Alex Trese Maliksi and the Manananggal

‎Alex's POV

‎I didn't expect the house to look like this.

‎I mean, of course I knew it would be big. My mum works for Mark Windsor, the richest CEO in Australia. A man whose name appears in business news the way rain appears in weather forecasts constantly and without apology. But knowing something and seeing it are two very different things.

‎The black iron gates slid open soundlessly as the car rolled forward, revealing an estate so immaculate it looked unreal. Trimmed hedges. A driveway wide enough to land a helicopter. A house that wasn't a house so much as a quiet statement of power.

‎I swallowed.

‎"Stop staring, Alex," Mum said lightly from the driver's seat. "You'll make yourself nervous."

‎"I'm not nervous," I lied.

‎She smiled, the kind of smile that meant she knew better but loved me anyway.

‎This wasn't my first time here but it was the first time I was coming without a suitcase, without the excuse of a short visit. Graduation was over. Job applications were unanswered. And Mum had insisted I come stay with her for a while.

‎"Just until you find your footing, she'd said".

‎Which was Mum-code for: I'm worried about you, and I miss you.

‎The car stopped near the side entrance. The one staff used. Mum parked neatly, as always, and turned off the engine.

‎"Remember," she said, turning to face me. "You're my son, not his employee. Be polite. Be yourself. And don't argue."

‎"I don't argue," I said.

‎She raised an eyebrow.

‎"I debate passionately."

‎She laughed, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "Come on."

‎Inside, the house smelled like lemon polish and something warm, her cooking, probably. The floors gleamed. Everything echoed faintly, like the walls themselves were listening.

‎Cleaners moved quietly through the space, nodding respectfully to Mum as we passed. She greeted them by name. They smiled at her the way people smile at someone who belongs.

‎That was the first thing that made my chest tighten.

‎My mum fit here.

‎We reached the kitchen, her kitchen and there it was again. The comfort. The rhythm. The way she moved like this space was an extension of her body. Pots already simmering. Ingredients prepped. Apron hanging where she always left it.

‎"You can put your bag in your room later," she said. "I need to finish lunch."

‎"Need help?" I asked automatically.

‎She paused, then smiled. "Always."

‎I tied an apron around my waist, muscle memory kicking in. Chopping. Stirring. Tasting. The silence between us was easy.

‎Until it wasn't.

‎"You're early," a voice said from behind me.

‎Low. Calm. Controlled.

‎I froze.

‎Not because I was scared but because something in that voice settled straight into my spine.

‎I turned slowly.

‎Mark Windsor stood at the kitchen entrance, sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled to his forearms, dark hair perfectly in place, posture relaxed in a way that didn't ask permission.

‎He was taller than I expected. Broader. Not flashy handsome but commanding. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice because the world leaned in when he spoke.

‎"Mum," I said quietly, because my brain had short-circuited.

‎She beamed. "Mark, this is my son. Alex."

‎His gaze shifted to me.

‎And stayed there.

‎Not rudely. Not obviously. Just long enough for my pulse to trip over itself.

‎"So," he said. "You're the famous Alex."

‎"Only in my own head," I replied before thinking.

‎Mum gasped softly. "Alex."

‎But he didn't look offended.