Chapter 15: Reckoning and Revolution

The headlines shattered the morning silence like glass.

"FASHION WORLD IN MOURNING: ARNULFO RIVERA, STYLE EMPIRE GIANT, DIES AT 71."

A heart attack, some papers claimed. A silent stroke, others whispered behind trembling hands and camera lenses.

"It happened in his sleep," murmured the Rivera family's longtime driver as he lit a candle at the gate.

"No," said a junior associate at the firm, voice low over the phone. "He collapsed in the courtroom. Right in front of the judge."

But only one truth cut through the sea of speculation—Arnulfo Rivera was gone.

The titan who once threaded needles under dim light in a cramped Binondo tailor shop…

The man whose vision transformed silhouettes, fabrics, and futures…

The name etched in global fashion circuits—from Manila's couture runways to the glittering lights of Paris and Milan… Was no more.

The world paused. Then wept.

Messages cascaded like a monsoon of mourning.

Designers from Tokyo. Stylists from New York. Pop icons. Royals. #RiveraLegacy topped the trends.

Instagram stories turned black and white. Editorial covers swapped glamour for grief.

In Rivera Atelier's design studio, silence reigned. The hum of sewing machines had ceased. Someone sobbed quietly behind a rack of evening gowns.

Meanwhile, in the sleek, glass-walled Rivera penthouse overlooking Makati's skyline, the atmosphere was colder than steel.

"He left no final statement?" asked Elisa Rivera, his eldest daughter, her voice sharp despite the tremor. She stood by the fireplace, arms crossed, dressed in a black pantsuit that felt more like armor than mourning.

"Not even a letter?" echoed Matteo, Arnulfo's estranged son from his first marriage, leaning against the marble kitchen counter. His tone was laced with disbelief—and something darker.

Across the room, Liam Rivera, the youngest and most enigmatic of the siblings, scrolled through his phone. His face was unreadable.

"I checked the vault. Nothing but old sketches and vintage watches," he said without looking up. "The will's with Atty. De Guia. She's flying in tomorrow."

Elisa scoffed. "Of course. That woman always hovered too close to Papa. Like a shadow."

"She was his legal counsel," Liam replied, calm but firm.

"She was more than that, and we all know it," Matteo said. He walked over to the minibar and poured himself a drink, even though it was barely 10 a.m.

The tension slithered through the penthouse like smoke.

Old wounds reopened. Alliances whispered behind closed doors. Eyes that once looked at each other with kinship now flickered with suspicion.

"He built an empire," Elisa said quietly, her eyes fixed on the skyline. "But he left us a battlefield."

Outside, the world remembered a legend.

Inside, a war was beginning.

And the Rivera dynasty? It was about to unravel—thread by thread.

Rivera Penthouse, 10:32 a.m.

The coffee on the mahogany table had gone cold.

No one touched it.

The Rivera siblings were gathered in the living room—each seated like adversaries at a peace talk rather than grieving children.

The city skyline sprawled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, indifferent to the storm brewing inside.

"Do we even know how much is at stake here?" Matteo broke the silence, swirling his whiskey as if it held answers. "The shares. The Paris studio. The overseas accounts. We need numbers."

"This isn't the time," Elisa snapped. "Papa hasn't even been buried yet."

"Don't give me that, Elie," Matteo retorted, eyes narrowing. "You called a board meeting for Friday. Don't pretend you're just mourning."

Liam sat on the leather couch, flipping through an old Rivera catalogue—the one from the Milan debut collection in 1997. He spoke without looking up.

"Papa once told me legacy isn't about money. It's about what survives you."

"And what survives him," Matteo said dryly, "is a multi-billion empire without a named successor."

"That's not entirely true," Elisa said slowly.

The air shifted.

Liam looked up. Matteo stood straighter. Even the staff paused at the threshold of the hallway.

"What do you mean?" Matteo demanded.

Elisa walked over to a side drawer near the gallery wall. From it, she took a weathered envelope.

She placed it gently on the coffee table.

"This came two weeks ago. Papa handed it to me personally."

Matteo's brows furrowed. "And you didn't think to mention it?"

"Because it wasn't addressed to you." Elisa emphasized, pushing it closer to Liam. "It's addressed to him."

Liam stared at the envelope. His name was scrawled in his father's looping cursive, aged and unmistakable.

"Open it," Elisa urged. "Unless you're afraid."

