Episode 18: The Four Horsemen Ride Again

MANILA POLO CLUB

Polo Playing Field

The Manila Polo Club thrummed with champagne nerves and sun-drenched whispers. Beneath cream canopies and clinking flutes, society's golden specters reclined in their finest linens, pretending not to care, while caring deeply.

Then, like thunder cracking across silk, the hooves charged.

RPV2 Holdings had entered the field.

Not just riders.

Not just men.

Legends.

Four mounted titans: Marisse Rickarte, Andrew Pelquiejo, Voltaire Viaqueza, and Vincent Viaqueza. The infamous Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse of Philippine polo, galloped into formation like a battalion summoned straight from myth. Their jerseys bore no names, just a stitched sigil of the RPV2 crest.

Silent. Sovereign. Devastating.

From their seat, Vanessa froze mid-sip, her glass trembling ever so slightly as she tried to focus on the game and not on the amazing display of Vincent Viaqueza’s prowess on the field.

She had seen Vincent in many forms. Smirking strategist, wolfish host, reluctant charmer. But this version?

This was his warrior side.

His mallet was an extension of his will, arcing through the air with elegant ferocity. Vincent didn’t play polo, he commanded it. Opponents scattered like leaves before a typhoon. Every pass he made carved through the Alfaro defense like scripture on stone, brutal and breathtaking.

Lucien, by comparison, looked almost ornamental.

In the second chukker, the air turned electric.

The ball shot out like a cannon shell near the midfield. Vincent chased, flanked by two Alfaro riders determined to cut him off. He surged ahead, muscles taut with purpose, the thrum of his steed nearly deafening. Then, without slowing, he stood in the saddle for a second that felt like eternity.

One clean, impossible hit.

CRACK.

The ball flew, arching like fate across the full breadth of the field, before landing in perfect alignment with Voltaire, who scored in a single, effortless tap.

The crowd exploded.

The ladies swooned.

Even the announcer lost composure.

Caleta clutched Vanessa’s arm. “Did you see that?!”

Vanessa blinked, stunned. “He stood in the saddle. Who does that?”

“Madmen,” Rose muttered, amused, from her seat beside them. “And men who know they’re adored.”

Vincent trotted by their section with a modest nod to the box, but his eyes found Vanessa. Just briefly. Just long enough to brand her lungs with fire.

Then came Lucien.

On the third chukker, the tension boiled over.

Lucien rode fast, desperate now, the game slipping from his hands like sand. He veered too close, eyes locked not on the ball, but on Vincent. A rider’s no-go move. Dirty. Ugly.

He reached out, not to play, but to shove.

But Vincent didn’t falter.

He twisted with a rider’s grace forged in blood and war, swerving with millimeter precision, the reins taut in his hands, control absolute.

Lucien missed.

The force of his failed maneuver nearly threw himself off balance.

Vincent spun back, steadied, and gave no words…only a long, silent stare that could freeze bone marrow.

The umpire blew the whistle. The crowd murmured. But no foul was called.

And Vanessa?

She watched it all, heart pounding against the bones of her ribs like a trapped dove. Every woman on that terrace was fanning herself now, breathless from the heat, and the man who refused to be knocked down.

“Gentleman and gladiator,” Caleta said in reverence. “No wonder all the single ladies are after him.”

“Not all the single ladies,” Vanessa lied with terrifying grace.

The chukker ended, and the men dismounted.

Andrew and Marisse approached first, their horses breathing ruggedly with tenacity and power. In front of their seat, Andrew grinned wide and childlike, placing a palm against Caleta’s waist and whispering a crude joke, so crude she actually giggled. The Steel Lady, giggling like a schoolgirl.

Marisse, radiant in his cream riding shirt, tilted his head toward Rose and pressed a kiss too close to her neck to be platonic, while murmuring something that made Rose flush and swat him away playfully.

To an outsider, it was charming. Carefree.

But Vanessa?

Vanessa saw.

These weren’t public gestures.

They were claiming.

Subtle, symbolic love marks of people who were so deeply bound to each other that even their indulgences were strategic. Ruthless affection, as fierce as any battlefield vow.

Vanessa felt something rise in her chest, something warm and aching.

She was about to sigh, about to let herself feel, when a too-familiar, too-loud voice pierced the spell.

“Eeeeeeeewwwwww!”

Vincent.

Sweaty, sun-kissed, shirt halfway unbuttoned and laughing like a delinquent child as he approached with Emmanuel, both grinning like devils.

Before Vanessa could hide it, her eyes followed the lazy drip of sweat traveling down Vincent’s jaw, past his throat, onto that infuriating tattoo on his chest, a mark she’d traced once with her eyes and hated herself for remembering.

“You’re drooling, dear,” Rose whispered with a smirk.

Vanessa sat bolt upright, mouth clamped shut.

God help her.

Then, disaster struck.

Natalia and Nicole had slithered up beside Vincent, glittering in their sundresses like socialite assassins.

“Vincent,” Natalia said sweetly, “is it true you’re dating Vanessa?”

“Because Lucien,” Nicole added, eyes flicking toward Vanessa with faux innocence, “told a little birdie he plans to make their courtship official after this game.”

The words dropped like poisoned honey.

Vincent’s jaw ticked.

His smile dimmed.

And from one breath to the next, a shadow moved through his eyes. Not rage. Not jealousy. Something colder.

Possession.

