The Ambush
CHAPTER 10
— THE AMBUSH —
The next morning, a quiet Sunday settles over Makati.
Jeffrey is already dressed in a crisp polo and dark jeans, running a hand through his hair as he locks his apartment door. His phone buzzes just as he steps into the elevator—a message from his mother.
"We're all set here. See you soon."
A soft exhale escapes him, a small, grateful smile touching his face before he types back, "See you, Ma."
He pockets the phone as the elevator descends, ready to pick Christine up.
He pulls up to her place right at 10:30, parking near the curb. A quiet moment passes before he sends her a message: "Here."
He adds a second, softer line: "Nervous? No reason to be. But if you change your mind, we can grab brunch instead. No pressure."
Before he has a chance to worry, the elevator door opens at the condo lobby. Christine steps out, and he sees her immediately.
He straightens in his seat, a quiet smile crossing his face. He reaches over and pushes the passenger door open for her.
"Right on time. You look great."
He waits for her to settle in before pulling off, glancing over with a reassuring look. "I've got snacks in the back. And a contingency plan if we need to escape early."
"Thank you," she says, offering a small, appreciative smile.
He merges into the light Sunday traffic, a comfortable quiet settling between them. They arrive later, pulling up to a modest but well-kept house in a quiet Quezon City subdivision.
He kills the engine and sits for a moment, letting out a slow breath before turning to her.
"Alright. We're here." He pauses, his gaze finding hers with a quiet, earnest look. "Thank you for doing this."
They step out of the car and walk through the small garden toward the front door. As they reach the entrance, Jeffrey opens it.
Inside, his mother is preparing the table, while a woman in the kitchen laughs and chats with her.
Is this... Amanda? Christine wonders to herself.
He steps inside, the warmth of the house washing over them. But the moment his eyes land on the woman in the kitchen, he stills, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
He recovers quickly, though a flicker of tension passes through his shoulders. He sets his hand gently at the small of Christine's back, a quiet, steadying presence.
"Ma," he says, his voice carrying a careful calm. "I didn't know you invited extra help for lunch."
His mother looks at him. "I actually invited Amanda to join us for lunch." Her gaze then catches Christine.
"Who is this? Your secretary?"
He feels Christine shift beside him. His hand at her back remains steady, but his voice carries a measured, protective edge as he looks from his mother to Christine.
"Ma," he says, with a brief, deliberate pause. "This is Christine. The woman I told you I've been seeing."
His gaze meets his mother's, a quiet resolve in his tone. "She's not just a guest. She's the reason I came today."
"Hi, ma'am, nice to meet you," Christine says, offering a hand for a handshake, but his mother ignores it.
A heavy silence falls over the room. His mother's hand lingers in the air before she purposefully turns back to the kitchen.
He feels the slight drop of Christine's hand, and something shifts in his expression—a quiet, controlled anger surfacing. He steps forward, his voice low and even.
"Ma." He waits until she looks up, his gaze unflinching. "You either treat her with respect, or we leave. Right now."
The kitchen goes deathly still. His mother's expression shifts from sharp fury to a look of pained, maternal disappointment. She looks at Jeffrey, her eyes glistening with a performative hurt.
"Jeffrey, darling," she says, her voice smooth and carefully modulated, dropping into a tone of pained concern. "I am shocked that you would speak to me with such hostility. I am only thinking of your future. Amanda has come all this way specifically to apologize and bridge the distance between you two. Why would you squander your potential on someone who clearly doesn't deserve you?"
She continues. "You deserve someone who matches your stature, someone who understands your responsibilities."
She reaches out, tapping his shoulder gently, her touch light and pleading. "I'm doing this for you, Jeffrey. I know Amanda is the right woman for you. I cannot stand by and watch you make a mistake you'll deeply regret."
Christine feels as if she has been struck by lightning. The sound of his mother's voice seems to rush past her ears like water, muffled and distant.
She tries to inhale, but the air feels thin, heavy with the weight of the insult. The reality of the words—the implication that she is a mere distraction, a 'mistake' to be corrected—freezes her in place.
Stolen story; please report.
She can't process her thoughts; she can only feel the cold, sharp ache of being reduced to nothing in his mother's eyes.
She glances toward the kitchen, her gaze locking onto Amanda. Amanda hasn't moved. She is leaning against the counter, a faint, polished smile touching her lips, watching the exchange with the quiet, satisfied amusement of someone enjoying every second of the performance.
A muscle jumps in Jeffrey's jaw. He stands still for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his mother, before he turns to look at Amanda. There's no anger in his expression now—just a quiet, final clarity. He takes a breath, then speaks, his voice low and deliberate.
