Page 156 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"For the record," she whispers as we step into the corridor, "your math doesn't suck anymore."
The observation settles in my chest like scope alignment finally perfected.
Equation corrected. Variables optimized. Target acquired.
Forever.
forty-one
Vanessa
"When are you getting married, anak?" Tita Malou's voice cuts through the overlapping conversations like a blade, jasmine perfume overwhelming as she leans closer.
My fingers freeze around my fork, lumpia suddenly tasting like cardboard. Around the crowded dining room, twenty-six pairs of Filipino eyes turn toward me like spotlights waiting for a performance I'm not ready to give.
"We're just...taking things as they come." The words scrape my throat raw.
Mom sets down her plate with more force than necessary. "Taking things as they come? Vanessa, you're twenty-eight. At your age, I already had two children and a stable career."
The familiar fragmentation starts. Code sequences offering better hiding places than this suffocating room. My leg bounces under the table, nervous energy with nowhere to go.
"Vanessa, stop moving your leg," Mom snaps without looking at me. "You're shaking the whole table."
Sorry. Can't help it. Brain won't stop.
"She's always been like this," Tita Carmen sighs, reaching over to still my knee with her hand. "Never could sit properly. Even as a baby, always wiggling, always restless."
"It's because she doesn't focus," another aunt adds. "If she just concentrated better, tried harder to be still..."
Their disappointment settles over my shoulders like a familiar coat. Twenty-eight years of being too much, too scattered, too different. The daughter who couldn't sit through mass without fidgeting, couldn't pay attention in school without doodling, couldn't be the quiet, respectful girl like Ate Kaela.
I'm trying. I'm always trying.
"Where is Asher tonight anyway?" Dad's voice cuts through the chatter. When Marco Reyes speaks, the room falls quiet. "Doesn't seem very committed to be missing your birthday."
Heat floods my cheeks. He's committed. He's so committed he's risking his life right now on some elimination job he couldn't reschedule. But I can't say that.
"He had to work late. Important client."
"On a Sunday?" Kuya Migs raises an eyebrow from across the room, his doctor instincts picking up on my stress levels.
"Some jobs don't follow normal schedules," I manage, my voice smaller than I intended.
"Real jobs do," Tita Malou sniffs. "Professional jobs have professional hours."
Unlike your fake job serving coffee to college kids,the unspoken judgment hangs in the air. Another way I've disappointed them all.
My chest tightens until breathing becomes work. Every beat of my heart echoes in my ears like artillery fire. The familiar anxiety spike hits—pulse racing, palms sweating, that crushing sensation of being trapped in my own skin.
Gabe catches my eye from across the table and pulls out his phone, typing rapidly. A second later, my phone buzzes.
Want me to fake an emergency?
I almost smile despite everything. But before I can respond, salvation arrives.
The deep, aggressive rumble of a Ducati Panigale V4R cuts through the suburban quiet like a knife through silk.
My heart stops. Actually stops for three seconds before slamming back to life so hard I taste copper. That specific engine note—I'd recognize it anywhere.
