Lucinda turned back to me.
"I would like to see you at the charity gala next week."
My mouth went dry.
"Charity… gala?" I echoed.
"Yes," Lucinda said coolly. "It's the main fundraiser for the Villanueva Foundation. Politicians, celebrities, executives, all the people who will be watching you from this day forward."
My stomach gave a sick lurch.
Lance squeezed my hand under the table.
"She'll be there."
Lucinda's lips curved ever so slightly.
"Good. Because if you are truly my son's wife, it's time the world sees you."
She lifted her water glass again and took another delicate sip.
Then she set it down and shifted the topic so abruptly I nearly got whiplash.
"Do you speak Spanish, Maya?"
I blinked.
"Uh… konti lang po.""Only a little."
Lucinda's mouth twitched with faint amusement.
"Then you will begin lessons immediately. It is expected."
Lance interjected gently.
"Mom, we'll take it one step at a time."
Lucinda lifted a slender eyebrow.
"There is no 'one step at a time' in this family, Lance."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Lucinda was already moving on.
"Can you cook?" she demanded.
"Excuse me?" I blurted, caught off-guard.
Lucinda's eyes glinted.
"I asked whether you can cook. My son enjoys home-cooked meals. I expect you to be capable of preparing at least a few dishes."
I stared at her, utterly speechless.
Lance let out a soft laugh under his breath.
"Mom, I'm thirty-two. I can feed myself."
Lucinda ignored him.
"Well, Maya? Can you cook?"
A stubborn spark ignited in my chest.
"Yes, I can cook," I snapped. "I can make adobo, sinigang, nilaga, pancit… name it. But let me be clear I'm not marrying Lance to be his personal chef."
Lucinda's eyes widened slightly.
Then, to my complete shock, a small, genuine laugh escaped her.
"Adobo," she repeated, amusement in her voice. "At least that is a proper Filipino woman's answer."
She tilted her head.
"I suppose we shall see how you fare. Perhaps you might even surprise me."
I exhaled shakily, only half-believing what I'd just witnessed.
Was Lucinda Villanueva… laughing?
A moment later, the waiter returned with our food.
The plates were set in front of us:
• Lucinda's perfectly grilled sea bass, garnished with tiny herbs.
• Lance's juicy steak, seared and pink in the center.
• My simple grilled chicken with a small pile of buttered vegetables.
Lucinda didn't touch her fork right away.
Instead, she gave me one final, piercing look.
"You are not what I expected, Maya."
I swallowed hard.
"Is that… good or bad?" I asked softly.
Lucinda hesitated.
Then she gave a faint, enigmatic smile.
"Time will tell."
She finally picked up her fork and began eating in small, precise bites.
Lance exhaled softly beside me.
I reached for my fork with trembling fingers, my entire body still humming from adrenaline.
But deep inside, one thought struck me like a bolt of lightning:
I might actually survive this.
And across the table, for the first time since we'd sat down, Lucinda Villanueva's eyes held something almost like respect.
The clink of cutlery and the low hum of conversations from the other tables filled the private room as Lucinda delicately sliced her fish. I sat stiffly, trying not to fidget, feeling every inch of the elegant dress hugging my body. Lance, beside me, chewed his steak with calm precision, though I could feel the subtle tension in how his jaw flexed. Lucinda dabbed her lips with her napkin and turned her attention to me once more. "Maya," she said crisply, "do you know how to handle journalists?" I almost choked on my chicken. "Journalists?" Lucinda's eyes stayed locked on mine, sharp as a blade. "Yes. The press. Bloggers. Social media vultures. They'll swarm you as soon as this marriage becomes public. They'll dig for dirt, twist your words, and invent scandals if they must. How will you respond?"
A bead of sweat slipped down my spine. "I… I've never spoken to reporters before." Lucinda tilted her head, as though weighing me. "Then you'll have to learn. Quickly." She cast a quick glance at Lance. "Your father and I spent years building this family's reputation. I won't allow gossip to tarnish it. You understand me?" "Mom," Lance said quietly, "Maya's not alone in this. I'll handle the media." Lucinda's eyes cut back to me. "And what if the media targets you personally, Maya? Will you crumble? Or will you stand your ground?"
My throat felt dry as sand. I clenched my hands under the table and forced myself to hold her gaze. "I'll stand my ground," I said, though my voice wavered. Lucinda's lips curved slightly. "Good. Because once this marriage is announced, you'll be front-page news. And some people will try to say you married my son for money."
My stomach twisted. She wasn't wrong, technically. I had married Lance for money—but also because I'd been left with nothing. I opened my mouth to respond, but Lance spoke first, his voice cool and hard. "If anyone accuses my wife of being a gold digger, I'll destroy them." Lucinda raised an eyebrow. "Careful, Lance. Even you can't silence the entire internet." "No," he said, leaning forward slightly, "but I can bury every lie in lawsuits so deep no one will want to touch us."
I blinked at him. There was no trace of warmth in his face at that moment only the lethal, calculating edge I'd seen before. For a second, I almost felt sorry for anyone who tried to cross him. Lucinda inclined her head, faintly approving. "And you, Maya?" she said. "What will you do when reporters shove microphones in your face and demand to know how a girl from an orphanage ended up married to a billionaire?"
I swallowed hard, heart hammering. "I'll tell them… that I fell in love."
Lucinda gave me a long, assessing look, then finally sat back in her chair. "Good answer," she murmured, almost to herself. A tiny spark of relief lit in my chest. Lance's thumb brushed over my knuckles under the table, silent encouragement in his touch.
For a few minutes, the conversation turned to safe topics, business deals Lance was handling, a new partnership Lucinda was exploring in Cebu. I tried to follow along, though half the terms were so alien they might as well have been in another language. But Lucinda occasionally dropped sharp, probing questions my way. "What university did you attend again?" "UST, po." "Did you finish your degree?" "Yes, po." "What course?" "Accountancy." She tilted her head. "Hmm. At least that's practical."
By the time dessert arrived, a small plate of leche flan glistening under caramel sauce, I was exhausted from trying to stay composed. Lucinda lifted her spoon and paused, eyes flicking to me. "One last question, Maya. Do you intend to give my son children?"