Liam hesitated, then slowly peeled it open.

Inside was a single, folded sheet.

He read silently, the color draining from his face.

"What does it say?" Matteo asked, stepping closer.

Liam didn't answer immediately. His lips parted slightly. Then, in a voice both quiet and stunned, he read aloud:

To my son Liam,

I have made decisions that may surprise you. This world you inherit is one you did not ask for, yet are bound to. Protect the brand, protect your name. Trust only what is written—and not what is spoken. Wait for Ma. Rosario. She holds the key.

Papa

The silence was deafening.

"What the hell does that mean?" Matteo hissed. "What key?"

Elisa sat back, her fingers tapping on the armrest in controlled agitation.

"He's leaving it to you?" Matteo spat, pointing at Liam. "You're a damn model, Liam. You think you can run a fashion empire just because Papa liked you best?"

"Stop it!" Elisa barked. "We don't know the full picture yet."

But Matteo was already pacing. "Unbelievable. He was grooming you behind our backs? For what—some Cinderella fantasy?!"

Liam folded the letter quietly and returned it to the envelope.

"I didn't ask for any of this," he said, voice calm but resolute. "But I'm not walking away either."

The doorbell rang.

Three chimes.

Distinct. Formal.

The room froze.

The head housekeeper peeked in. "Sir… Ma'am… Attorney De Guia is here."

Footsteps echoed against marble.

And then, she entered.

Ma. Rosario De Guia. All heels and precision. Black tailored dress. A single strand of pearls. Sharp eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses. A presence that could silence even the most arrogant boardroom.

She removed her gloves slowly and surveyed the Rivera heirs.

"Good morning," she said with measured grace. "I trust you've all received the news. And I imagine you're eager to hear what comes next."

She set a leather case on the coffee table and clicked it open with a deliberate motion.

"Per Mr. Rivera's last instructions, we shall now read his final will and testament."

The ticking of the antique wall clock echoed in the tension-filled room.

Atty. Ma. Rosario De Guia opened the black leather case and drew out a thick, sealed envelope.

"This," she said, holding it carefully, "is the notarized and witnessed Last Will and Testament of Mr. Arnulfo A. Rivera, executed on March 3rd, 2024. Per his written instructions and the authentication of this document by the courts, I am authorized to read it aloud in the presence of the named heirs."

She glanced at each of them—Elisa, Matteo and Liam—her gaze lingering for a second longer on Liam.

She broke the seal.

"Let the record reflect that present today are the legitimate children of the deceased, and that no contesting party has, as of this date, filed an opposition to the will."

A moment of thick silence.

Then she began.

"I, Arnulfo Alejandro Rivera, being of sound mind and body, and fully aware of the gravity of this document, hereby declare this to be my final will and testament."

"To my daughter, Elisa M. Rivera, I bequeath 30% of the total valuation of Rivera Atelier, inclusive of physical assets, rights, and shares, for her service, loyalty, and leadership as Creative Director over the past twelve years."

"To my son, Matteo J. Rivera, I leave 25% of the same valuation. This includes his shares in the Italian and Hong Kong offices of Rivera Atelier, contingent on the maintenance of brand integrity."

"To my son, Liam A. Rivera, I bequeath 30% of Rivera Atelier, including the management rights to the Manila headquarters, design rights to the Rivera Heritage Collection, and the title of Acting CEO for one fiscal year, subject to board review."

"Let it be clearly stated that Liam A. Rivera is my legitimate son, having been born during the existence of my first marriage but legitimated by operation of law upon the finality of the annulment between myself and Teresa Joaquin on May 16, 2008. His rights under this will shall be protected under the Family Code of the Philippines and applicable civil laws."

"The remaining 15% of my estate, including monetary holdings, vintage archives, and overseas investments, is to be divided equitably between all three of my children in accordance with prevailing inheritance laws, with no prejudice to their legitimated status or order of birth."

"Any contestation of this will, unless based on fraud or duress, shall be regarded as a waiver of inheritance rights as stated herein."

"All personal belongings, letters, and creative notes shall be handed privately to each heir in a manner I have instructed Atty. Ma. Rosario De Guia."

As she finished reading, the quiet was nearly unbearable.

Matteo's mouth twitched. "So that's it?" he said finally. "Papa names the runway prince as Acting CEO, and we're just supposed to... go with it?"

