HHWM | Chapter 18: Cornered By The Past

A beige envelope sat centered on Greg’s mahogany desk like a death warrant. It was a resignation letter.

“Saya—” Greg began, but the woman standing before him cut him off.

“We both know it’s for the best,” Saya said, her voice steady but laced with a quiet bitterness. She avoided his gaze, stepping forward to adjust the necktie he had loosened earlier. Her hands were clinical, yet her touch lingered. “Perhaps this is my karma for taking advantage of your situation.”

Her hand slid from the silk of his tie to the fabric over his heart.

“I’m worried for you, Sir Greg,” she murmured, her eyes weary as she straightened his collar. “She’s a threat. A ticking bomb designed to dismantle your reputation and everything you’ve bled for.”

Saya had been there from the beginning; she had watched Greg crawl his way to the summit. It gutted her to leave, but she couldn’t stand by while a shadow loomed over him. She couldn’t comprehend how a man of his stature had been ensnared by a demon like Selene Fortabel.

With one final pat to his lapel, Saya walked out, leaving Greg alone in the vast, hollow silence of his office. The resignation felt like losing a limb—Saya was his right hand—but the fear they shared was a mutual, suffocating bond. He closed the file, and with it, he closed the door on their history.

The following week, the boardroom crackled with high-voltage tension. It was the long-awaited partnership meeting with Corner Group, a titan of the tech industry. Greg sat at the head of the long table, formidable in his custom-fit suit, his expression a mask of cold professionalism. But beneath the polished exterior, he was reeling.

The girl his wife used to help with homework wasn’t just “observing” the project. She was running it.

Selene walked in followed by an executive team, radiating a sharp, predatory aura. She wore a tailored pantsuit with a cropped silk blouse—a whisper of fabric that dared anyone to look.

“…and this strategic alliance will triple our market share in Southeast Asia,” Selene stated, her voice iron-clad.

Greg found it difficult to swallow. The voice that once whimpered against his chest was now commanding the room. As she reached for a folder, her blouse shifted, revealing the tiny mole just above her navel. It was a landmark of their shared depravity—a spot he had memorized while buried deep inside her.

To his ears, her presentation sounded like a rhythmic moan. Every syllable she uttered felt like the way her mouth parted when he tore through her innocence. He looked down at his papers, his mind a chaotic blur of dark, taunting desire.

“Miss Fortabel,” Greg interrupted, his voice rough. “I appreciate the foresight, but the projected expenditure for Q4 is overly aggressive. How do you justify a three-fold increase in such a short timeline?”

Selene didn’t blink. She looked at her laptop, her gaze strictly professional. “The expenditure is front-loaded to capitalize on the holiday season, Mr. Santiago. This isn’t just about infrastructure; it’s about market dominance. We aren’t here to play games.”

Greg bit the inside of his cheek. Even her sharpness felt like music. “Dominance at the expense of fiscal stability? That’s a high-stakes gamble.”

Selene smiled, though the heat didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve done my due diligence, Sir. We always do.”

After the meeting, Greg’s team moved toward the lobby, but he froze. Outside, a black Mercedes-Benz S-Class waited. A man—the same fit, well-dressed youth from the hotel—opened the door for Selene.

Minutes later, Greg was flying down the SLEX, his speedometer climbing into dangerous territory. His rage wasn’t about the business rivalry; it was the visceral, sickening realization that another man was claiming her. That those thighs were opening for someone else. That her cries of surrender were being heard by another.

The obsession had reached a fever pitch. He loosened his tie, feeling like he was being strangled by his own pulse.

Later, in the President’s office, Greg made his move. “I’m sure. I need a new environment for my family. I’ll take the New Zealand post.”

“It’s yours, Greg. I trust no one else with it.”

He exhaled, feeling a momentary relief. He had to get away before the darkness consumed what was left of his life.

The reprieve was short-lived. Luis’s birthday party arrived—an invitation Greg couldn’t decline without raising suspicion. Walking back into the Fortabel home felt like stepping into a trap.

