The front door clicked softly, a familiar, measured sound that announced Wes's return from the evening's errand. His faint, padded footsteps were barely noticeable, a subtle whisper against the quiet of the house, right up until he was standing almost directly in front of her.
"Well, you seem to be quite comfortable."
Mina jolted, looking up instantly from her prone position on the plush couch. Her phone was still warm in her hand, the screen dark after abruptly ending the call with Lily. She hadn't expected him to get back so soon. It had only been about forty five minutes since he disappeared.
Wes stepped into the warmly lit living room, shedding the cool night air. He looked impeccably relaxed, the brief errand having left no discernible mark on his demeanor.
"I see you're still awake," he noted, his voice low and smooth. He moved toward the sideboard, his eyes meeting hers. "Most people would've been asleep hours ago, especially after such a heavy meal."
"And most people don't suddenly disappear without so much as a destination," she retorted, trying to keep her tone casually inquisitive but failing to hide the slight, accusatory edge of curiosity.
He smiled, that same calm, unreadable smile that always seemed to hold layers of unspoken thoughts. He slipped off his dark jacket, draping it over the armrest of a nearby chair with a practiced, deliberate movement.
"Are you trying to say you missed me, Mina?" he teased gently, folding the jacket neatly.
Mina studied him closely, deciding not to fall for his usual trap of baiting her into distraction. She searched the lines around his eyes, the set of his mouth. Any tiny fracture that might betray the truth of his activities.
"You were out for barely an hour so no," she countered, then changed tack. "But it was still long enough for an errand. What kind of errand takes place at this time of night?"
"A business one," he replied simply.
"Another business errand?" Mina crossed her arms, a genuine frown settling on her face. "You always use that line. It's like your code word for 'something I can't tell you about.'"
He turned toward her, a faint, almost mischievous trace of amusement playing on his lips. He walked a few steps closer, closing the distance slowly.
"You know, night time here in Manila is actually daytime in a large portion of the world," he said, his voice dropping slightly, casual as ever. "Since many of my clients are based overseas, I don't really have the luxury of kepping a regular office schedule. Sometimes I'm negotiating contracts with people who are just starting their workday in London, or closing deals with executives having a late breakfast in Dubai."
Mina frowned, unconvinced. "That's true, but ten o'clock at night here isn't exactly the prime negotiating window for London or Dubai."
He took another soft step, now close enough that she could smell the faint, clean scent of night air and expensive aftershave on him. His voice dropped even lower, becoming warm and teasing, the tone of someone strategically disarming an opponent.
"That may be true, but you know very well that 10 PM here can actually be as early as 7 AM somewhere else." He paused, his dark eyes sparkling. "Like… I don't know, maybe California?"
His words hung in the air, weighted with the implication. Mina's mind scrambled back to her conversation just moments earlier. Her heart skipping a beat, just long enough for her to realize what he meant.
Her eyes widened in horror. "Wh—What are you talking about? Oh my God, were you… were you spying on me?"
He raised both hands above his head in mock surrender, his lips curling into a small, irresistible grin. "Mina, I am terribly sorry, but I couldn't help but overhear your very informative conversation with your friend." He gestured toward a small white device with a flashing green light on the side table, the intercom unit.
"I didn't actually go out," he confessed, looking thoroughly amused. "I was in the garage, tinkering with the engine of my vintage van. You must have accidentally hit the speaker button on the intercom unit before you started dialing. I heard your entire conversation with Lily from the moment she answered."
"The intercom?" Mina's face instantly paled, then flushed a searing crimson as the full, mortifying realization set in. "But… you left. I heard your car pull up when you came back!"
Wes rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely half apologetic. "Sorry. I didn't want to walk straight back in and embarrass you by saying, 'I heard you were talking about my abs and a fan club.' I figured that would have been worse than… well, what's happening right now. So, after a while, I just quietly got in the car, put it in reverse with the headlights off, idled for a minute, and then pulled back in as if I'd just arrived. I thought staging my return would be less awkward."
