Three Years Ago…
Narrator
That evening, Elizabeth prepared Moqueca at Sebastian's place—a rich, fragrant Brazilian stew that filled the grand kitchen with its inviting aroma.
The scent wafted through the air, trailing all the way to the servants' quarters. Some of the staff, already asleep, woke up and followed the smell like cautious thieves tracing treasure—only to discover its source: the kitchen, and Elizabeth, the quiet instrumentalist, at its center.
Meanwhile, Sebastian couldn't stop helping himself to more.
He sat across from her in the lavish dining room, spooning another portion onto his plate with unrestrained delight.
"I'm eating something I can't even pronounce," he muttered between slurps. "Hope I won't die any time soon."
Elizabeth laughed—really laughed—and her joy echoed through the hall. A few of the hovering staff paused, surprised to hear it.
"Relax, sir. It's not poison," she said, still giggling. "It's called Moqueca."
"Moqueca?" Sebastian frowned. "Doesn't sound like English."
"It isn't. It's Latin in origin—Brazilian, to be specific."
"Ah, that explains the flavor," he nodded thoughtfully. "So good."
"As time goes on, you'll get to try every Brazilian dish you've never heard of," she promised with a smile.
Sebastian gestured to his half-empty bowl.
"What's in this one exactly? Tequila?"
Elizabeth laughed again—twice in one evening.
"No, sir. It's a traditional dish from Bahia and Espírito Santo regions. Made with firm white fish, cooked into a stew with coconut milk, tomatoes, bell peppers, palm oil, onions, garlic, cilantro, and shellfish."
"You were right earlier. Homemade is unbeatable." He scooped more stew onto his rice. "This is… incredible."
"I'm glad you like it," Elizabeth said warmly, poking at a shrimp on her plate.
Just then, her phone buzzed, breaking the moment.
It was Natasha. She muted the call, not wanting to spoil the night.
But then it rang again—Bianca this time.
She hesitated. Her friends were probably worried; after all, it was getting late, and she was nowhere near home.
Sebastian noticed the frequent buzzing and glanced over.
"Everything alright?" he asked, slightly concerned. "You've been getting a lot of calls."
"Just my friends," she replied softly, avoiding his gaze.
She stood. "I'm sorry, sir. I can't finish dinner. It was lovely, but I really should go. I'll see you Monday. Goodnight."
"Ms. Holy—" Sebastian stood too, something stirring inside him he couldn't quite explain. "It's already past eight. You can stay the night if you'd like."
Elizabeth gave him a kind but firm smile.
"I appreciate the offer, sir. But I need to be home before Sunday morning. I have church. And my cloak is at home."
He scratched his head, clearly reluctant.
"Alright… then I'll ask Luca to drive you."
"No problem." She nodded.
As he made the call to his chauffeur, Elizabeth texted Natasha and Bianca: "On my way home. Don't worry."
---
Elizabeth
I was sitting in church when my phone vibrated. I checked it, thinking it was another casual message from Natasha.
But the text froze me.
"Bianca's been in an accident."
My breath hitched.
What?!
I didn't think. I just moved—grabbed my bag and bolted out of the pew. I didn't care if the entire congregation, including the Archbishop, saw me.
An usher tried to stop me, but I rushed past him.
My hands trembled as I booked an Uber, entering the hospital address Natasha had sent. I just kept whispering one thing in my head:
Please God, let her be okay. Please.
I should have known. When I stubbed my toe on the kitchen counter earlier, I knew something was off. A warning. A spiritual nudge. But I had no clarity, no revelation.
Maybe if I'd seen it more clearly, I could've stopped her from going out today.
By the time I arrived at the hospital, I nearly threw the money at the Uber driver and rushed inside.
There she was—Bianca, seated on a stretcher. A thick, white bandage wrapped her left leg from knee to ankle, making it look twice its size. She was groaning in pain.
"We were headed to church," Natasha said before I could ask. "I went into a store to buy water, and left her waiting outside. Then a car lost control and veered onto the walkway—straight at her."
I ignored Natasha and knelt by Bianca.
"Bia… how are you feeling?"
She bit her lip, her face etched with pain.
"Still hurts, Lizzy. I wish I never left the house."
I wish you hadn't too.
Yesterday, we were all laughing together. And now this.
Natasha, ever the firecracker, paced like a lioness.
"What did the driver say?" I asked her.
"You won't believe that idiot!" Natasha fumed. "He said sorry. Just sorry! Like that fixes anything!"
"He said his brakes were faulty," Bianca added, wincing. "He was driving to get the car checked."
I was about to respond when Natasha burst again:
"He should've crashed it into his own house then!"
"Jesus, Tasha," I muttered, shocked. "That's harsh."
"Harsh is accurate!" she snapped. "If I call Bianca's mom, that guy's life will be ruined."
"No, please don't involve my mom," Bianca pleaded. "She's been through enough. I don't want to cause her any more pain."
I nodded in agreement. Bianca's mom was all she had left.
"Not even sure that car belongs to him," Natasha hissed. "He sounded like a driver, not the owner."
Honestly, it didn't matter. He brought her to the hospital. At least he didn't run. That made all the difference.