"Ma. You want to know who the right woman is?"
He turns to Christine, his eyes finding hers. He holds her gaze as he continues, his words meant for everyone in the room. "It's the woman who showed up today, knowing she might walk into a war zone. The one who trusted me enough to meet my family, even when she had every reason not to."
A pause, his voice softening. "I don't care about apologies from a year ago. I've already moved on." He looks back at his mother, resolute. "And if you want to be part of my life, that means accepting the person I've chosen."
The house seems to shrink in the wake of his declaration. His mother stands frozen, her hand still raised as if to touch him, the mask of maternal concern finally slipping to reveal raw, genuine shock. She realizes, perhaps for the first time, that she hasn't just insulted a "guest"—she has pushed her son to the brink of walking out of her life entirely.
Amanda pales. The polished, predatory smile she'd been wearing all afternoon disintegrates. She shrinks back slightly, suddenly looking very small and very out of place in a room where she thought she held the power.
Jeffrey doesn't wait for them to process it. He reaches out and gently cups Christine's hand, his touch firm and anchoring. He looks at his mother one last time—not with malice, but with a weary, profound sadness.
"I love you, Ma. But I love myself, and the life I'm building, too much to let you tear it down."
The silence following his declaration doesn't last. Instead, the air in the room seems to vibrate with his mother's sudden, sharp shift. She ignores Jeffrey entirely now, her focus snapping onto Christine like a predator locking onto prey.
Her eyes, once merely cold, now burn with undisguised, visceral disgust.
She takes a step toward her, her voice dropping into a low, jagged hiss.
"I know," she spits the words, her gaze raking over Christine as if she were something foul on the floor. "Women like that only want you for the money. It's transparent. Maybe she saw your properties in Rockwell and in BGC—maybe that's exactly why she's here. I don't want you to be associated with an opportunist!"
The words hit Christine with the force of a physical impact, like a bullet aimed straight for her chest.
She stands motionless, the breath stolen from her lungs. The room tilts, the sound of the house—the ticking clock, the soft hum of the refrigerator—fading into a deafening roar in her ears.
She feels the sting before she even registers the heat of it: a single, hot tear tracks down her cheek, betraying the composure she was desperately trying to hold onto.
She doesn't look at Jeffrey. She cannot. If she looks at him, she knows she will break completely. She pulls her hand from his, the movement small and shaky.
"I think I need to go," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sudden pounding of her heart. "Excuse me."
Something snaps within him at the insult. He moves quickly, reaching her side in three long strides. His hand finds her arm, gripping it lightly but firmly.
"Not yet," he says quietly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of steel. He tightens his grip on her arm just enough to anchor her, his other hand finding hers, pressing gently.
"Please," he says, his voice dropping low, meant only for her. "Don't let her push you out. Not like this."
He turns back to his mother, his expression hardening with a quiet, icy resolve. His gaze holds hers, unwavering. "You talk about her like she's a stranger," he says, his voice dangerously even. "If you took a second to actually look at who she is, you'd know she started her own marketing firm at twenty-two. She pays her own rent. She has never asked me for a single thing."
A pause, his tone softening, losing its edge but gaining a depth of genuine hurt. "I love you, Ma, because you're my mother. But if you think you know her better than I do—if you trust your own assumptions over your own son—then you don't trust me. And that hurts more than anything you could ever say."
The silence in the room shatters, not with a whisper, but with his mother's sharp, frantic cry. As Jeffrey turns to leave, she surges forward, grabbing his arm with a desperate, clawing grip, her face flushed with an ugly, panicked rage.
"Don't you dare!" she shrieks, her voice cracking, completely abandoning her polished veneer. "You are my son! Do you have any idea how much I have sacrificed for you? For this family? And you're going to throw it all away for some girl you barely know? You are being manipulated, Jeffrey! She's poisoning your mind against me!"
Amanda, seeing her leverage slipping away, takes a frantic step forward, her eyes wide and pleading, shedding her cool, predatory mask for one of pathetic desperation. "Jeffrey, please! Just stop and listen to her. We're only doing this because we care about you. Don't burn bridges, you can't rebuild over a moment of anger."
Jeffrey stops. He doesn't flinch, and he doesn't pull away from his mother's grasp—he stands there, radiating a sudden, icy stillness that makes the room feel freezing. He slowly turns his head, his gaze sweeping over his mother's contorted face and Amanda's fearful eyes. He looks at them both not with anger, but with a horrifying, absolute pity.
"Sacrifice?" Jeffrey repeats, his voice deadly low, vibrating with a repressed intensity. "You talk about sacrifice as if it's a currency you can use to buy my soul. You didn't raise a son; you curated an asset. You didn't build a family; you built a monument to your own control. And I am done being the cornerstone."
