CHAPTER ONE
“Bayanni Scott!” Samantha’s voice cuts through the stifling air.
She stands in the doorway, taking in the disaster before her: empty bottles littered across the floor, cigarette butts crushed into the carpet, broken glass glinting under dim lighting. The stench of alcohol, sweat, and stale smoke clings to the walls.
She exhales sharply, pressing the button on the wall. The heavy curtains glide open, flooding the room with morning light and revealing the city skyline beyond.
“Bayanni, I know you can hear me. Get up, we need to talk!”
A groggy figure stirs in the massive bed. Bayanni drags a hand over his face and blinks at her.
“What is it, Mom?” His voice is hoarse, sluggish.
Samantha steps closer, her expression carved with disappointment. “Look around,” she says, sweeping a hand over the wreckage.
“The place reeks of smoke and alcohol. Your so-called friends trashed the house, and there’s vomit in the living room.”
Bayanni leans back against the headboard, unfazed. “Call the housekeeper. She’ll clean it up.”
Samantha’s lips press into a thin line. “She quit,” she says, crossing her arms. “Said you nearly assaulted her while I was away.”
Bayanni scoffs. “She was the one throwing herself at me. You should just hire someone else.”
Samantha sits at the edge of his bed, the weight of years of disappointment settling on her shoulders.
At twenty-eight, this is what he’s become: a man who drinks, gambles, fornicates, and surrounds himself with empty pleasures.
“You refuse to work. You refuse to change,” she says, shaking her head. “Every time I come back, it’s the same; chaos, smoke, alcohol, filth.”
Bayanni exhales, rolling his eyes. “Mom, you’re stressing over nothing. It’s going to shorten your lifespan.”
She shakes her head. “No, Bayanni. I won’t end up like your father. God forbid!”
His jaw tightens, anger flashing in his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I killed him?”
Samantha pushes to her feet, her gaze unwavering.
“I just want you to wake up. You should be running the company, not me. I’m tired, and I’m retiring soon. You need to pull yourself together.”
Without another word, she turns and strides out.
Bayanni watches her go, his chest burning. She knows how much those words cut him, yet she keeps saying them like he’s the reason his father is dead, like it’s his fault.
Maybe even God thinks so too.
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