The kind that didn’t burn, it smoldered.

Natalia glanced at Nicole, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. Stirring the pot was always more fun with champagne.

Vanessa met his gaze. It was piercing, searching. Her spine stiffened.

He looked at her like she was already his…And it was in that moment when Vanessa realized that she couldn’t afford to be anyone’s.

Her expression iced over.

She turned. Walked away. Toward the field. Toward the crowds pressing divots into the grass. Toward anything but him.

Natalia and Nicole blinked…stunned with how Vanessa blatantly snubbed Vincent.

Vincent, dumbfounded with the dynamics around him, heaved, “What???”

Nicole whispered, “I did not see that coming.”

Natalia cradled her head in one hand. “What did you do to make her hate you that much?”

“Me?!” Vincent cried, utterly bewildered. “I was on the field since yesterday!”

The two socialites exchanged a look.

Natalia said, “That’s your problem then, mister,”

“You’re neglecting your woman,” Nicole finished.

They nodded together, smug as scientists discovering gravity.

“Better pick up your slack, Viaqueza,” Natalia added. “Our money’s on you, and we hate losing.”

Then they flounced after a recognized celebrity, leaving Vincent fuming, sun-drenched, and completely outplayed.

*******

MANILA POLO CLUB

Club Lounge

VANESSA

While the crowd eagerly spilled onto the field to take part in the time-honored ritual of divot stomping with kicking off their shoes, champagne flutes in hand, as they pressed torn chunks of turf back into place; Vanessa slipped away, offering the polite excuse of fetching drinks.

But instead of heading to the open bar, she made her way to the Club’s exclusive lounge, bracing herself for a different kind of game.

She settled at a discreet corner table and ordered a drink, her fingers idly circling the rim of the glass. Her posture was composed, but beneath the surface, tension coiled. The room was low-lit and hushed, more suited to secrets than small talk.

When Franchesca arrived, she brought the storm with her.

Poised. Effortless. Deadly. A glass of wine already in hand, she wore control like perfume, expensive and dangerous.
She didn’t sit immediately.

Instead, she leaned close behind Vanessa’s chair, her breath grazing the shell of her sister’s ear.  “I saw the look Vincent gave you during warm up. If it were any more primal, you’d be carrying his heir by now.”

Vanessa didn’t flinch. “Don’t start.”

Franchesca circled the chair, her heels soft against the marbled floor, until she faced her.

“Start what? Observing? Manipulating? Betraying?”

She slid into the velvet seat across from Vanessa, smirking without warmth.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, little sister?”

Vanessa didn’t blink.

“I know what you’ve been building.”

Franchesca arched an eyebrow. “How intriguing. Do enlighten me.”

“The stolen data. The surveillance shell programs. The silent breaches across government servers. That wasn’t Father. It was you.”

A beat. No denial. Just a cool sip of wine.

“Father’s too crude for something that elegant,” Franchesca said finally. “I needed finesse. Algorithms, not assassins.”

Vanessa’s grip tightened on her glass. “You’re turning this country into a chessboard.”

“It’s always been a chessboard,” Franchesca replied. “I’m just taking the queen’s seat.”

The warmth Vanessa had felt earlier, the fleeting calm in Caleta’s company, curdled into something cold and sharp.
She had walked among the ruthless before, but Franchesca wielded ambition like a scalpel. Precise. Personal.

“You lied to me,” Vanessa said. “You let me think this war was still Father’s.”

Franchesca leaned forward, wine swirling like blood in her glass.

“Father’s empire was built on grudges and grit. But his time is over. The world changed. I adapted.”

“You’re building something behind his back.”

“I’m building something without him,” she snapped, then softened. “And I’d offer you a place in it, but this isn’t a world for soft hearts.”

Vanessa stared her down.

“This isn’t about legacy anymore. You’re not just moving weapons or buying loyalty. You want control over everything. Every citizen. Every file. Every life.”

Franchesca’s smile remained, but her eyes sharpened.

“Why shouldn’t I? Father was feared. I’ll be inevitable.”

Vanessa inhaled sharply. “You’re playing with fire.”

“And you know how I love the heat.”

“You think no one will stop you?” Vanessa’s voice was steel. “Once the truth surfaces, they won’t send lawyers. They’ll send ghosts. Entities you won’t see coming.”

Franchesca’s voice dropped into something dark and deliberate.

“Then I’ll erase them before they start breathing.”

Vanessa leaned in, quiet but deadly.

“Don’t do this, Franchesca. You can’t control everything. No one deserves that much power.”

Franchesca studied her. No rage. No panic. Just a cold, clinical kind of interest.

“Oh, bunso, how naïve you still are. You still believe in fairness,” she said softly, almost with pity. “But this world doesn’t care who’s right. Only who’s left standing.”

She raised her glass.

“This world belongs to those who take it.”

Then, with a final, silken smile, Franchesca stood.

“Stay out of my way, Vanessa. Besides, should you not worry about your own troubles? Does Vincent even know who you really are? Or who you were to his father?”

Vanessa was stunned by her sister’s words. “Franchesca, don’t you even dare---”

“Oh, but I do dare, sister…” Franchesca signature power smirk flashed across her face. “Don’t mess with my play, if you don’t want me to mess with yours.”

Vanessa didn’t flinch as her sister walked away. But inside, something cracked.
She had prepared her whole life to face monsters.
She just never thought one would wear her sister’s face.

*******