This Crazy Rich Boy

"Mom, what are you doing here?" Gabriel stammers.

"I should be asking you boys that same question," Matilde says. "What are YOU doing here? And why is Miguel in this hospital room? Oh, wait, I know, because I watched your tearjerker of a confession on the TV."

"Then why are you still asking those questions? It's not like my own love life is your business."

Matilde scoffs; she glances at Claire, who looks like some deer in headlights. "It becomes my business when I see you have chosen poorly. What happened with Michelle? Why did you leave that poor girl?"

"Didn't you get the memo, Mom?" Miguel buŧŧs in, sitting up on the bed. "It was Michelle who left him. She cheated on him."

Matilde rolls her eyes. "That's rich coming from the boy who left Michelle ten years ago."

"That's not the whole story," Miguel says, his voice quaking. "You should get your facts straight."

"In any case," Matilde says, as she begins walking around the room, looking around, throwing dagger looks at Claire. "You should get back with Michelle. She's the only one I like for you. She will be a good match."

Gabriel laughs derisively. "Oh, no. Not in my life. I'm done with her."

"What are you talking about?" Matilde points a finger at Claire. "Is this woman so much better than Michelle? How can that be? You only hired her!"

"That 'woman' has a name. She's Claire. And I don't approve of you disrespecting my fiancée like that, right in front of me."

It's Matilde's turn to laugh this time. "Oh, my son. My son. Why have you forsaken reason? Are you really that naïve? What fiancée? What true love? Have you forgotten that we've thrived, succeeded even, because every single thing in the big world out there is for sale? All of it. You've only bought her so-called 'love.' I wasn't born yesterday. Don't you dare try to convince me this union is innocent."

Gabriel says nothing, but it's obvious he's gritting his teeth by the way his lips are clenched tightly.

"Excuse me," Miguel sheepishly says. "But Mom, but really, what are you doing here?"

Matilde glares at her younger son as though a ċȯċkroach had crawled out of his lips. "Do I need to spell it out for you, Miguel? I'm here because I think both of you have gone nuts. I don't see the point. I don't get what you're seeing in this woman—"

"Jesus, Mom!" Gabriel says, exasperated. "You talk as if Claire isn't here. She's here. She hears you. Will you stop this right now?"

"No," Matilde says. "I'm here to put an end to all your drama. Since when did you start doing press conferences about your personal life, Gabriel? What's your precedent for that? Did you ever see me go all emotionally nȧkėd in front of the entire world? We never do that. Never. We keep our cards close to our ċhėsts. We keep our enemies guessing. And the fact that you actually did that most execrable thing—that confession on national TV—it means you two boys have lost your minds. It also proves I can't really leave you two completely to your own devices."

Gabriel looks at Claire with that pained face, as though wordlessly trying to apologize for his mother's behavior.

Claire gets it. This is the most that Gabriel could do, unless he risks getting the full wrath of his mom, who seems hell-bent on putting Claire what Matilde thinks is Claire's rightful place: in the dumpster.

"I'm sorry," Claire finally says, her voice shaking, stifling her tears. "But please excuse me. I'm sorry." Then she half-runs out of the room, leaving the family to their own squabble. She hears Gabriel's voice as he tries to stop her from leaving, but his mom says something loudly, edged with anger. Claire looks tentatively behind her to see the room's door stays closed. No Gabriel has come out to stop her.

Only after "escaping" from the room does Claire finally lets her tears go. There's a huge lump in her throat and her heart seems to want to explode. A lot of words were exchanged in that room, words she couldn't even stomach. Matilde spoke about her as though she was a tiny insect, like lint, a mote of dust. Matilde doesn't see her as a decent person, but as some gold-digger out to vacuum the family's coffers with her charm. It feels so wrong on so many levels, and her entire being is shaken to the core.

She's walking the corridors of the hospital, unmindful of the curious stares of people passing by, like some child crying her eyes out. She couldn't help it. Matilde lashing out at her like that was completely, absolutely unexpected. She even had high hopes that Gabriel's mother would somehow like her. That she would understand, knowing how she'd come from rags to riches. As Gabriel told her, Matilde was the family's "Iron Lady" mainly because of her uncanny business acumen, discipline and determination that helped her transform her little retail business into one of the world's leading holdings companies. She would have understood. But how mistaken Claire had been—clearly, Gabriel's mother sees things differently. And it was such a brutal dressing down that for a moment, even Claire doubted her own motivations—was she really just "hired" to love Gabriel? Are her feelings true or just motivated by money? Can she really look Matilde in the eye and tell her she's completely mistaken?

