Chapter 1
Marcus stood at the room's open door, a figure of imposing height at 6'2", his deep tan complexion a sharp contrast to the dimly lit ambiance of the spacious suite. Dressed in a casual ensemble of a brown polo shirt paired with black trousers, his clean-shaven appearance and well-defined features made him a striking presence. At just twenty-four, Marcus Del Pierro had carved a niche for himself in the business world, his name synonymous with a successful chain of restaurants scattered across the Philippines. This feat regularly placed him in the limelight alongside renowned chefs.
"Would you like to have dinner? I can order food if you want," he offered, his voice casual as he leaned against the door frame. His gaze fixed towards the bathroom, where the sound of running water softly filled the room.
"Sure. I'll have the wine. I need to go home," came Dionne's voice from within, her tone light yet decisive.
Marcus's stance relaxed, a hint of mischief playing across his features as he casually slipped his right hand into his trouser pocket. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?" he teased, clearing his throat before his smile broadened. You know, Dionne, you can just say it." His eyes briefly scanned the room, taking in the king-size bed decorated with a black comforter. The suite's elegance was emphasized by the panoramic glass windows that framed the city's nighttime glow.
"No, to your first question," Dionne replied as she emerged from the bathroom. Her attire—or lack thereof—was a sharp difference to Marcus's fully clothed form. At 5'10, her figure was accentuated by the simplicity of her black lingerie, revealing a physique that was both slim and toned.
"Say? What?" Dionne countered, a slight frown marking her otherwise calm expression. The absence of eyeliner highlighted the natural beauty of her brows, which perfectly framed her face and chocolate-colored eyes. A small mole above her left eyebrow added a touch of uniqueness to her features, which, combined with her slightly sleepy-looking eyes, rendered her gaze all the more captivating.
The room, blended with modern luxury and artistic flair, boasted two abstract paintings that added color to the otherwise minimalist decor. A 70-inch wall TV flanked by ornamental plants and a large aquarium near a sleek black leather sofa completed the sophisticated setting. The partially drawn red curtains allowed glimpses of the bustling city below, its buildings glittering like jewels against the night sky.
"I can't remember, Marcus. Did I forget something you need to remind me of?" Dionne asked as she gracefully bent down to retrieve a white blouse discarded on the polished hardwood floor. With deliberate movements, she slipped it on, the fabric draping comfortably over her frame. She then gathered her shoulder-length hair, securing it away from her face, before stepping into a sleek black fitted mini skirt that hugged her curves just right.
Seeing the shift in the room's atmosphere, Marcus cleared his throat. "You don't want to stay? Just sleep here for tonight; it's quite late. You can go home tomorrow," he suggested with a hint of concern, making his way to the spacious, dimly lit kitchen that boasted modern appliances and marble countertops. He opened one of the high cabinets and carefully selected two wine glasses, setting them down with a gentle clink.
Dionne found her way to a long stool by the kitchen island and took a seat with playful grace. "You left me unsatisfied; I need to take my frustration to my bed," she teased playfully.
"That's not what I heard a couple of minutes ago," Marcus retorted, a slight smirk teasing the corner of his mouth. He displayed a refined elegance as he chose a bottle of wine, uncorking it with a practiced ease that spoke of many such evenings, and poured the deep red liquid into the glasses, the rich aroma filling the air between them.
"Uh-uh. What did I say?" Dionne challenged, provocatively arching her eyebrow and leaning against the marble counter.
"Oh! Harder!" Marcus couldn't help but laugh as he recounted her words. He placed the wine glasses on the counter before taking a seat beside Dionne, his laughter mingling with hers in a moment of shared humor.
Suddenly, a sharp heel struck Marcus's foot, eliciting a surprised "Ouch! Please, don't hit me!" from him. He laughed it off, though the slight wince that followed betrayed a twinge of pain.
"You deserve it," Dionne retorted playfully, her laughter echoing in the spacious kitchen.
"Okay!" Marcus said, clearing his throat and adopting a more serious demeanor as he turned to face her. "So?"
"So?" Dionne repeated the question as she took a tentative sip of her wine, the rich taste briefly distracting her.
"When will you admit that you're in love with me?" Marcus's question cut through the playful banter.
Dionne choked on her wine and coughed slightly. "W-what kind of question is that?" She laughed off the suggestion as she shook her head, trying to dispel the awkwardness that had suddenly appeared.