"You still have your shares," Elisa said curtly. "More than enough to keep your Italian villa running."

"And what about you, Elie?" he shot back. "You're fine with this? You worked beside him every damn day for twelve years, and he gives Liam the CEO title?"

Elisa didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked at Liam—who was still processing every word.

"He was preparing you," she said quietly. "We just didn't see it."

Liam finally looked up. His voice was almost a whisper.

"I didn't ask for this. But if Papa believed I should carry the name, I won't dishonor it."

Atty. De Guia closed the will and placed it back into her case.

"Per Mr. Rivera's instructions, the transition period begins immediately. A special board meeting has been called for Friday. All shares and rights will be formally processed in accordance with Republic Act 386, otherwise known as the Civil Code of the Philippines, and relevant provisions of the Family Code. I will supervise the legal and financial proceedings personally."

She stood and glanced at the three siblings.

"You may not agree with every choice he made, but know this—he thought long and hard about what he left behind. Not just wealth. But the Rivera legacy."

Then, with a nod of respect, she turned and walked out of the penthouse, her heels clicking with the finality of a judge's gavel.

The Rivera penthouse, despite its minimalist white-and-marble elegance, had never felt so claustrophobic.

Elisa stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, arms crossed, her reflection etched against the Makati skyline. Below her, the city buzzed as if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.

Behind her, Matteo poured a glass of neat scotch—two fingers full, just enough to burn but not forget.

"He gave him everything," Matteo muttered. "Our name. Our company. And you're all just... swallowing that?"

"You didn't seem this upset when you were off launching that menswear line in Florence with his money," Elisa said, not turning around.

Matteo downed the scotch in one gulp. "At least I didn't get the throne handed to me after two damn years of showing up in ripped jeans and vintage jackets. Acting CEO?" He scoffed. "It's insulting."

The elevator chimed.

Liam stepped in, looking unsure. He was dressed modestly—black slacks, a gray shirt—but something about him had shifted since the will reading. A heavier presence. Or maybe just a heavier burden.

"Matteo," Liam said calmly. "I know you're upset—"

"Don't." Matteo raised a hand. "Don't stand there and pretend this wasn't a setup. You knew, didn't you? That you'd inherit more?"

"I didn't," Liam replied. "I swear I didn't know he'd name me acting CEO."

Elisa turned, finally facing both of them. "Whether you knew or not doesn't matter now. What matters is what you'll do with it."

Liam glanced at her, wary. "Do you... resent it?"

"No," she said, voice level. "But I'll be watching. Closely. You were given the name. It's up to you to prove you deserve it."

Silence again.

Then Matteo leaned on the counter and let out a bitter laugh.

"You two really think this is about the company? He lied to all of us."

Elisa's brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Matteo pulled a small flash drive from his jacket pocket. He tossed it on the table with a dramatic flick.

"He's been hiding something. This came from his safe in Milan. One of the assistants forwarded it to me after his death. You'll want to watch it."

Liam's fingers hovered over the drive.

"Go ahead," Matteo said. "Find out who Papa really was when no one was looking."

Later that evening at Elisa's suite

The screen glowed against the dim light.

A video file opened. Arnulfo appeared, older, frailer, but composed. He sat behind his Paris studio desk, a sketchbook beside him.

"If you're watching this, then I'm dead," he began. "And you're angry. Probably divided. But I need you to understand the truth."

He paused, then looked straight at the camera.

"Liam was not a mistake. Nor was he a secret. Your mother—Teresa—and I, we were already falling apart when he was born. But I didn't hide him out of shame. I did it because the industry... our world... isn't kind to things that don't fit their timeline of perfection."

Elisa exhaled sharply.

Arnulfo continued:

"There is also another thing. A project—an account—registered under Rivera Creative Holdings. You won't find it in our official books. It holds my last collaboration: a digital fashion archive, AI-driven, wearable tech—something far beyond what any of you have seen. I wanted to leave it for Liam... and for you to build it together. As equals."

The screen faded to black.

Back in the penthouse, tension thickened like blood.

Elisa stared at Liam. "He hid a project from us?"

Matteo paced. "And gave you the key? This isn't just a power grab—it's a provocation."

Liam, stunned, looked between them. "Then let's go through it. Together."

Elisa hesitated. "If you're serious... we start by finding out exactly what this Rivera Creative Holdings is holding."

Matteo scoffed but didn't protest.