He reaches down and gently but firmly peels his mother's fingers from his arm, as if removing a stain. "I'm not burning bridges, Ma. I'm just walking away from a prison you decided to call a home."
He looks at Amanda, his eyes cold and devoid of any recognition. "And as for you—stop pretending you're here for me. You're here for the position, the prestige, and the power. But look around. You have neither."
He holds his mother's gaze for one final, agonizing second, seeing the realization dawn on her that the man she thought she owned has completely slipped through her fingers.
"Ma, I'll call you tomorrow only when you're ready to apologize for today. And Amanda—I hope you find what you're looking for. But it isn't here."
Without another word, without a backward glance, he pulls Christine toward the door. As the heavy wood swings shut behind them, sealing off the noise and the manipulation, he leads her out into the fresh air, his hand warm, steady, and finally, undeniably, his own.
They arrive at the car. The afternoon sun is bright and unforgiving, highlighting the tear tracks on her face, making the humiliation she just endured feel raw and exposed.
Christine pauses, her eyes swimming with tears that reflect the harsh daylight like shards of broken glass.
The echoing, sharp cruelty of his mother's words settles into her bones, making her feel small, fragile, and ultimately, defeated.
"I—I'll just take a cab home," she stutters, her voice brittle, lacking any fight.
Jeffrey doesn't start the engine. He turns to her, his hand still holding hers, but the warmth of his touch feels distant against the sudden chill of her own skin, even in the midday heat. His voice is raw, earnest.
"I'm sorry. I should have known she'd pull something like this."
He pauses, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on her palm, a desperate attempt to ground her. "But what I said in there—I meant every word."
His eyes meet hers, searching, but she can barely look back. "You're not what she said. You're not what anyone says. You're the reason I showed up today. The only reason."
Christine looks down, another tear falling onto her cheek. She isn't trying to hide her emotions anymore; she's just tired. "I know, but... I think I need to be alone for now. You go back in there and enjoy the lunch. I'll get the cab."
He doesn't release her hand. Instead, his grip softens, his thumb brushing across her knuckles. "I'm not going back in there." His voice drops, low and steady, but it sounds like a plea. "That lunch means nothing if you're not beside me."
He reaches over, gently turning her face toward him, wiping the stray tear with a careful thumb. "Let me drive you home. Or anywhere you want. I'll sit in silence the whole way if that's what you need."
His eyes hold hers, quiet and unwavering. "But I'm not letting you take a cab. Not like this."
"I just need space, Jeff."
A beat of stillness passes through him. He studies her face—the hollow, empty look in her eyes—and makes a quiet, painful decision. He lets go of her hand, and the loss of contact feels like a physical severance.
He leans back in his seat, the space between them widening. He rests both hands on the wheel, not starting the engine yet. "I'll wait until your cab gets here. "Then I'll go." His voice softer, "I'm not giving up on us, Christine." I'm just giving you space today. But tomorrow?" He glances at her, a quiet promise in his eyes. "I'll be right across the hall. Same as always."
Christine shakes her head slightly, a sad, resigned smile touching her lips—a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Maybe your mom is right... You belong to Amanda."
A long silence settles in the car, deeper and more desolate than the bright, bustling street outside. Jeffrey stares straight ahead through the windshield, his hands still resting on the wheel, white-knuckled. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, almost tired.
"No. She's not."
He turns to look at her fully, no armor, no deflection. "Amanda left. You showed up. That's the difference." A soft, careful exhale escapes him. "I'll wait for your cab."
Christine sits in silence, staring out the window at the pedestrians walking by, entirely oblivious to the world falling apart inside the car.
A few minutes later, the cab pulls up.
Jeffrey watches her open the door without a word. His hands stay on the wheel, grip tight, jaw set. As she steps out, he speaks quietly, just enough for her to hear.
"I'm not going anywhere, Christine." A pause. "When you're ready, I'll be across the hall."
Christine gets into the cab, offering no words, no goodbye. She doesn't look back; she can't.
Jeffrey watches the cab pull away into the bright afternoon traffic, leaving him alone in the glare of the sun. He sits there for a long moment, both hands still gripping the wheel, his gaze fixed on the empty street ahead.
"I know what I'm doing," he says quietly to himself, a low, empty anchor in the silence. He pulls out his phone, types out a message, then pauses. He deletes it. Locks the phone. Tosses it onto the passenger seat.
"Not yet. Let her breathe."
He starts the engine, pulling away from his mother's house without a backward glance, the car feeling cavernous and cold in her absence.