JAY-JAY POV
My alarm rang at 6 a.m.
I got ready, went downstairs, and made breakfast and coffee for Keifer.
He always comes around 8 a.m. sharp, like clockwork.
Keifer and I married when we were twenty‑three.
It wasn't love.
It was forced.
Kuya Angelo's company was falling apart, and Keifer's family —
Aunt Serina, especially — made a deal.
I marry Keifer, and in return, they help save Fer Crop.
They didn't ask if it was okay.
They just told me I was getting married.
I couldn't say no.
Because when my parents died in that car accident, they raised me.
Not with love, but with responsibility.
I remember Aunt Serina's words, sharp and final: "Jay, this is what's best for the family. You'll understand one day."
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to ask, What about what's best for me? But I didn't.
I swallowed it, like I always did.
Now, three years later, I stand in the kitchen, pouring coffee into Keifer's cup.
The smell of roasted beans fills the air, but it doesn't warm me.
Sometimes I wonder if he notices.
The way I set his plate just right, the way I wait for him every morning.
But when he walks in, his eyes slide past me, cold and distant. "Coffee," he says flatly, not even a thank you.
And I smile anyway.
"Are you done daydreaming?" Keifer's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. "You can serve me my food. It's getting late."
I nodded, wordless, and slid his plate across the table. Then I took mine.
We ate in silence.
The clinking of cutlery was the only sound between us.
Sometimes I glanced at him, hoping — foolishly — for a flicker of warmth, a glance, a word.
But he just ignored me, eyes fixed on his food like I wasn't even there.
I cleared my throat softly. "Did you sleep well?"
He didn't look up. "Fine."
I tried again. "I was thinking... maybe tonight we could—"
"Jay." His tone was sharp, final. "Don't start."
The words cut deeper than the silence.
I lowered my gaze, pushing rice around my plate.
Three years of mornings like this. Three years of trying to reach him, of hoping he'd see me, hear me, love me.
But Keifer never did.
And maybe he never will.
He finished his breakfast and went outside. "Are you coming or not?" Keifer asked, his voice clipped, impatient.
I nodded, pushing my chair back. My plate was still half‑full, but I didn't argue. I never do.
I slipped on my blazer, gathered my files, and followed him out.
I'm a lawyer at Watson's office.
Not because I chose it, but because it was expected.
Another responsibility handed to me, another cage disguised as duty.
Keifer walked ahead, not bothering to slow down.
His stride was sharp, purposeful, like he was always trying to outrun something.
Maybe me.
Maybe us.
I trailed behind, clutching my bag.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone at the office sees it —
the distance between us, the silence that stretches longer than the hours we spend together.
To them, we're the Watsons.
A powerful couple.
A perfect match.
But behind closed doors, we're strangers bound by paper and promises we never wanted.
I glanced at him as he unlocked the car. "Keifer," I said softly, almost afraid of my own voice.
He didn't look at me. "What?"
"Nothing," I whispered, sliding into the passenger seat.
Because what I wanted to say — I'm tired, I'm breaking, I don't want this anymore — never makes it past my lips.
We went to the office. I walked into Keifer's office like I always did, files in hand, ready to start the day.
But what I saw shattered me.
Honey — his secretary — was kissing him. Her hands on his chest, his lips on hers.
She pulled away first, eyes wide. "Don't you know how to knock?" she snapped, then faltered. "Mrs. Watson... I'm sorry."
Keifer turned, guilt flickering across his face, his mouth opening to explain.
But I didn't let him. I held out the folder, my voice steady though my hands trembled. "Here are the files you asked to review. Everything looks good."
His lips parted, like he wanted to say my name. I didn't give him the chance.
I turned and walked out.
That night, I went home alone.
I prepared dinner for the night
set the table like nothing had changed, and then went to my room.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my chest hollow. Three years of trying. Three years of hoping. And in one moment, I realized the truth I had been avoiding all along.
Keifer was never mine. And maybe he never would be.
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Keifer POV
It's been three years since I've been stuck in this marriage with Jay‑Jay.
Three years of living beside someone I didn't choose.
I don't like her.
She was never my type.
I didn't want her as my wife.
I never asked for her.
But here I am.
Stuck.
I went downstairs this morning, the smell of coffee already filling the air.
She was at the table, staring off into space, lost in her thoughts again.
Daydreaming.
Serious.
"Jay," I said, sharper than I meant to. "Are you even listening? You keep drifting off."
She blinked, startled, and shook her head. "Sorry. I was just—"
"Don't," I cut her off. "You can serve me my food. It's getting late."
She nodded, quiet, obedient.
Always obedient.
She slid the plate in front of me, then sat down on her own.
We ate in silence.
She glanced at me sometimes, like she was searching for something in my face.
I ignored her.
Because if I looked back, if I let her see even a flicker of what I felt, she'd think there was hope.
And there isn't.
Not for us.
Not for this marriage.
Jay followed me into the car, quiet as always.
We drove to the office, the silence between us heavier than the traffic outside.
Honey came in not long after.
My secretary.
Efficient, sharp, always hovering too close.
It happened too fast.
She slipped, stumbled forward —
I caught her instinctively.
And then her lips were on mine.
For a second, I froze.
It wasn't planned.
It wasn't wanted.
But I didn't push her away fast enough.
The door opened.
Jay stood there, files in her hand, eyes wide.
Honey pulled back, flustered. "Mrs. Watson... I'm sorry."
Jay's face didn't change.
No shouting, no tears.
Just silence.
She held out the folder, her voice steady, almost cold. "Here are the files you asked to review. Everything looks good."
I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, but the words wouldn't come.
She turned and walked out, leaving me with Honey, with the taste of guilt, with the weight of everything I never wanted.
And for the first time in three years, I wondered if Jay was finally done trying.
I went home that night alone.
Dinner was already on the table, untouched, waiting.
The house felt heavy, quiet — the kind of silence that presses against your chest.
I walked down the hall and stopped at her door. Knocked once.
"It's open," Jay's voice came, calm, steady.
I stepped inside. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hair loose, her eyes tired but unreadable.
"Mom's coming tomorrow morning," I said.
She nodded, no surprise in her face.
I hesitated, then added, "It's better if you sleep in my room tonight. So she doesn't suspect anything."
Her gaze flickered up at me, sharp for a moment, then softened into resignation.
She didn't argue.
She never does.
And I hated that part of her —
the way she accepts, the way she bends, the way she carries this marriage like it's a duty instead of a choice.
But at the same time, I needed it.
Needed her silence, her compliance, her ability to keep the mask intact.
Because tomorrow, when my mother walks in, she'll see us together.
She'll see the perfect couple.
And she'll never know the truth —
that behind closed doors, we're nothing but strangers sharing a cage.