"Both of you. Fo to the Philippines and retrieve your daughter," Grandmother ordered.
Her tone carried no emotion. The same empty gaze bored into my parents as they stood before her desk.
I watched from the corner, calmly sipping the tea Grandmother had the maids serve earlier.
My parents remained silent, heads lowered, nodding in obedience.
Then Grandmother turned to me.
"Arianne, dear." Her expression softened, just slightly. "Go with your parents. I'm sure you can help your older sister see reason."
I rose from the couch, one hand over my chest, and dipped my head.
"Of course, Grandmother," I said. "I'll do what I can."
Or at least, that was what I said.
—
Now, inside the black SUV we used to track down Big Sis Mari—
"Marianne, stop being difficult," Father snapped, gripping her wrist as she struggled.
"Let me go!" she screamed. "I don't want to go back!"
Mother stood behind him, hands covering her mouth, frozen.
Father's jaw clenched. His face flushed. His free hand lifted.
I shoved the car door open and ran.
But I wasn't the one who reached him first.
Someone else stepped in.
A young person with long, silky hair and fair skin. Soft features that made it difficult to tell at a glance whether they were a boy or a girl. Someone who didn't belong in this scene at all.
He caught Father's wrist midair.
Calmly. Firmly.
Then he spoke.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," he said politely, "but your daughter said no, sir."
His expression remained calm. Too calm.
Father gathered himself, then gently released Marianne's wrist. She pulled away immediately, stepping back.
Father exhaled softly before looking at the boy.
"This is a family matter, young man. You shouldn't involve yourself."
The boy didn't move. He simply stood his ground.
"I understand that I'm stepping into something I don't fully know," he said. "I know I don't have the context."
He glanced back at Marianne, now standing behind him.
"But I don't think you need to understand much to see this," he continued.
"She doesn't want to go with you."
A brief pause.
"I think that says a lot."
Then, the boy added.
"Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not attempting to interfere in a private family matter."
He inclined his head slightly.
"However… speaking with her, rather than forcibly removing her, might allow both sides to understand one another more clearly."
Father's eye twitched.
Just slightly.
Almost as if the boy had struck something sensitive.
And he had.
A year before Marianne left, they never once tried to talk to her.
There were only expectations. Stacked endlessly on top of one another.
Mother stepped forward, just behind father. Her lips parted, then closed slowly. Like she no longer had anything to say.
Father, on the other hand, gently shook his head.
"Boy, what's your name?" his voice had a hint of amusement in it.
"Kyle," the boy replied. "Kyle Ruzen Abe."
Father nodded in recognition, before glancing at Marianne. His expression still unreadable.
He hesitated, his hand lifting slightly. As if to reach for her. Before falling back to his side.
"Marianne, dear," he gently said. "Can we talk about this when you're ready?"
Marianne didn't respond, but she didn't look away either.
Her gaze lingered on Mother and Father, then shifted, briefly, to the boy standing between them.
I couldn't tell what it meant.
Admiration, perhaps, for someone who saw her not as an heir, not as a prodigy—but simply as her in that moment.
Or something else entirely.
She didn't speak. She simply stared.
It was a look I had never seen her wear during all the years I'd known her.
What exactly happened to her during that one year she was away…?
Then I noticed it.
Marianne and the boy were wearing the same uniform. The same school seal stamped neatly over their chests.
Wait…
I never saw him approach.
So how did he—?
But that was a question for later.
I took a step forward, only to stop.
Marianne had already moved, hiding behind the boy's back.
I couldn't see the sharp, calculating older sister I once knew.
Just a girl who wanted to be seen beyond the mask of stoic poise and prodigal expectation.
I knew.
I had always known.
She wanted to be seen.
And still—
I didn't reach out.
Now, she stood behind someone who had given her the recognition she had longed for.
The kind I had seen simmering beneath her calm façade years ago.
The kind I chose not to answer.
Something tugged beneath my chest. A sensation I couldn't name.
My thoughts fractured. One voice whispering that I had the chance and let it slip through my fingers, the other insisting she had pulled away first. That I could have helped, if she hadn't drawn the line herself.
The argument drowned itself out, fading into the back of my mind.
My hand rose to my chest, fingers clenching into my shirt as the fabric crumpled under my grip.
I took a step forward.
My hand lifted, then stopped.
Marianne had already turned away, moving with the boy.
Mother and Father stood frozen, words failing them just as they failed me.
In that moment, something became painfully clear.
We weren't bringing Marianne home.
We were watching her leave.
—
Days passed after Father tried to retrieve her.
The conversation never happened.
Marianne stayed in the Philippines. We were ordered back to the main estate.
The family sheltering her turned out to be distant relatives of someone she'd met during one of her so-called "meetings." They weren't connected to the Auclaits. They didn't belong to our world.
And that made them untouchable.
The Philippines was one of the few places where the Auclaits' reach thinned. Where money and names didn't bend people as easily.
We still tried.
Someone was paid to pressure the family. Quietly. Indirectly.
Contact was lost within days.
No threats delivered. No leverage gained. Nothing.
In the end, there was nothing left to say.
No more calls. No more orders.
We stopped trying to bring her back.
Then, the message came.
I was in my room when it happened. Sitting at my desk, staring blankly at the guidebook resting in front of me. My finger tapped against the page without rhythm.
My phone lay dark on the edge of the table.
Then it lit up.
A notification appeared on the lock screen.
"Who…?"
I picked it up, frowning, and unlocked the screen. The message was from an account I didn't recognize.
Marimari89.
I tilted my head.
That's… a terrible naming sense.
The thought surfaced automatically a light, dismissive habit.
Then it caught up to me.
Wait.
That naming sense…
I shook my head and opened the chat.
"I still have something to take care of. s
Someone, rather. I'll come back after I finish senior high. By then, hopefully he'll be mine."
I paused.
Who…?
I started typing a reply, but before I could send anything, another message came through.
A photo.
My fingers stilled.
"Marianne…" I whispered.
And behind her—
That boy.
It was a selfie. Marianne was smiling, the boy sitting just behind her. But it wasn't the smile I remembered seeing at galas or interviews.
It wasn't practiced.
It wasn't careful.
It was real.
The same kind of smile she used to have when we were still little.
Something inside me tightened.
But looking at her in the photo… I couldn't help but smile too, even if I was no longer the reason for it.
"I'm glad…" I murmured, my hand drifting to my chest, clutching at my shirt.
I'm glad you finally have a reason to smile.