The phone rang twice before someone picked up.
I held my breath, my pulse pounding so loudly I could barely hear the voice that finally answered.
"Miss Santos," the deep male voice said, as if he'd been expecting me. "I didn't think you'd call so soon."
My fingers tightened around my phone.
"How… how did you know it was me?" I stammered.
There was a soft chuckle on the other end.
"I know a lot of things," he replied smoothly. "Now tell me, have you made up your mind?"
My chest tightened.
"Why are you doing this?" I demanded. "Why me? You don't even know me!"
He didn't answer directly.
Instead, he said, "I only answer questions in person. If you'd like to talk, my assistant will come for you."
I blinked, glancing around the darkening hallway of my apartment building.
The rain outside was growing heavier, thudding against the tin roof above.
"You… you're serious?" I whispered.
"Send me your location," he said calmly. "He'll pick you up within thirty minutes."
"But I don't even know you!" I cried. "How do I know this isn't another scam?"
There was silence for a moment.
Then his voice softened.
"You don't," he admitted. "But you called me. Which means you're desperate enough to consider that maybe, just maybe, I'm your only chance."
My throat closed up.
He wasn't wrong.
I swallowed hard.
"I… I'm at the corner of Scout Tobias and Timog Avenue," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "Near the tricycle terminal."
"Very good," he said. "Stay where you are."
Then he hung up.
I lowered the phone from my ear and stared at it like it might bite me.
"Putang ina," I whispered under my breath. ("Son of a bitch.")
Was I really doing this?
I dragged my duffel bag out of the apartment building and into the rain.
By the time I reached the tricycle terminal, my blouse was sticking to my skin, soaked through. My hair clung to my face, dripping water into my eyes.
Tricycles lined the sidewalk, their drivers huddled under plastic sheets, smoking cigarettes and grumbling about the weather.
One of them eyed me curiously.
"Miss, saan ka?" he called out. ("Miss, where to?")
I shook my head. "Hindi po, may susundo sakin." ("No thanks, someone's picking me up.")
The driver nodded, though he kept staring like I was some kind of spectacle.
I hugged my bag tighter, shivering as rainwater trickled down my spine.
About twenty minutes later, a sleek black Range Rover pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the neon lights of the bars and restaurants along Timog Avenue.
The tricycle drivers all turned to stare, their cigarettes hanging forgotten from their lips.
The back passenger door swung open, and a man in a black suit stepped out.
It was the same man I'd seen earlier Lance's assistant.
He was tall, lean, with a blank expression and sharp eyes that swept over me like I was a problem to be solved.
"Miss Santos," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Come with me."
I blinked at him, gripping the strap of my bag.
"W-wait," I stammered. "Where exactly are we going?"
"To see Mr. Villanueva," he said.
He reached for my duffel bag, but I jerked it away.
"I can carry it myself," I snapped.
The man barely reacted.
"As you wish."
He gestured toward the open door of the SUV.
I hesitated, glancing over my shoulder at the tricycle drivers, who were now whispering among themselves.
Am I seriously about to get into a car with strangers?
But then I thought of Jules's sneer. Of Bianca's trembling voice. Of the money I'd lost. Of the rain soaking me to the bone.
"Fuck it," I muttered under my breath.
And I climbed into the SUV.
Inside, the car smelled like leather and faint cologne.
The assistant slid in beside me and pulled the door shut.
"Seatbelt," he said.
I fastened it, trying not to look terrified.
He tapped on the tinted divider. The SUV pulled smoothly away from the curb.
We drove in silence for several minutes, the city lights flickering past outside the rain-streaked windows.
Eventually, the assistant spoke.
"My name is Marco," he said without looking at me. "I'm Mr. Villanueva's personal aide."
I swallowed hard.
"Why does your boss want to marry me?" I demanded.
Marco didn't even blink.
"I'm not authorized to discuss Mr. Villanueva's personal business," he said flatly.
My eyes narrowed.
"Do you guys just… randomly offer marriage contracts to women on the street?"
Marco didn't answer.
I let out a frustrated groan and slumped against the seat.
"This is insane."
It felt like forever before we finally pulled off the highway and into a gated village.
The security guards at the entrance barely glanced inside the SUV before waving us through.
I pressed my face to the window, staring in disbelief at the huge mansions lining both sides of the road.
Every house was massive, modern, and surrounded by lush gardens and high concrete walls.
Ayala Alabang.
I'd only ever heard about this place on the news.
Rich people territory.
Definitely not my world.
We stopped in front of a sprawling mansion surrounded by palm trees and manicured hedges.
Marco got out first and opened my door.
"Come."
I climbed out slowly, clutching my bag.
The driveway was paved with shining stones. Small garden lights glowed softly along the path. The rain had eased to a drizzle, but everything smelled wet and fresh.
Marco led me past the main house and down a stone walkway toward a smaller building nestled in the garden.
The smaller building was sleek and modern, with wide glass windows and warm yellow lights glowing inside.
A security guard in a navy uniform stepped forward, holding a handheld scanner.
"Pakita ang mga kamay," he ordered. ("Show your hands.")
I held them out, shivering slightly as he waved the scanner up and down my body.
"All clear, sir," the guard reported.
Marco nodded once.
He pushed the glass door open.
"Go inside."
I stepped in, and my jaw nearly dropped.
The room looked like something from a luxury magazine.
Polished marble floors reflected soft light from modern fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, packed with thick volumes in various colors. An enormous wooden desk sat near a panoramic window, looking out over a rain-soaked garden.
And sitting behind the desk…
…was Lance Villanueva.
He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up over strong forearms. He leaned back in a black leather chair, steepling his fingers under his chin.
"Leave us," he told Marco, without even looking at him.
"Yes, sir," Marco replied.
He turned and exited, closing the door behind him.
I stared at the closed door in horror.
"Wait, don't leave me alone with him!" I shouted, trying to follow Marco out.
But the lock clicked, sealing me inside.
I spun around, heart pounding.
Lance was already standing, walking slowly toward me.
My back hit the closed door as he approached.
He stopped barely a foot away, lowering his head until his dark eyes locked onto mine.
"Maya Santos," he murmured, his voice like silk. "Running away from something?"