Dean, her ȧssigned chauffeur, sees her emerge from the lobby doors of the hospital and immediately he opens the backseat passenger door for her. She looks confused for a moment, then she says, "I think I'm just taking a walk, Dean. Perhaps you should wait for Gabriel."

Dean looks at her. She's obviously not okay. "Is there anything wrong? You're crying."

"Oh, this? I just got something in my eye." Claire fake-laughs. "I'm going ahead, Dean. Thank you."

After what Matilde said in that room, suddenly, all these things that Gabriel had been providing for her—the car, the penthouse suite, all the privileges she probably doesn't deserve—feel like aggravations. That's why she refused to get in Dean's car. It's like her entire being has been dunked in icy cold water. She needs to clear her head. She needs to think straight. And like always, her resort is to take a really, really long walk. So long, in fact, that she intends to reach The Residence entirely by walking alone.

Many confusing feelings trample the landscape of her heart, as she treads the sidewalks of this vast city. Michelle Alcantara's insults she could take—she's used to bullies like her. But Matilde Tan, the mother of the man you have grown to love so deeply, questioning your loyalty and intentions and your love—that's an altogether different level of aggravation. Every word that came out of Matilde's lips felt like a knife stab in her heart. She wanted to speak up, to deny her accusations, but she was not prepared for the onslaught—in the end, she clammed up, unable to defend herself. Even Gabriel, who's supposed to defend her, only did so from a losing perspective. Because, after all, how can anyone defend her situation? Because in the end, Matilde was right—less than a month ago, she had gone to the TXCI building for a job interview. She was "hired." She signed a contract. It was all for show, that engagement thing. And she did try to remind Gabriel, as the days wore on, about her "salary" when the thirty days are up. She was just trying to survive, treating Gabriel's employment as one of those quirky stories she'd tell her grandchildren someday. She stopped herself from having any real feelings for him at the start, because she knew she would be on the losing end—why would a man like Gabriel, with all his stature, take a girl like her seriously?

But then something happened. A little spark, that turned into a smoldering fire. Gabriel turned out to be just another man, after all. And despite all the myths that surrounded him, all the crazy stories about his antics, Gabriel turned out to be a deeply lovable human being. And for that matter, can anyone blame her for returning his love and affection, even if it all happened in a matter of weeks?

And old-timer like Matilde would easily dismiss the love she has for Gabriel—Matilde would say real love takes time to develop, and relationships founded on the wrong things are completely misguided and would easily crumble at the slightest challenge. And Matilde would be right, except Claire doesn't feel it at all. The heart wants what it wants. The heart has no set timeline. It falls in love in a hundred years or in a few minutes or in a few weeks. She fell in love with Gabriel a few weeks into their "red contract," the moment he bȧrėd his soul to her. Her love is young—but is it untrue? Was Matilde right in dismissing her as simply being "in it for the money"?

Oh, how her heart aches. She has been so deep in her reverie as she walks that she didn't immediately notice that she's already standing in the empty foyer of The Residence. Dale sees her from the inside, and he immediately runs to open the doors for her, even though it is completely unnecessary.

"Oh, my God, Miss Claire, did something happen?" Dale's eyes bulge as he stares at her.

"I'm fine, Dale," she says, not feeling fine at all. "I just feel a bit unwell."

"You're not fine, Miss Claire. I know that face. I know those eyes. And when a woman's mascara is completely smudged by her tears, then something's very wrong indeed."

Claire blinks at what Dale said. Then something happens inside her—a dam caving in. She winces in pain, then throws her arms around Dale, who is so shocked by the gesture, but hugs her back just the same.

Claire sobs in Dale's shoulders. "I'm really sorry. I only meant well."

"What do you mean?" Dale says, utterly confused. Then a streak of realization flashes in his face. "Oh, my God! Did Sir Miguel die???"

Claire only cries even more. "No, it's not like that. But…But…" Then she sobs again.

Dale is stumped; his limited experience with women is no help at a time like this. Yet, he lets Claire pour out her emotion. Let her cry. When the tears run dry, he will still be there. Until Gabriel arrives.