Hazel and I have been best friends since college in Manila. We were both from Pampanga, both poor, and ate instant noodles together in a damp rented room in Sampaloc for four years. After graduating, we went our separate ways but still kept in touch. Until one day, Hazel texted me asking to borrow 200 million to repair her parents’ house in the province.

She cried and said: “I’m in a tight spot, the roof is leaking, my father is sick, my mother sells vegetables in palengke…”. I gathered all my savings, and even borrowed money from acquaintances to give her enough. Hazel promised to pay it back within a year.

But then Hazel disappeared. No messages, no calls. She also deleted her Facebook. I was partly hurt, and ten times sad. Many times I wanted to report to the police but I thought “he’s a friend, there’s no way…” so I gave up.

Exactly three years later, on my wedding day at a restaurant in Quezon City, while I was entertaining guests, a luxury car stopped in front of the gate. Stepping down was a girl in a designer dress, wearing black glasses, high heels, and a strong scent of perfume: Hazel.

The whole family looked at each other in surprise. Hazel smiled as if nothing had happened, shoved a thick envelope into my hand, and calmly said:

“Congratulations, today is the best day of your life.”

I opened the envelope with trembling hands under the curious eyes of my husband and friends. Inside was only… a folded A4 paper. There was not a single note of money.

I thought it was an apology letter, or an explanation. But no. It was a bank statement with a transfer of exactly 200 million into my account… this morning. Below was the familiar handwriting:

“Pay y

Part 2: The Second Wedding Gift

That night, under the chandeliers of the wedding hall in Quezon City, the sound of spoons and forks lightly clattering on the banquet table, the fragrant smell of lechon… I stood there as if all my blood had been drained. In my hand was still the folded A4 paper with the transfer statement “200,000,000” and the signature: Miguel D. Santos.

“Let me explain.” Miguel pulled my hand, his voice low.

“Explain what? Why did the money to Hazel come from me? And why this morning?” – I looked straight, each word falling coldly.

“I just… wanted to put an end to the old story. I was afraid she would make a fuss and ruin the wedding day.”

“So there is something to make a fuss about?” – I smiled faintly.

My mother-in-law stepped forward, trying to grasp the situation. The titas whispered: “Hala, a scandal at the wedding party!” The MC was about to introduce the money dance but the atmosphere was as frozen as a storm in front of her.

My phone rang. Text from unknown number:

Hazel: “Meet me at the 24/7 near EDSA. Alone.”

I shook off Miguel’s hand, quickly took off my heels, gathered my wedding dress and ran. Outside, Manila was drizzling. The all-night café was still lit. Hazel was sitting in the corner, her designer dress, sunglasses tucked into her hair. She looked at me, not arrogant, not apologetic — just the tired look of someone who had just swum through a storm.

“I don’t need your forgiveness.” Hazel spoke first. “I came here to pay back exactly 200 million and show you who owes whom.”

“Why did Miguel transfer? Not you?”
Hazel put the phone on the table, opened a recording file, and Miguel’s deep male voice rang out:

“I just transferred. Don’t ruin my day. Don’t contact her again for the rest of your life.”

The sound mixed with hurried breathing.

“Is that enough? Take it and disappear.”

“I wrote it this morning, in the hotel’s underground parking lot.” Hazel looked straight at him. “Two years ago, I met him before you. He promised to invest in my online business, and made me cut off contact with you because ‘friends dragged each other down’. I was stupid, I believed him. When the pandemic came, my father got sick, the roof leaked, I was so desperate that I borrowed from you. Then I was chased by creditors, I ran away to work on a cruise ship as a cook. I sent messages asking to pay them back gradually, but he blocked them all. He said: ‘Just disappear and clean up, I’ll take care of you.’”

I clenched my coffee cup. “And what about you deleting your Facebook and disappearing?”

“I disappeared so he could move on to you. He said you were a ‘better person’, more deserving. As for me — disappeared. This morning I texted: ‘Give her back 200 million, on the wedding day. That’s the only congratulations I need.’ He transferred it. I brought the statement, that’s all.”

“So what does that paper say, ‘Pay you back with interest. And you… owe me an apology’ mean?”
Hazel curled her lips. “He wants you to believe that I’m the one who borrowed and ran away, and that he’s the hero who paid to put out the fire. But you know—” She pushed another piece of printout. “The source of the 200 million he transferred to your account, was the money that just hit his account 15 minutes ago… from a line of credit in your name. He opened it last month, borrowed your condo registration file, ‘sub-card’ signed electronically. Look at this transaction code.”

