practice
Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: ZingTruyen.Xyz