They didn't notice it, but something had changed—an uneasy alliance, born not of trust, but necessity.

Because somewhere in that digital vault, under layers of sketches, secrets, and suppressed legacies, lay the truth about the man they all loved and the empire they all stood to lose.

Thursday morning. The Rivera Building, Makati.

Outside, reporters swarmed like bees around spilled champagne. Camera flashes lit up the glass façade, microphones stretched toward anyone in designer suits walking through the entrance.

"Is it true the illegitimate son is now running the empire?"

"Is this a scandal or a succession?"

"Will the board oust Liam Rivera?"

Security held back the chaos. Inside, tension pulsed like a fashion show gone wrong.

At the Rivera boardroom, the atmosphere was just as volatile.

"He's too young."

"He's too inexperienced."

"He's not even fully legitimate!"

These were just a few of the statements slung like daggers across the polished table.

Chairwoman Beatrice Sanglay, Arnulfo's oldest confidante and investor since the 1990s, cleared her throat.

"He was designated Officer-in-Charge months ago—with full board consent."

"Yes, but that was under Arnulfo's shadow," barked Mr. Caluya, an old shareholder. "Now that the founder is dead, the board must reassess."

Elisa entered silently. Liam trailed behind, looking steady despite the whispers.

"Let's make one thing clear," Elisa began, her voice as smooth and sharp as silk shears. "Liam didn't seize power. Father entrusted him the role after months of training—he sat in every board meeting, made every financial report, pitched every quarterly campaign."

"Aren't you concerned this affects our valuation?" another investor interjected. "The press calls him a 'secret heir.' That's not good branding."

"You mean it's not good for your stocks," Matteo said, suddenly appearing at the doorway, arms crossed. "Let's not pretend this is about legacy. This is about money. The company's stable. Sales are up. You just don't like how the story sounds."

"That story matters," Caluya insisted. "Perception drives luxury. And no one buys from a brand shrouded in scandal."

Liam finally spoke.

"Then let's change the narrative," he said. "Not with PR. With vision. Show them we're not a broken family fighting over threads—we're evolving. Like fashion should."

Beatrice nodded slowly. "You'll still need a vote of confidence tomorrow. Officially. You'll need to show something no one expects."

That night. The Rivera Archives, Basement Level 4.

Dim lights flickered as Liam, Elisa and Matteo descended the private elevator. With them was Atty. Ma. Rosario de Guia, Arnulfo's longtime lawyer, dressed in a deep navy pantsuit, expression unreadable.

She held a biometric key—a slim silver card only Arnulfo could authorize.

"Rivera Creative Holdings wasn't on any official record," Elisa said. "Why hide it?"

"Because it wasn't just a business," Atty. de Guia replied. "It was Arnulfo's secret R&D arm—design labs, AI projects, data-driven couture concepts. It was his attempt to outlive himself."

They reached the vault door. De Guia placed the card into the scanner, followed by Liam's thumbprint.

With a mechanical sigh, the doors slid open.

Inside was a sleek space—part archive, part laboratory. Holograms flickered on startup. Digital mannequins rotated in midair. A large monitor displayed one phrase:

R•EVOLUTION – Rivera Eternal Vision

Files auto-loaded. A virtual assistant—designed in Arnulfo's voice—began:

"Welcome. If you are accessing this, then the company's future is no longer in my hands. Rivera Creative Holdings was my last stitch—an AI-enhanced fashion line, adaptable garments, dynamic fabric simulations, and a virtual design studio accessible to global talent. I designed this for Liam to lead—but only if his siblings would build it with him."

The siblings stood frozen.

"He wanted us to work together," Liam said softly.

Matteo laughed under his breath. "And still left you the keys."

"No," de Guia interrupted. "He left me the final access. And I only unlock it if all three of you sign a memorandum of cooperation. No legal war. No corporate sabotage."

She looked at them all.

"Do you want to inherit a legacy—or destroy it for pride?"

The silence lingered like the scent of an unopened atelier.

Then Elisa stepped forward.

"I'll sign," she said. "But only if Matteo does too."

Matteo paused… then gave a slow nod.

"I'll sign. For now."

Liam looked at the two of them—his blood, his rivals, his hope—and for the first time since Arnulfo's death, he allowed himself to believe.

Maybe they could carry the Rivera empire forward.

But tomorrow was Friday—and in the boardroom, no one wore loyalty on their sleeve.