Ours
Ashlyn
Every chance we get, Marco and I find ourselves tangled in intimacy. But it’s never just about lust. For me, it's hope. A silent but fervent prayer that maybe, with each touch, each whispered name in the dark, we might be blessed with another chance. A child we can call our own.
Every caress from Marco feels like a promise. Every breath he releases against my neck while we lie entangled at night speaks of the love he never fails to show. He's not just a loving husband; he's the backbone of our home. Even with the weight of business meetings and endless responsibilities, he always makes sure we’re never left behind.
Marco is patient and personified. When he’s home, he’s not a man burdened by work, but he’s a father and a caregiver. He bathes our children, hums to them softly when they refuse to sleep, and cooks my favorite sinigang whenever I feel lightheaded. Even when his eyes are heavy from back-to-back meetings, he insists on accompanying me to the hospital for a check-up or even an errand.
“I can’t let you go alone,” he always tells me as he gently takes my bag. “I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. So wherever you go, I’ll be there, no matter where that is.”
I’ve told him countless times that I can manage on my own, but he never relents. It’s not about trust. It’s about fear. Fear that history might repeat itself. Fear is born from the trauma we both carry. Since that day, he’s never been the same. He's always watching, always guarding.
He’s the same with our children. Strict, protective, and sometimes even more intense than the nanny. He refuses to let them out of his sight for too long. And honestly, I can’t blame him.
Today, we’re in his office. And I still don’t understand why he brought me here. He knows I’ve never been fond of visiting his workplace, not even when we were just dating and not even after we got married.
“What am I even doing here, Marco?” I asked as I placed my bag down beside the executive sofa and sat. “The kids are with Rere. I would’ve understood if we were heading to the hospital, but here...?”
He stopped beside his office table and placed the document that Andy handed him before sitting beside me. Without a word, he cupped my cheek, his warm palm lingering. His eyes met mine steady, tender, searching.
“I want them to see you,” he said softly. “Not just as the mother of my children, but as my wife. I want all my employees to know who you are. If ten women stood in front of them with the same face as yours, they'd know immediately... who you are among them. I know my heart will know you, but there are people who might not want that to happen. So, my employees will help me get back to you.”
“Marco…” I whispered. His voice carried a tremble that mirrored something deeper, something unresolved.
“I know I sound paranoid,” he chuckled softly, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “But I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose you again, Sweet. If something happens… and I’m not there… at least someone will recognize you. At least someone will tell me. Remind me... that you’re my world.”
His words silenced me. My heart clenched, not in defiance, but in understanding. Behind his overprotectiveness was a man barely holding himself together, a man who once lost me to an identity switch we never saw coming. This wasn’t just about appearances. It was about protection. About safety. About love.
And despite the worry that still lingers in my heart, I smiled. Because deep down, I knew I wasn’t just Marco’s wife. I was his home. His greatest fear. His greatest love.
So I didn’t argue. I let him have this, even if a small part of me ached at the reminder of everything we’d lost. I allowed it. Because I knew it was his way of healing. His way of fighting for the future we had once watched crumble before our eyes.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe paranoia is slowly eating away at him. He even said so earlier, voice low, eyes dim. But I don’t blame him. How could I insist on logic when the man I love is still bleeding inside?
We’ve both suffered too long. Sleepless nights. Silent tears. A love that might have been condemned by others but felt so real between just the two of us.
“I’m sorry, Sweet,” he whispered from time to time after getting back together. “I don’t know where I belong anymore. But no matter what happens, I’ll always choose you.”
We had separated. We tried to end something we thought was sinful. A relationship we buried in guilt, shame, and the belief that it was forbidden.
And yet… I was his real wife.
I wasn’t a mistress. He wasn’t my brother-in-law. Every tear, every sleepless night, every moment I hated myself, all of it was built on a lie.
The worst part? I gave up on us… even after discovering the truth.
I let go because I was scared. I was scared I’d never make him happy. I was scared I couldn’t give him a child. Scared that in the end… he’d walk away.
I lost hope in myself, in my right to fight, to love, to stay.
But now, here I am. Sitting beside him. Wrapped in his arms that burn with warmth and conviction.
“I love you,” he murmured, his hand gently stroking my back. “No matter how many times you doubt yourself… no matter how many times you run… I’ll always choose you.”
And at that moment, I felt it again, his love.
“I love you, too, Marco. And I will be happy to come with you here in your company.”
“Our company, Sweet. This is mine, yours, Asher’s and Maya’s. This is our family business.”