My heart dropped to the bottom. Transaction code: AUTO-REVOLVING CREDIT LINE – CARDHOLDER: [My name] – TOP-UP MIGUEL D. SANTOS.

“He’s paying you back, with your own money.” Hazel said each word. “I’m not here to ruin the wedding. I’m here to give you time to get out.”

I leaned back in my chair. Outside, the bus screeched on EDSA, neon lights shimmering with rain. “Thank you.” I said softly. “Because at least you gave me back the truth.”

Hazel stood up, pulling down her sunglasses. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone three years ago. But I’m not the one who owes you an apology.”

I returned to the wedding hall as the money dance was about to start. The MC smiled wryly, and the ninong and ninang stood up to line up and pin money to their ribbons. I walked straight up to the stage and grabbed the microphone.

“I’ll give you a minute.” I looked around the room. “I don’t need money dance today. I need truth dance.”

The room erupted. I held up the statement. “Here’s the first wedding gift: 200 million, transferred this morning, from my husband Miguel’s account, to pay off the debt of my college best friend, Hazel.” The hala were heard.

“And here’s the second wedding gift.” I put the phone on speaker, playing the recording. Miguel’s voice rang out amid the torches and fresh flowers:

“I just transferred. Don’t ruin my day…”

The MC frantically said: “Please calm down!” A tita ran up to grab the microphone, but my ninang held her hand: “Let the girl speak!”

I turned to Miguel: “Do you have anything to say?”
Miguel took a step forward, his face pale: “I just want to end it peacefully. I paid for her so that no one would bother my wife on her wedding day.”
I held up a second printed piece. “So **why was that money deposited into your account from the credit line in my name? When did you open it? Who gave you permission?”

The whole room screamed. My mother-in-law’s face turned pale. My best friend’s groom held his forehead. A few guests put the envelopes on the table and quietly withdrew them.

Miguel’s expression changed: “It’s an accounting misunderstanding! I’ll handle it—”
“No. I’ll handle it.” I took off my wedding ring and placed it neatly on the microphone. The sound of metal clashing rang through everyone’s heads. “A marriage that starts with debt and lies… ends here.”

“My child, don’t be foolish.” Mother-in-law’s hands trembled.

I bowed my head politely: “Father and Mother, I apologize for embarrassing you. But it’s better to be embarrassed tonight than embarrassed for the rest of your life.”

 

I handed the microphone back to the MC: “Everyone, please keep the envelope. I won’t accept a single cent. Enjoy your meal. This party… consider it pahabol (compensation) for the day I learned my most expensive lesson.”

I stepped down, my wedding dress sweeping the red carpet, Hazel stood in the crowd, saying nothing. We passed each other like two ships, enough to hear a whisper: “Good job.”

The next morning, Manila was as hot as if there had never been a night of rain. My phone exploded with messages, tsismis spreading faster than the wind. There were even strange numbers calling, claiming to be showbiz reporters, asking to interview the “reverse wedding”. I turned off my phone, opened the banking app. In the credit section, it clearly showed: Revolving Credit Line – Approved last month – Co-signer: [My mother-in-law’s name].

I crouched down. Miguel not only used my name, he also pulled his mother in as a co-guarantor to close the system. In the “related transactions” section, there was an additional line: Car deposit – 500,000 two weeks ago — the exact car Hazel had just gotten out of.

A new message flashed:
Anonymous number: “If you want to know how many things are in your name that you don’t know about, come to Makati, Credit Bureau at 3pm. Bring your ID and marriage certificate. — Someone who was almost a victim.”

I looked at the wedding ring lying in the box, thinking of my parents in Pampanga, of the damp rented room in Sampaloc, of the bowl of instant noodles I shared with Hazel. I took a deep breath.

I texted Hazel:
— “Thanks. I’m going to Makati. If you’re free, come with me.”

Hazel replied immediately:
— “Yes.”

I stood up, changed my dress, and tied my hair back. A legal, financial, and honorable battle awaited me. But this time, I wasn’t going alone.

Because the second wedding gift gave me something more precious than money: a compass to escape the maze of lies.

ou back both principal and interest. And you… owe me an apology. – Hazel.”

I was shocked. I looked closely — the transfer account was not from Hazel, but from… my husband.

I pulled my husband — Miguel — aside to question him. He stammered: “I… Hazel and I used to know each other before I met you. But we broke up. I didn’t think Hazel was your friend… I didn’t expect her to come today.”

That whole party, I was like a lifeless body. Not because the 200 million had been paid. But because I realized: I was betrayed — by both my best friend and my newlywed husband.

And the wedding gift I received today… was the truth. Naked, humiliating, and expensive.