"It's alright, Baby. I know. You're in love with me," Marcus persisted, his voice carrying a teasing undertone, though his eyes searched hers for any sign of truth to his words.
"In your dreams," Dionne replied flatly, the red wine burning more intensely down her throat than the impact of Marcus's words.
"I'm a catch. I'm definitely great in bed. Rich and handsome. Cheap and easy," Marcus bragged, his confidence unshaken as his glass remained untouched. It's fine if you're in love with me," he shrugged.
Dionne just laughed, shaking her head. "Are we in high school that you're teasing me about having a crush on you?" Her laughter rang out again, light and carefree. "Why are we having this conversation, Marcus? Are you kidding or being serious?"
"I'm curious. Don't you ever get serious with one of your hook-ups? I mean... have you ever fallen in love?" Marcus asked seriously.
"No, to both your first and second questions," Dionne offered, her smile tight yet genuine as she sighed. "You and I will never be serious. We're friends with benefits, as you said when we first met. I prefer it this way. There are no commitments, and everything is negotiable. If you're not in a relationship and I'm still in love with my bed, then we're still good, right? I can't stand relationship drama, Marc, and you know it."
"You're in love with your bed?" Marcus asked with amusement.
"Yep. I'm not particularly eager to share it with anyone. No matter where I go, I always come home. Well, except if I'm in a hotel or somewhere else, I prefer to be alone in bed," Dionne affirmed.
"And here I am, thinking you have relationship issues, only to discover you're a hopeless romantic," Marcus said with a smile, drinking his wine. "If you had to choose, would you prefer love without sex or sex without love?"
"That's a bit cliché, isn't it?"
"True. But every conversation starts with a cliché. Come on, tell me..."
Dionne laughed softly, rubbing her face in disbelief. "I can't believe we're having this kind of talk. Did the mind-blowing orgasm lead you to this?"
"Come on, babe. I'm sure your bed won't be jealous if you stay a little longer," Marcus responded tenderly, touching the tip of Dionne's nose with his index finger. He moved to the grand piano, sat down, caressed the keys, and began to play soft melodies. "Come join me." He gestured to the vacant seat beside him. Dionne sat next to him. "Don't call me babe. It's gross," she said with a soft laugh. "First, we're not a couple. We're fuck buddies, remember?" she reminded him.
"God, you're so blunt!"
"Thanks, and I know it!"
"C'mon. Let's answer the clichè question. So, what about sex?" Marcus asked with curiosity.
"Sex?" Dionne sighed, her eyes lingering on the piano keys as if they held answers. "Sex can be a matter of negotiation, like a transaction, even when feelings aren't mutual—as long as there's agreement and clear rules. You know those carnival games, right? There's always one where everyone can win, like shooting ducks or throwing balls." Dionne touched her forehead as if trying to organize her thoughts. "A carnival is where you can always win, and everybody's happy. You don't go home a loser, even if it's just balloons. That's sex for you—both parties satisfied, no losers."
"It's like a game with endless rematches, right?" Marcus said, seeking affirmation.
"Love, though, is a guessing game," Dionne continued, her fingers gliding over the polished piano lid, a fleeting glance shared with Marcus before her focus returned to the ivory keys. "You keep guessing, never sure if you'll win. Someone inevitably ends up losing, and it fucking hurts. Winning might seem like a long shot; you might end up broken more often than not, but you still throw your all into it. And when you win, it's unparalleled."
"So, you enjoy the thrill of the carnival life?" Marcus asked, his voice a blend of curiosity and something else—hope, perhaps.
Dionne shrugged nonchalantly. "Why not? It's fun."
After a beat, Marcus ventured, "So, you're not in love with me?"
Dionne rolled her eyes, a playful laugh escaping her as she returned her attention to the piano, deftly persuading a melody from the keys. "They say love is unconditional, but it's not. And even if it were, it wouldn't be free. There's always an expectation, a string attached. They want you to be happy, making you automatically responsible for their happiness. They're not happy unless you are... I don't want that kind of responsibility."
A few seconds of silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken thoughts and the tune from the piano.
"Hey..." Marcus's voice was a soft intrusion.
"Yeah?" Dionne's response was gentle.
"I just thought..."
"Hmm...what?"
