The real fire started after the smoke cleared.
A light rain fell, a drizzle. The kind that seemed more intent on reminding than drenching. Enough to cling to the skin, but not enough to wash away the pain. Each drop carried a melancholic memory.
Celeste stood in the middle of the cemetery, on a steep hill outside the city. Behind her, she could see the old cemetery wall, drenched in the rain. Before her—the grave.
DOMINIC VEGA
Beloved son. Taken too soon.
July 19, 2019
The stone was marble, expensive.
Unornamented.
No photograph.
Not a single flower lay nearby.
The only presence was the weight of the name… and of the lie that now tormented her mind.
Silence. No one else was around except her, the rain, and the ghost evoked by the name on that stone.
Her umbrella was closed, lying beside her. She was oblivious to the rain falling on her hair, her shoulders, her trench coat—a detail she hadn't immediately noticed.
Dominic's trench coat.
The same coat she held that night.
The night their world went up in flames.
She wasn't sure if the rain on her face was water… or fear, dripping slowly from the past.
Time stopped in her vision.
She stared at the stone, a gaze that seemed to want to shatter it with nothing but anger and grief.
I mourned you for years… Her voice was a whisper, yet full of power. It slipped through the air, striking the tombstone like a bullet.
Don't you dare come back just to ruin what's left… I survived once. I won't crawl again...
A tremor ran through her voice, but not from the cold. It was from fear—and the anger she had masked for five years of pretense.
The wind stilled.
The surroundings fell silent.
And then the wind blew.
Suddenly, the wind intensified, as if a force had passed through. Dry leaves on the ground danced, rising into the air, swirling around her.
And from the midst of them—something fell at her feet.
A black envelope.
It seemed untouched by the dirt.
As if… carried by the wind itself, for her. As if dropped from heaven—or hell.
She looked down.
She swallowed.
Something compelled her to pick it up.
Not fear, but instinct.
With trembling hands, she picked it up. The edges were wet, but the contents were dry. As if the letter knew how important it was.
She opened the envelope.
No name.
No sender.
No warning.
But inside… a photograph.
And in that instant, the whole world seemed to spin.
Five years ago.
She was at the edge of a dark road. Behind her, a burning car.
The firelight reflected on her face, etched with fear and desperation.
In her hands—Dominic's trench coat. She was hunched over, as if embracing it.
There was no one else in the photograph. But that was enough.
This wasn't a simple picture.
It was an accusation.
Like a curse.
This wasn't just a warning.
It was a game.
And someone just made their first move.
And behind the photograph—a note, written in red ink. Almost screaming, even in silence: You left me for dead, Celeste.Now I'll show you what dying really feels like.
She recoiled.
She dropped the photograph.
It fell onto the damp grass.
Her breath hitched.
It felt like her chest was being strangled.
It felt like she was back in the night of the fire.
The smoke.
The smell of gasoline.
The sound of sirens and screams.
She looked around.
No one.
But she knew someone was watching.
This wasn't just a ghost.
There was life.
There was movement.
Someone was watching.
She bent down.
She picked up the photograph again.
She put it back in the envelope. But as she folded it—she heard a CRACK.
The tombstone made a sound.
She stopped.
She frowned.
She heard another crack.
She bent lower.
She looked around.
Her heart pounded.
The marble in the center—was slightly cracked.
It wasn't large.
But enough for her to see a thin line in the middle of the name.
A gap.
She knelt.
She brought her face closer.
She touched the crack.
Suddenly… tink.
Something fell inside. Like a chain.
A silver pendant.
With rust along the edges.
Cold to the touch, even though it was wet.
She pulled it out.
It was a necklace.
The design was simple. But for Celeste—this was no ordinary piece of jewelry.
In the center of the pendant, there was an engraving and the initials "D.V."
She stared at the necklace as if it were a ghost. It wasn't hers. It wasn't Dominic's.
But her heart knew who it belonged to.
Damian.
And if it was here—if Damian's necklace was buried in Dominic's grave…
What exactly had they buried five years ago?
Men reinvent themselves. Others resurrect.
Manila Bulletin, Society Column:
The Return of Del Fierro: Billionaire, Enigma, Threat?
S.V. Del Fierro, the elusive billionaire from Monte Carlo, has been photographed again, this time arriving at a closed-door brunch with key Philippine senators. Dressed in classic Armani, the mogul's signature cold gaze and commanding presence sparked more rumors. Who is this man with no digital footprint? Some say he's a ghost. Others say he's a storm coming.
Celeste stood before the vanity mirror, her tablet resting on the counter, the screen open to the article.
Behind her, the city lights of Makati twinkled from the floor-to-ceiling windows. But her mind was elsewhere.
This can't be…
She didn't need to read the entire article.
One look at the headline was enough.
One look at the photograph…
That jawline… that walk… that stare… it's him…
But she couldn't say it.
She couldn't claim the truth.
Not yet.
It couldn't be.
She swallowed.
Her lips were wet, her palms cold.
She tried to calm herself, but the tremor in her chest was impossible to suppress.
She returned to the photograph.
She examined it, every detail.
Del Fierro was emerging from a black car, unbuttoning his suit. No smile. No concern. As if he knew that all eyes were on him, and he wanted the world to watch as he slowly drowned everything.
But there was one thing only she could see.
Something the camera or the years couldn't hide.
The cufflink.
Silver. Polished. With a small phoenix engraving.
Celeste couldn't be mistaken.
She had held it during their formal events with Dominic. Once, she herself had given it to him as a gift on their first anniversary.
Engraved on the back were the initials: D.A.V.
Dominic Alexander Vega.
And this man now, the man they called Del Fierro, wore it as if it hadn't been touched by the ashes of a tragedy.
She recoiled from her chair.
A glass of water spilled beside her, but she didn't flinch.
This can't be real… she whispered, almost to herself. It couldn't be him…
In an old memory, she and Dominic were dancing in a ballroom, both in white. She had touched the cufflink then, they had talked about how the phoenix symbolized their rebirth, their renewed love.
"We are the fire," Dominic had said then.
"But we are also the resurrection."
In the memory, she felt the warmth of his hand on her waist.
The weight of his gaze.
The silent promise that no matter what, they would return.
Now… that phoenix danced again. But on the hand of a ghost.
Celeste stared at the screen.
Am I haunted… or just remembering too clearly?
But in her heart, this wasn't a hallucination.
This wasn't a coincidence.
It's a message.
And it wasn't shouted at her.
It was whispered.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Like a man with a plan.
She didn't breathe for a few seconds.
She felt tears welling up, but she held them back. Not because she was weak, but because she knew this was the beginning.
Behind her, her reflection in the mirror, smiling, but with hidden tears.
Next to the tablet, a framed photograph: her wedding photo with Leo. Perfect smiles. Perfect lies.
She reached for it and looked at it for a long time.
Dominic… she murmured in a low voice. As if trying to revive the name on her tongue. If only I had married you, I wouldn't be suffering like this…
She didn't finish.
Celeste zoomed in on the photo.
Her fingers froze.
At the edge of the cufflink, barely visible, was a small scratch.
A scratch she herself had made when she tried to pull Dominic from the burning car.
It was a scratch only she could have left behind.
And that's when she whispered, her voice breaking: You're not dead, are you? You burned… but you didn't burn away…
The room fell deathly silent.
Then, a knock on her hotel suite door.
Three short taps.
No name.
No announcement.
She froze.
Some answers don't walk in. They knock.