The grand ballroom of Don Rivera’s estate shimmered under the glow of crystal chandeliers. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and fine wine, the murmurs of the elite blending seamlessly with the soft strings of a quartet. Miguel—no, Santiago de Varga—stood poised, his transformation complete. He was no longer the desperate prisoner who had fought and bled in the rebellion. He was a man of power now, a shadow of vengeance lurking behind a polished facade.

His eyes scanned the crowd with quiet intensity. He saw Isabela, dressed in an elegant crimson gown, her beauty as breathtaking as he remembered. But something in her expression had changed—there was a distance in her gaze, a solemnity that had not been there before.

Then there was Capitán Morales, laughing heartily among Spanish officials, his posture exuding arrogance. The mere sight of him made Santiago’s blood boil. And finally, Rafael, his supposed friend, now clad in wealth and privilege, the glint of betrayal still fresh in Miguel’s mind.

Santiago took a slow breath, steadying himself. Tonight was not the night for bloodshed. No, his revenge would not be swift—it would be meticulous, a slow unraveling of their lives, just as they had unraveled his.

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

Don Rivera: (smiling) "Ah, Señor de Varga! What an honor to have you in my home. Your reputation precedes you. A self-made man of influence and mystery—such men are rare."

Santiago: (inclining his head) "The honor is mine, Don Rivera. I have heard much of your hospitality."

Don Rivera chuckled and gestured toward the crowd.

Don Rivera: "Come, allow me to introduce you to some of our esteemed guests."

As Santiago moved through the gathering, he caught Isabela’s eyes. A flicker of recognition crossed her face, but she quickly masked it with indifference.

Isabela: (curtly) "Señor de Varga, you are new to Manila’s circles. What brings you to our city?"

Santiago offered a knowing smile, raising his glass slightly.

Santiago: "Business, of course. Manila is ripe with opportunity for those who know where to look. And you, Señora? You seem… changed."

She hesitated, her lips pressing together.

Isabela: (coolly) "We all change, Señor. The years have a way of reshaping us."

Their exchange was brief, yet laden with unspoken words. Before he could press further, a familiar, loathsome voice cut through the crowd.

Rafael: "Ah, another merchant eager to make his fortune. Tell me, Señor de Varga, do you have the stomach for Manila’s treacherous waters?"

Santiago turned slowly, meeting Rafael’s gaze. The man who had once been his closest friend now looked at him with the arrogance of nobility.

Santiago: (smoothly) "Only fools dive into the sea without knowing its depths, Señor. I prefer to study the currents before I swim."

Rafael smirked, raising his goblet.

Rafael: "Then may the currents be ever in your favor."

As the night wore on, Santiago played his role to perfection. He laughed, charmed, and maneuvered through the crowd, each interaction another thread in the web he was spinning. He was no longer Miguel, the fisherman’s son, the prisoner, the rebel. He was Santiago de Varga—wealthy, enigmatic, and dangerous.

But beneath the mask, his heart burned with one thought:

They will pay. All of them.