Mina opened her mouth, then closed it again, unable to form a coherent word. Her mind was a blank fog of absolute, profound mortification. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
"It's alright, Mina," Wes said gently, his tone softening completely. He stepped closer and offered her a compassionate, genuine look. "There is absolutely no need to be embarrassed. Honestly, I'm quite flattered that you think of me that way, and I'm quite impressed by the organizational skills of the fans... what do you call them? 'Abbies?'"
She buried her face in her hands, her cheeks burning so intensely they felt physically hot. "If you don't mind," she mumbled, the words muffled into her palms, "I think I'd like to be alone now. Permanently."
He chuckled softly. "Alright." He gave her a light pat on the shoulder as he passed, the faint trace of warmth lingering behind. His voice was calm, utterly disarming, and not mocking in the slightest. "Just don't overthink it. We'll pretend like this entire conversation never happened."
"Goodnight, Mina."
"Goodnight," she replied weakly, though her heart was far from calm, and she didn't know how she was supposed to look at him in the morning or ever again.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that night, the sprawling house had settled into a deep, luxurious silence once more.
Wes stood by the large, window in his private study, a space dominated by dark wood and subdued lighting. He was looking over the city, Metro Manila stretched out before him, a vast, glowing circuit board of ambition and chaos under a relatively clear expanse of stars. The quiet, almost metallic hum of the city reaching this high elevation was the only sound.
He pressed the tips of his fingers against the cool glass, exhaling a slow, measured breath that fogged the surface momentarily.
He shouldn't have done it.
The tiny white status light on the office's master intercom control panel still blinked faintly beside his desk, a silent, damning witness to his deception. He had activated it deliberately before his staged departure and re-entry. It was a calculated move, a low cost, high yield tactic to divert Mina's burgeoning curiosity. He needed to keep her too embarrassed to press further into questions she wasn't ready to ask, or that he couldn't possibly answer.
The maneuver had worked flawlessly. The confusion, the embarrassment, the hasty retreat, it had all achieved the desired effect of keeping her safely focused on the trivial, harmless drama of teenage gossip, rather than the dark, sharp edges of the real world he live in.
But now, alone in the quietude of his sanctum, the easy victory tasted hollow.
He sank into his worn leather armchair, the sigh he released heavy with fatigue and self-reproach. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, letting the full weight of the guilt press down on him like a physical force.
You used her innocence as a shield, Wes.
He ran a weary hand through his hair, the gesture rough. "Damn it, Wes," he muttered, the self-admonishment sharp.
Mina wasn't ready for the truth, not the kind of truth that came packaged with blood, political leverage, and the cold, unfeeling power of men who would destroy lives simply to move a piece on a global chessboard. Her life shouldn't contain knowledge of assassins like Mikhail Vasilyev, or oligrach bosses like Andrei Sokolov.
She was too young and too bright. Her eyes too full of genuine wonder and uncomplicated joy to be dragged into his world of darkness and compromised morality. She should have been safely insulated, out in the world laughing with friends, worrying about her studies, maybe falling in love with a charming, uncomplicated boy her own age. Instead, she was living under the same roof as a man whose very existence was built on secrets, calculated violence, and strategic leverage.
This was the only way. The cold, detached logic of the operative surfaced to quiet the noise of his conscience. This was the only way he could protect her, to keep her safely distracted, held at a comfortable, harmless distance by charm, half truths, and carefully constructed lies.
He leaned back, staring up at the dark, silent ceiling. The guilt lingered, a dull, familiar ache, but the strategist in him knew the calculation was sound. He would execute the tactic again, without hesitation, if he had to.
For her safety. For her profound, necessary ignorance. For her peace.
He closed his eyes, and the faint, choked sound of her embarrassed, mortified groan, "If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone now", replayed vividly in his memory. For the first time in a long while, Wes Chai felt like the villain in his own story.