C1: Doubt

Phoebe Villacorta stood on the porch, her figure stunning in a bottle-green, square-necked midi dress with ruffled sides and a daring split.

Her delicate fingers wrapped around her phone, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she read the breaking news alert:

[Villacorta Group Clinches Construction Deal with Reeves Realtors.]

Every major local news outlet was running it.

Reeves Realtors—a branch of Reeves Inc., owned by the Andrientte royal family and part of the prestigious Reeves dynasty—had launched an elite project: luxury apartment buildings for the country’s business elite.

Each unit would come with a private pool, a dedicated concierge team, and a state-of-the-art gym. The starting price? Millions.

Partnering with them meant prestige. Influence. Power.

Phoebe’s heart swelled with pride. Her man had done it again. Where others had failed, Gael had triumphed.

This needs to be celebrated, she thought, as a cool breeze danced through the immaculately tended gardens of the Villacorta estate. The air smelled of coming rain, but she barely noticed. She quickly typed a congratulatory comment beneath the article, then called Gael.

No answer.

She tried again. And again.

By the fifth attempt, she frowned. The fleeting unease from earlier now rooted itself firmly in her chest.

Gael had returned to the city eight hours ago. He always called her the moment his plane landed—and he always came straight home.

But not today.

He must be busy. The new deal, the press, the planning… she reasoned.

Another breeze tousled her shoulder-length black hair, exposing her porcelain neck. She pushed the strands back, trying to shake the anxious thoughts away.

“Mrs. Villacorta.”

The gentle voice of Mrs. White, their longtime housekeeper, broke her reverie. The elderly woman approached with a beige pashmina draped across her arms.

“Nanny Gwen?” Phoebe turned, the fading sunlight catching the waves of her dark hair.

“Put this on. The temperature’s dropping,” Mrs. White said, her eyes crinkling with concern. “Don’t forget to take care of yourself while you’re busy worrying about everyone else.”

Phoebe smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

In her excitement, she’d forgotten to dress for the weather.

As she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, Mrs. White added, “Go ahead. I’ll have Andrew pick up Romazaria from school. No need to rush back.”

Grateful, Phoebe slipped into the waiting Chevrolet. The first drops of rain kissed the windshield as she pulled out of the driveway.

“Call Honey,” she instructed the car’s Bluetooth system.

“Calling Honey,” the automated voice replied.

The line rang. Then disconnected.

Again.

Phoebe’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, unease creeping up her spine.

She stopped at a red light just as the drizzle picked up. The rhythmic tapping of rain on the car roof calmed her—briefly.

“Call Secretary Kim,” she said.

The line rang. Then disconnected.

That was unusual. Kim always picked up.

Phoebe didn’t want to doubt Gael. He had never given her a reason to. Except for that one night a few months ago… a strange phone call in the dead of night had left him flustered. And afterward, something in him had shifted.

He became more distant.

More guarded.

She had chalked it up to stress.

But now…

She hadn’t lived twenty-five years to ignore her instincts.

As she reached the Villacorta building’s entrance, sirens shattered the silence. In her rearview mirror, an ambulance sped toward her. She moved aside to let it pass.

Its flashing lights and wailing sirens sliced through the misty air—and headed straight for the Villacorta building.

A cold wave of dread washed over her.

Phoebe followed it, heart pounding.

The ambulance screeched to a stop outside the gates. Two paramedics jumped out, dragging a gurney behind them. Moments later, a disheveled man burst out, carrying a pale, unconscious pregnant woman drenched in blood.

<><><><><><><>

A sizeable crowd had gathered around the scene—as expected at that hour when office workers were pouring out of their buildings.

Phoebe elbowed her way to the front. Her body trembled with disbelief. She had seen it all. The disheveled, anxious-looking man who had rushed out of the towering, all-glass, thirty-story Villacorta building and now stood helpless as the paramedics worked to resuscitate the woman—was her husband, Gael Villacorta.

She froze, heart thundering violently in her chest. The unease that had gnawed at her since that first missed call now struck with full, merciless force.

She opened her mouth, but no words came. Oblivious to everything, Gael stared after the ambulance as it peeled away from the curb, sirens wailing, lights flashing, slicing through traffic without care for road rules.

Only when it rounded a corner and vanished from sight, the sound of its sirens fading, did Gael finally tear his gaze away -his face a picture of devastation.

“What’s going on?” someone from the crowd asked, breaking the silence.

As the ambulance disappeared, the curious onlookers began to drift away, though a few lingered.

“Have you not heard?” a bespectacled man replied, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Heard what?” another asked.

The bespectacled man glanced around cautiously before leaning in, eyes gleaming. His small audience of three leaned closer. “I heard someone held the CEO hostage.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“You’re joking, right?” a ponytailed man protested. The bespectacled man clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting his messenger bag across his shoulder.

“Why would I joke about something like this? Reeves Realtors was supposed to host a party tonight-big celebration. But it got cancelled. The CEO had to rush back after getting a distress call from Bianca.”

“Bianca…Bianca Jones, right?” the ponytailed man said, furrowing his brow.

“She interned in our department earlier this year. But then she vanished.” He remembered her clearly. Beautiful, yes—but kind, respectful, and down-to-earth. Unlike many others, she hadn’t let her looks turn her arrogant.

“Yep, that’s her,” the bespectacled man confirmed.

“Is she…pregnant now? But she wasn’t even married…” the ponytailed man muttered, confusion etched across his face.

“You’re all missing the point,” the bespectacled man said, looking at them like they were fools. “The real question is: Why did the CEO rush back? Why was Bianca the one he came running to when she was in trouble?”

A collective gasp slipped from their mouths. They turned to look at the CEO-Gael-who now ran a blood-stained hand through his once carefully styled Ivy League hair, his expression shattered.

Realization dawned.

“You’re saying…” the chubby woman on his right gasped, “…the CEO had that kind of relationship with the intern?”

The bespectacled man gave her a smug look. “Now you’re catching on,” he said, giving her a mock thumbs-up.

“But he’s married,” she protested.

“He’s a man,” the bespectacled man sneered. “Not a saint.” The ponytailed man chuckled-earning sharp glares from the two women. He shrugged defensively.

“Let me tell you something else,” the bespectacled man added. “When the news reached him, the CEO panicked. He forced the pilot to fly back immediately, even with bad weather warnings. Paid him a million dollars just to take off. The pilot would’ve been insane to say no.”

“I still don’t get it,” the suited woman chimed in. “Who held them hostage?”

“Sleazy Zimmerman,” the bespectacled man replied with disgust.

Another wave of gasps followed. Zimmerman—the sleazy head of Human Resources. A man in his fifties with a reputation for intimidating female employees and preying on the vulnerable. He was loathed by nearly every woman in the company.

“Does he have a death wish?” the suited woman asked, eyes narrowing. If Gael truly had a relationship with the intern, then Zimmerman targeting her would’ve been suicidal. The man snorted.

“Desperate people don’t think straight. You don’t know this, but the CEO fired Zimmerman months ago. Tried to assault Bianca at the annual company ball. I bet this was revenge…”

Their voices faded as the group walked off—none of them noticing the long-haired brunette still standing in the crowd. The woman in the bottle-green, square-necked ruffled side-split midi dress.

Phoebe.

She stood there, numb. Shaking her head as if trying to expel the rumours she’d just overheard. She refused to believe it.

Gael wouldn’t do this to me, she told herself. We’re happily married. We have a family. There must be some misunderstanding.