Then a man entered the room.
Before I could process who he was, Natasha launched herself at him like a rocket.
"You animal! I wish your family got hit instead! You belong in a zoo!"
I had had enough.
"Tasha, stop it!"
He stood silently, holding a fancy gift bag.
"My boss asked me to give this to the victim," he said quietly. "He'll come later to see her."
I stepped forward to take it, but Natasha snatched it with dramatic flair.
She peeked inside, scoffed, and flung it back.
"Tell your useless boss she doesn't need his trash. Go to hell."
And she shoved him out, slamming the door.
"This is a hospital, not a war zone," I snapped at her. "You're overreacting."
"You don't get it, Lizzy," she said, scowling. "Sorry and gifts can't erase this pain."
She had a point, but her temper was blinding her.
Then the door opened again—this time, not waiting for permission.
A tall man walked in.
My breath caught.
A fine man.
But definitely not angelic. Tattoos coiled up his neck, and the sleeves of his white polo shirt hugged his muscular arms like they were made for each other. His presence changed the room's temperature.
He was on the phone, speaking in a language I couldn't understand.
When he finally looked up, his eyes flicked to Bianca—but he didn't greet anyone. He just continued talking on the phone.
Who is this man?
Bianca grabbed Natasha's wrist tightly. She whispered something. Natasha and I exchanged confused looks.
"She wants privacy," she whispered. "Says he's her former boss."
Wait… what?
Him? The guy everyone calls Antoni Jan Mikolaj Jakub?
Holy Mary. So this was the infamous man behind Bianca's chaos?
Natasha was fuming, ready to explode, but we both stepped out and closed the door behind us.
Of course, we didn't go far. We eavesdropped shamelessly.
And we heard it all.
---
Inside the Room (Heard through the door)
"You weren't watching your sides, or you wouldn't have been in an accident."
"I was on the sidewalk, not the highway. Or did you send your driver to kill me?"
"If I wanted you dead, I'd have done it three years ago—before you quit."
"So it's about me leaving, huh? Finally, a confession."
"You're being ridiculous. You need therapy."
"Oh really? Who needs therapy between us?"
"Bianca, you're crossing a line."
"Ah. First name basis now? What happened to Ms. Madrid?
"Stop yelling. It's bad for your wounds."
"Since when do you care, Mr. Jakub?" Bianca's voice was sharp, cutting. "It's obvious you sent your chauffeur to kill me and now you're just pretending to care."
"For the record, I would never do anything to hurt you, Bianca."
"Still with the first-name impression," she scoffed. "Like you never did before."
"When?" he asked.
"I don't want to recall, Mr. Jakub."
"You have to—or else…"
"Or else what?"
Silence.
Natasha and I exchanged glances, holding our breath as we leaned in.
"I'll kiss you."
Boom.
Natasha smirked like she was enjoying a dramatic soap opera. I wasn't nearly as amused.
We pressed our ears closer to the door.
"You wouldn't dare, Mr. Jakub!" Bianca gasped. "I swear, I'll have you locked up for the rest of your miserable life."
"Then prove I ever plotted to harm you," he countered. "I admit—I was ruthless three years ago. But I came here to apologize. To make amends."
"After I left? You're three years too late, Mister."
"I know," his voice softened. "I searched your personnel file to find your address, but it wasn't listed."
"So what—plotting an accident was the only way you could reach me?"
"Geez, Bianca. Stop being... paranoid. This wasn't planned. My chauffeur lost focus. I take responsibility—and I'm truly sorry."
"Your apology means nothing now," she snapped. "I'm the one in pain. Not you. Not him."
"That's the second reason I came," he said quietly.
"Then what was the first?"
"To say I'm sorry. For the way I flared up at you three years ago. I believe that's what made you resign."
"I'm not coming back, Mr. Jakub."
"I know," he sighed. "Even though the company still misses you... I knew you wouldn't return. It's been three years—you probably work somewhere else now."
"Tomorrow's Monday. And look at me. How do you expect me to go to work like this?"
"I understand," he said. "And I promise I'll make up for it."
"I don't want your money, Mr. Jakub. Just so we're clear."
"Then what do you need?"
"Absolutely nothing from you."
I could almost picture Bianca's signature pout and furious eyes. She had always been expressive—even in rage, she looked charming.
We heard the chair creak—he was standing up.
"I'll get your address from the receptionist and come see you," he said. Footsteps moved toward the door.
"Don't bother!" Bianca called after him. "You've apologized. That's enough."
"Didn't I promise to make it up to you?"
"Mr. Jakub, I said I don't want your money!"
"Does everything have to revolve around money with you?" His voice came closer.
"Just don't come looking for me," she shouted. "I mean it."
The door swung open and Natasha and I nearly toppled forward—right into his chest.
Busted.
I flushed, utterly mortified, while Natasha straightened like nothing happened.
"Yeah, don't come looking for her," she spat. But her voice lacked the bite she usually had. The comment sounded... hollow.
He didn't respond. Not a word. He simply walked past us, silent and unreadable.
I grabbed Natasha's wrist, dragging her back inside the room.