“Selene,” Kyla’s voice echoed from a memory. “Come here and greet your Ninong.”

The memory of the girl was overwritten by the reality of the woman.

“Greg!” Kyla greeted him with a warm hug. “Where’s Mayette?”

“She’s coming after her school conference,” he replied, his conscience gnawing at him as he looked at Luis and Kyla. He told himself this was his final goodbye to the people he had betrayed.

But the person he expected to see was nowhere to be found—until the toast.

Luis stood in the center of the room, a copita of single malt in hand. “To my family, to Kyla, and to my daughter, Selene…”

Greg gripped his own glass.

“…I have wonderful news. Selene and Ren’s relationship is now official. The families have agreed. My daughter is engaged!”

The world stopped. The glass nearly slipped from Greg’s hand. Engaged. The word hit him like a hollow-point bullet. Amidst the applause, Greg slipped away to the lanai, his lungs burning. He lit a cigarette, his hands shaking with murderous jealousy.

“Didn’t I tell you I hate the smell of smoke?”

He didn’t need to turn around. “You should leave. Mayette might see you.”

“Or are you just afraid I’ll smell like smoke at my rehearsal dinner?”

Greg turned. She was leaning against the doorframe in a black backless lace dress—an invitation to sin written in silk. Her skin was pale, her gaze mocking.

He crushed the cigarette in his palm and lunged, grabbing her arm and hauling her inside, locking the door behind them.

“One day you threaten me, the next you act as if nothing happened,” he hissed, his voice a vibrating whisper. “You can’t stand me with someone else, yet you’re planning a wedding?”

“So now you understand?” Selene whispered, her hand snaking up to grip his throat, forcing him to look at her. “You feel like you’re losing your mind, don’t you? Thinking of me with him?”

Her other hand moved to the nape of his neck, her nails digging in. “If you can do it, why can’t I? Don’t think you can have my soul when you won’t even commit yours to me.”

She leaned in, her lips inches from his. “I’ll get married. I’ll have children. And I’ll still keep you as my secret lover… exactly what you turned me into. And don’t think you can run. Let’s see if your wife still wants you when she finds out what her ‘perfect’ husband has been doing.”

She took his hand and guided it down her body—over her stomach, her pelvis, lower. “If you want me all to yourself… choose me. Pick me.”

Greg recoiled, his patience snapped. He turned to leave, but the sound of the door locking stopped him cold.

“Nothing has changed, Ninong.”

He heard the soft slide of lace. The dress hit the floor.

Greg’s restraint disintegrated. He turned and charged. He caught her, lifting her off her feet as her body magnetized to his. He slammed her against the cold wall, his mouth devouring hers in a ruinous claim. He tasted the whiskey on his own breath and the red wine of her lipstick.

They were both still dressed, but the friction of his hardness against her was undeniable. He hoisted her onto an old wooden console table, scattering the ornaments across the floor with a deafening crash.

Down the hall, Mayette paused, hearing the noise. Kyla quickly intercepted her, steering her toward the other guests. Mayette glanced back at the closed door at the end of the hallway, a flicker of doubt in her eyes, before moving on.

Inside, Greg didn’t care. He buried himself in her with a violent desperation. He clamped his hand over her mouth, muffling her cries as he punished her body for the engagement, for the other man, for the years of torture.

He hiked her legs over his shoulders, exposing her completely to his hunger. Every thrust was deeper, a brutal interrogation of her loyalty. The guilt was gone, replaced by an unadulterated, black obsession.

“G-Greg… A-ah…” her voice was a broken trill.

The storage room. The darkness. The first time. It all came rushing back.

“Don’t you dare let anyone else touch you,” he growled into her neck, sounding like a starving animal. “You are mine, Selene. Only mine.”

She gasped, her body shattering under the weight of his possession. She was drowning in him, a willing victim to the man she could never truly own.

When Greg finally delivered his last, crushing strike, the silence of the room was heavy. He returned to her bruised lips, sealing them in a final, punishing kiss while his mark ran hot down her thighs. It wasn’t just passion; it was a brand. The seal of a sin that had no end.