The Bendoy household had always been orderly, every picture frame aligned, every book stacked according to Filemon’s rules of appearance. Stacy used to find comfort in that kind of precision when she was younger, but now, stepping into her father’s study, the sight made her skin itch.
Filemon Bendoy sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his reading glasses balanced at the tip of his nose. His eyes lifted slowly to meet hers, dark and steady, the kind that could pin down an opponent in the middle of a senate hearing.
“Sit,” he ordered, not even bothering with a greeting.
Stacy pulled out the chair opposite him, the leather creaking as she settled in. She crossed her legs, straightened her back, and placed her recorder and notebook on her lap. A defensive stance, though she tried to make it look casual.
“You know why I called you here,” Filemon said, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk. His voice was calm, but beneath it was a current of restrained anger.
“You read the article draft,” Stacy replied.
“Draft?” His brows furrowed. “You dare call that… that romanticized trash a draft? You are writing about Rafael Manuel as if he is some kind of misunderstood poet. He is a murderer, Stacy. A criminal whose crimes blackened the streets of Manila. And yet you, my daughter, a Bendoy, choose to humanize him?”
Stacy tightened her grip on her notebook. “I am not romanticizing him. I am presenting his story as he tells it. People deserve to know the layers, not just the headlines you politicians feed them.”
Filemon leaned forward, his voice low but sharp. “Layers? He slit throats. He destroyed families. He left women in ruins. And you think giving him a platform to confess his sins makes you a journalist? No. It makes you his pawn.”
Stacy’s jaw clenched. “I am not his pawn. I am in control of the story.”
Filemon slammed his hand against the desk. “There is no control when you dance with devils, Stacy. You think you are the one holding the pen, but it is Rafael who holds the strings. You are writing exactly what he wants you to write. And when the time comes, you will realize too late that he has used you to finish whatever game he started.”
“Why are you so afraid of him?” Stacy shot back. “This is more than just protecting the family name, isn’t it? What does Rafael know that makes you so desperate to silence him?”
Filemon’s eyes narrowed. “Do not twist this around. I am protecting you. And yes, I am protecting our family’s name. Do you think scandals respect boundaries? Do you think the public will separate your work from my career? One headline painting you as the woman who sympathizes with a killer will undo everything I have built for decades.”
“This is not about you,” Stacy snapped. “This is about me, about my work, about my choice to tell the story no one else dares to.”
Filemon’s face hardened. “As long as you are my daughter, everything you do reflects on me. Do you understand? Every article you publish, every word you attach to your name is a shadow that follows mine. And if you continue with this madness, that shadow will become a stain.”
Stacy stood, her pulse racing. “Maybe I do not want to live in your shadow anymore.”
The words hung heavy in the room. Filemon’s expression shifted, a flicker of hurt quickly smothered by fury.
“You ungrateful child,” he hissed. “I gave you everything. The education, the connections, the security to chase whatever foolish dreams you wanted. And this is how you repay me? By spitting in the face of everything I built?”
“You did not give me freedom,” Stacy said, her voice trembling. “You gave me a cage. A gilded one, yes, but still a cage. And Rafael, for all his sins, speaks of freedom. That is why I listen to him. Because he is not afraid to admit the darkness that you spend your whole life hiding.”
Filemon rose to his feet, his presence towering. “Do not compare me to that criminal. Do not dare put my name in the same breath as his. I built my life on law and order. He built his on chaos and death. And if you continue this foolishness, you will destroy not only yourself but me as well.”
Stacy met his glare without flinching. “Then maybe destruction is necessary. Because the order you built suffocates everything it touches.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Finally, Filemon exhaled, his fury settling into something colder, more dangerous.
“You will end this,” he said flatly. “No more interviews. No more stories. If you defy me, Stacy, do not expect me to protect you when the consequences arrive.”
Stacy picked up her recorder and notebook. “I never asked for your protection.”
She turned and walked out of the study, her heart pounding, but with every step, her resolve hardened.
Later that night, Stacy sat in her apartment, her father’s words echoing like a curse. She pressed play on her recorder, listening again to Rafael’s voice from their last meeting.
“Truth is like seduction, Miss Bendoy. If I give you everything at once, you will lose interest. The anticipation is what keeps you here.”
She hated that his words resonated. She hated that he was right. Because despite everything her father said, despite her own fears, she wanted to go back. She wanted to hear the next confession.
Her phone buzzed with a new message. She opened it and froze.
It was from an unknown number.
A single line appeared on the screen:
“You are in deeper than you think. He will ruin you like he ruined her.”
Stacy’s breath caught. Her fingers trembled as she typed back, “Who is this?”
No response came.
The next day at the prison, Rafael greeted her with his usual calm charm, his eyes sparkling as if he already knew the storm raging in her life.
“You look tired,” he remarked. “Did Father scold you?”
Stacy stiffened. “How do you know about that?”
He shrugged. “I know things. That is why you are here, is it not? Because I know what no one else will tell you.”
Her voice was sharp. “What do you know about my father?”
Rafael leaned forward, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. “Enough to understand why he wants you to stop seeing me. Enough to know that the fear in his voice is not about you, but about him. Tell me, Stacy, has your father ever confessed his sins to you? Or does he hide them beneath speeches and smiles?”
Stacy’s throat tightened. “You are trying to turn me against him.”
“I do not have to,” Rafael said with a smile. “He is already doing that himself.”
She pressed record on her device, desperate to regain control. “Then let us return to the confessions. You promised me seven. You have given me three. What comes next?”
Rafael’s eyes lingered on her, studying her face as though reading a script written beneath her skin. “Next, Miss Bendoy, we move into the heart of the storm. Confession four will not be about survival or loyalty or betrayal. It will be about desire. And that is where everything begins to unravel.”
Stacy swallowed hard, her father’s warnings clashing with Rafael’s seductive certainty. She told herself she was here for the story, for the truth. Yet a part of her knew she was being pulled into something far more dangerous than journalism.
And she could no longer tell if she wanted to resist.
ns216.73.216.23da2
and then Add to home screen.