"Never mind." Marcus's voice faltered, his internal debate written all over his downcast eyes.
"Never mind about what?" Dionne pressed, her music coming to a halt.
"I-I think you're right," Marcus finally conceded, looking away. "You're right... we're friends. That's all we ever are; that's all we'll ever be."
The finality in his voice resonated in the quiet room, mingling with the fading piano notes. Dionne watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable, then turned back to the keys, letting the music fill the void where words fell short.
"How are you, Dionne?" Dr. Susan Cruz, a psychologist, greeted formally. Her hair was short but styled elegantly, with strands gracefully framing her forehead. She wore black glasses, and her professional attire, consisting of a white blouse and black slacks, complemented her manner perfectly. Dr. Cruz leaned back in her black chair, her voice gentle. "Has anything good happened this week?"
Dionne leaned back against the sofa, responding with a lackluster, "I'm fine." She had grown accustomed to Dr. Cruz's initial questions, which often started their sessions. Dionne stroked her eyebrow with her index finger, revealing rings on it and her thumb. Her fingers were slender, highlighted by shiny red nail polish on her smooth nails. She sat cross-legged, draping her right arm over the back of the sofa, casually touching her brown leather jacket, which matched her beige shirt nicely. Her black fitted pants contoured to the curves and length of her legs, and her black boots complemented the grey carpeted floor of the office. Dionne settled into a comfortable position as Dr. Cruz observed her. "I guess it's the same old thing happening daily. I'm used to it."
"Really?" Dr. Cruz sought confirmation.
"Yes," Dionne replied casually and comfortably, stroking the top of the sofa while leaning back.
Dr. Cruz scrutinized her client intently. With years of experience, she had developed an ability to discern subtleties in behavior, movement, and attire that might indicate something amiss. However, Dionne's behavior appeared normal. Dionne's striking beauty, elegance, and sophisticated dress sense stood out.
"I still think about him all the time. I dream about Dad. I can still smell his cologne; I can still see the blood," Dionne said softly. "How long do I have to do this, Dr. Cruz? How long do I need to undergo therapy to forget what happened?" Dionne asked earnestly, her gaze lifting to meet the doctor's, eyes gradually filling with a mist of unshed tears. "Fuck this! I've been seeing shrinks in the U.S. since I was fourteen!" Despair tinged her voice, revealing a deep-seated frustration and hopelessness.
"Witnessing your father's suicide is extremely traumatic," Dr. Cruz replied gently, picking up a small notebook and a pen. "We can't predict how long, Dionne. Only you can determine that. I'm here to help you heal. Don't try to suppress it because it's real. Let the pain soften you, not harden you. Allow the hurt to open you, not close you off."
"I know that it's just...in...this-" Dionne paused, struggling to find the words, "I'm-I'm losing hope."
"Tell me again, how did he die? Talking about it might help lighten the burden. We might need to revisit and tie up some loose ends. Take your time, Dionne. I know it's painful. We have to confront it together."
Dionne sighed deeply and briefly closed her eyes. "He... he loved my mom so much. He wasn't affectionate towards me. I often felt alone growing up. Sometimes, I think I was just born, and that's supposed to be enough for me."
"What makes you say that?"
"Growing up, I questioned why they decided to have a daughter. Doubts about being loved started to creep in. I noticed a pattern where I always seemed to be the obstacle. I started to believe that I truly was a burden, that I was the problem."
"I felt like my mother's life was ruined the day I was born. It seemed as though she gave up her dreams because of my existence. Part of me feels responsible. Of course, my parents were never verbally abusive, but the neglect was noticeable. Nannies were my constant companions. Yet, I did feel loved by my grandparents on both sides," Dionne shared with a sad chuckle, followed by a soft sniffle. She reached for a tissue and gently wiped her nose. "I had to compete with my cousins just to get a bit of affection."
"When a neighbor's kid, one of my cousins, invited us to play at their house, I got hurt on the trampoline. Her mother was so concerned; she cared for me as if I were her daughter. I felt so valued in that moment." Dionne twirled the ring on her index finger while recounting the story. "My... my mother would never do that. If I got hurt, she'd ask me why, tell me not to be stupid, and to fix it myself."
"So, whenever I was invited by some random kid to play, I was overjoyed. I always pretended to get hurt because their moms knew how to show care. Nothing too serious, just enough to have someone fuss over me, even if only for ten minutes."