Part 3: Reclaiming Every Signature

It was an afternoon in Makati, the sun was so hot it seemed to melt the pavement. Hazel and I stood in front of the glass building of the credit bureau. My fear was still there, but this time my hands were not shaking. I came to reclaim every signature, every number, every piece of paper—by law, not by tears.

The reception desk was crowded. A female employee wearing a name tag “Kara” looked at my file, frowning slightly:
“You want a fraud alert for the entire system? You need your ID card, marriage certificate, statements, all related transactions.”

“I brought them all.” – I put the stack of papers on the table, each printed out from last night: the statement of 200 million “debt payment”, Miguel’s recording, a screenshot of the credit limit in my name.

Kara typed, then leaned in and lowered her voice.
“There were three other accounts opened in your name within the past six weeks: a credit card, a small consumer loan, and a car deposit. All with the same electronic signature, registered on the same device.”

Device. I thought of the hotel parking garage the morning of the wedding, of the recording of Miguel gasping.

“Give me a certified copy of everything,” I said. “And a signature dispute note.”

Hazel touched my hand lightly. “One by one, please.”

We ran to the issuing bank. In a small conference room covered in frosted glass, their head of compliance, a thin man with heavy glasses, placed an e-KYC log on the table.

“This is real-time data: IP address, device, location. Last month, your application was approved from the same iOS phone, logged in… the hotel parking lot where you had your wedding.”

He pushed forward a signature comparison: my signature on the old job application, the signature on my driver’s license, and… the hastily scribbled signature on three new debts. Clearly not the same.

“We’ll freeze it,” he said. “But to be thorough, you need a notarized Affidavit of Fraud and a complaint to the investigating agency.”

“I’ll do it today,” I replied.

Hazel looked at me, her eyes blazing. “Go to the notary.”

The nearby notary office smelled faintly of ink. I read aloud, loudly:
“I, [My Name], swear: I did not sign, did not authorize, and did not consent to open any lines of credit recently. I request that the transaction be frozen, investigated, and reversed.”
The notary stamped the paper, making a dry, satisfying “click.”

Hazel pushed it over the phone: “And this.”
It was the email with the appointment with PNP Anti-Cybercrime and NBI Anti-Fraud. Subject: Complaint re: Identity & Financial Fraud – Request for Preservation Order.
“The ‘anonymous number’ who texted you yesterday was actually Kara from the credit bureau. She was following a similar string of files from… the same device. She was so perceptive that she pinged us.”
I exhaled. It turned out that, even in the middle of the maze, someone was leaving a chalk trail to guide them.

That evening, I knocked on my mother-in-law’s door in Quezon City. She opened the door, her eyes dark.

“Honey…” – She trembled – “The previous papers he asked me to sign as a witness, I didn’t know they were co-sponsors. He said it was to ‘make the marriage application easier to approve’. I’m so stupid.”
I put a red marker in her hand: “Mom, sign here for me – the Affidavit of Fraud. I’m not suing you. I’m suing his deceitful system.”
She burst into tears: “I’m with you.”

Miguel appeared at the top of the stairs, his T-shirt disheveled:
“What are you doing to my family?”
“We’re not family anymore.” – I said slowly, word by word. “Tomorrow, the temporary order will be filed: freezing assets, suspending disbursements, and preserving evidence. You may laugh, but the court’s pen will be colder than your laughter.”

Miguel laughed, through gritted teeth: “You think you won because of the paper?”

“No,” – I looked straight at him – “Because the truth is sealed.”

The next morning, in the civil court, my Ninang—Atty. Reyes—was waiting. She wore a gray blazer, her silver hair neatly combed, her eyes as calm as the surface of a lake.

“You submit three things,” she instructed, “(1) An application for a temporary conservatorship order, (2) An application to preserve electronic data (IP, CCTV, logs), (3) Subpoena duces tecum requiring the bank and the car dealership to submit the original documents.”

I nodded. “I’m ready.”

Hazel pulled out a small cardboard box, in which was evidence: Hazel’s father’s hospital bills, her cook’s cruise tickets, her work diary, screenshots of Miguel’s text messages from years ago.

“My share — so that people can see that the 200 million you saved me didn’t disappear, it came to life.” – Hazel said.

The judge read the file very quickly, his eyes looking up at me: “Do you commit to seeing this through to the end?”

“I commit.” – I replied. “I’m not looking for another wedding, I’m looking for justice.”
The judge put down his pen and tapped “clack”: Temporarily freezing the disputed debts, requiring the car to remain in its current state, and ordering the bank, the car dealer, the hotel… to preserve the data for 90 days.