"Your mom never hugged you, not even once?"
"That's what I remember. Vodkas and parties always seemed more important to her. You might think I'm exaggerating, but I assure you, I'm not."
"But something unexpected happened?"
Dionne nodded in response to Dr. Cruz's inquiry. "Yes," she said softly. "Then, one day, my father changed. Previously, all his attention was on his business. But then, he... he began to take care of me. I felt loved, truly his daughter. I felt seen by him. It was comforting to finally exist in someone's world."
"What do you think began his change?"
Dionne shrugged listlessly. "Maybe he finally realized he had a daughter. My... my mom remains a stranger to both of us," she admitted with a tinge of sadness that did not escape the doctor. "At least I have some happy memories with him."
Dr. Cruz's assistant entered the room quietly, carrying a tea tray and setting it down on the small table before pouring it into a cup. "Tea?" she offered Dionne, who gratefully accepted it with a "Thanks." It had become customary for Dr. Cruz's assistant to serve drinks to clients, so her silent entry and exit from the office were unsurprising.
Dionne took a sip of the tea and placed it back on the table. "But sometimes, good memories always come to an end, right? As for me, it turned tragic. Mom had an affair with one of my dad's business partners. They were planning to run away." She laughed bitterly. "They were going to elope, for fuck's sake! Who does that? They're not seventeen; they're both married. They could have just gotten a divorce, but no, my mother wants to complicate things. The adults in my childhood were so fucked up!" Dionne's voice trembled as she laughed softly. "You know the best part of the story?"
"No," Dr. Cruz responded.
A tear slid down Dionne's right cheek, which she quickly wiped away. "My f-father found out. Isn't that too much to bear? That was the last time I saw him alive. He... he shot himself." Dionne's lips quivered, tears fell down her face, but she let them flow. "My mom never left. I don't know if it was guilt or if her lover abandoned her."
"Mom sent me to the U.S. I lived there for as long as I can remember, and that's where I went to school. Then I returned home to work here. My father left behind a business, and my mother transferred all the assets to me."
"What happened to your mom?" Dr. Cruz asked, taking a sip of her tea.
"She developed dementia. She's been staying in a private institution in San Andres. I always make sure to visit her there."
Dr. Cruz cleared her throat and leaned back in her chair. "Are you angry with her?"
Dionne's hands clenched into fists. She laughed softly and shook her head. It is such a simple question, yet so challenging to answer. Her emotions were a tangled mess. "Sometimes, I wish I could just hate her. But mostly, it's easier to pretend I hate her rather than confront the truth that, despite everything, I've spent my life craving her affection, only to be virtually invisible to her."
Dr. Cruz's heart was touched by compassion. Dionne's words resonated deeply, leaving the doctor speechless, her grip tightening on her pen.
"Isn't it the ultimate tragedy? No matter how much she neglects me, I still hold onto the futile hope that she'll notice me one day," Dionne said with a tinge of sadness. She brushed her hair aside. "As for her lover, I despise him," she stated emphatically. "I fucking hate him!" She stood up and walked over to the glass window. The towering buildings from Dr. Cruz's office were visible, their lights bright against the dark sky, filled out by the glimmer of stars. "I wanted to meet him. I want to understand what's so alluring about a love that you're willing to wreck the lives of those around her. Is it truly worth it?"
Dr. Cruz watched Dionne closely. "Did you ever meet him?"
Dionne shook her head. "He just vanished. Poof! Gone. Completely off the radar."
"So, he's dead?" Dr. Cruz asked.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but no," Dionne replied sarcastically.
"Are you planning to look for him?"
"No. You can't find someone who doesn't wish to be found."
"Are you upset?"
"Upset? Certainly. Am I hurt? Deeply. I've asked myself every question possible - what, why, how come. Then, my sadness evolves into anger."
"What will you do if you ever meet him?"
Dionne turned towards Dr. Cruz. "I don't know. There are too many wounds that need healing right now."
"I suppose you're right," Dr. Cruz said gently.
Dionne gazed thoughtfully at the city. Her attention was drawn to a brightly lit building, its large monitors displaying various ads.
She turned back to Dr. Cruz, offering a wry smile. "You know what I've learned from my mother?"
"What's that, Dionne?"
"It's always better to walk away; rejection teaches you that."