In the afternoon, we went to the car dealership where Miguel made the deposit. The showroom manager greeted us with a faint smile, but when the court letter was placed on the table, the smile disappeared.

“The car is waiting for registration,” he said curtly.

“Then we’ll wait.” – Atty. Reyes replied – “Because your deposit is in dispute, based on the fraudulent limit. If you release it, you’re accomplices in the risk.”

He swallowed, then nodded. “We’ll freeze the car in the warehouse. No delivery, no test drive. Waiting for a decision.”

On the way out, Hazel hooked her arm around me: “One note at a time. See? We’re breaking the teeth of a paper animal.”

On the third day, the NBI showed us the CCTV footage from the hotel basement: Miguel standing next to a figure in a hotel uniform, his phone open, fiddling around. The time matched my credit line opening log.

“That guy is IT on-call,” the investigator said. “We’ve offered him a job.”
A text message came to my phone: Miguel.

“Stop it. I’ll pay you back in full. Come home, we’ll talk.”
I didn’t respond. I printed out the message and pinned it to my file.

First mediation. Miguel sat across from me, with his personal attorney by his side. His eyes flickered to Hazel, then to his mother—who sat across from me.
Miguel’s attorney began: “Our client is willing to pay back everything, provided he withdraws the lawsuit and does not make it public.”
Atty. Reyes chuckled: “Repay with whose money? Because the evidence shows that your client borrowed in her name, paid with her money, and deposited with fraudulent funds. We propose: cancel all fraudulent contracts, compensate for damages, and make a public apology in writing.”
Miguel growled: “Don’t go too far.”
I looked up: “Too far is to use your wife’s name as a gas tank for the car you intend to drive away from the truth.”

Failed. The minutes read “Failed.” Good. We don’t need reconciliation. We need a judgment. The following days were breathing exercises between law and finance. I learned how to read the small clause at the bottom of the contract; how to distinguish between ‘witness’ and ‘co-guarantor’ with just a dash; how to request a certified copy instead of a blurred photocopy; how to ask for a time stamp for an audio file; how to seal a USB in an evidence package. Every night, my hands were black with ink, but my heart was clean.

My mother-in-law quietly gave me the paluwagan book of the area where she lived. It clearly stated: Miguel had siphoned off her group’s funds to “rotate.” The titas were gullible. I asked them for a statement, in exchange for helping them file a collective complaint.

“This girl,” a tita grabbed my hand, “hindi ka nag-iisa (you are not alone).”

Hazel made me a cup of black coffee every day, placing it next to the stack of documents:

“You gave me 200 million unconditionally in the past. Today I will pay you back for every hour you stand by me, without interest.”

The court hearing. The bank submitted the system log, the car dealer submitted the deposit contract, the hotel submitted the CCTV. The notary submitted the notarized register—and in the section of the co-guarantor, my mother-in-law’s handwriting appeared to be inconsistent with her real signature on the previous documents.

The judge asked, “Did you sign?”
She turned to her son, tears welling up in her eyes. “I didn’t sign. Did you sign for me?”
Miguel was silent. His attorney blinked repeatedly.

Atty. Reyes said calmly, “Your Honor, we are adding a request for handwriting verification and filing a criminal case for forgery.”

The gavel rang: Granted.

That afternoon, as the sun retreated from the Makati buildings, I stood in front of the courthouse, taking a deep breath. My phone rang—Kara texted:

“The system has flagged all records under your name. No new accounts are allowed without a release from the court.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “Because of the chalk.”

Hazel stood next to me, watching the traffic jam. “One leg done. What about the annulment?”
I looked at the wedding ring in my pocket: “Annulment will take time. But the money — today it is with its owner. And my name — today it is returned.”

That night, before going to sleep, I opened the file. The papers were neatly arranged: Affidavit, Subpoena, Injunction, Minutes of failed conciliation, Provisional handwriting examination. Each page had a red stamp, a ballpoint pen, a number. No tears.

I sent Miguel a final message, to put it in the file:
— “I don’t bargain with honor. See you at the main trial.”

Then I sent Hazel:
— “Tomorrow, 8 o’clock, go file a collective complaint for the titas. Bring coffee.”

Hazel dropped a thumbs-up icon:
— “Copy. And bring ensaymada. The law goes with the road, life is less bitter.”

I smiled, for the first time in many days. I had demanded back every signature, every number, every piece of paper. And tomorrow, I will continue to demand—in the light of the court, not in the darkness of tears.

(More to come—the main trial, where the car, the deposit, and a hotel “insider” will be revealed.)