The knowledge hummed through everything. Liwayway is three desks away.
It changed how he moved through the office. He'd find himself taking the long route to the pantry, the one that passed her cubicle. He'd linger after meetings, pretending to check his phone while she gathered her things.
The first time he made an excuse to talk to her about the books, his hands were sweating.
"The Villareal contract," he said, stopping beside her desk.
She looked up, startled. "Sir?"
"The clauses are a mess. It's like Lakam's first alliance with the River Clans. He went in with a contract. They gave him poisoned water." He paused, watching her. "The second time, he went with nothing but a shared enemy. They gave him their armies."
Her pen clattered onto the desk. Her eyes widened, searching his face for a joke. "You… you read Mandirigma at Diwata?"
He shrugged, the picture of casual indifference. "My assistant recommended it. It's… passably entertaining."
He saw the flash of indignation before she could hide it. Passably entertaining. He'd just called her life's work a mild diversion. The part of him that was SagisagNgLahi cringed.
"I see," was all she said, her jaw tight.
The next day, he caught her alone in the pantry.
"The new marketing plan," he began, pouring coffee. "It's the Siege of Silverfall strategy. We're trying to defend every wall. We should fortify the heart and let the rest burn."
She smiled. Leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "A bold strategy. Risky. It only worked because the Diwata trusted Lakam to hold the center."
"He was the only one who could," Quino said.
"Or died trying to be a hero," she fired back.
This was it. A secret conversation hiding in plain sight.
After that, it became their thing. A five-minute coffee break in the pantry turned into a heated debate.
"No, I'm sorry, Lakam is a more compelling character," Quino said, stirring his black coffee. "He's not just a villain. He represents a different path. Order through control, not through faith."
Luna gasped, clutching her 3-in-1 sachet to her chest in mock horror. "Naku, sir! He wants to drain the magic from the world! He's a fascist!"
"He's a pragmatist. Magic is chaos. You can't build a lasting society on it."
"You can't build a lasting society without a soul!" She was almost shouting now. "That's the whole point! The magic is the soul."
He was falling. Not for Liwayway the mythical author, but for Luna—the woman who'd debate geopolitical fantasy theory over instant coffee.
He learned she cried when she read one-star Google reviews. "'The plot is predictable,'" she'd grumble, stabbing a straw into her juice box. "Sino ba 'to? Sige nga, magsulat ka ng 300 pages na unpredictable!" She'd then spend ten minutes crafting a detailed, scathing reply in her head before deleting it.
He discovered she fed the three stray cats behind the office building, keeping a bag of kibble in her tote. She'd named them after the three betrayers in Book 2. "Si Marikon, si Duwag, at si Gahaman," she'd whisper, scattering the food. "But don't tell them. They have delicate egos."
She talked about her Lola's garden in Bulacan with a reverence others reserved for cathedrals. "The sampaguita there smells different. Stronger. It's the soil, I think. Or maybe it's just because it's "hers."
One evening, a monsoon rain trapped them at the office. The power flickered out, plunging the floor into an emergency-lit gloom. The rest of the staff had trickled out, but Luna was hunched over her laptop, its battery light a tiny beacon.
"You should go home," Quino said, standing by her cubicle.
"Can't. The MRT will be a nightmare. I'll wait it out." She shivered in the artificial chill.
He went to his office. When he came back, he was holding a barong. He offered it to her.
She stared at it. "Sir, I can't—"
"You're cold."
She took it, hesitating, and draped it over her shoulders. She swam in the fabric, burying her nose in the collar. "It smells like your office."
"What does my office smell like?"
She thought for a moment. "Old wood. And clean. Like rain before it falls."
They stood in silence for a minute, listening to the drumming on the windows. The space between them felt charged, intimate.
"You know," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "You're nothing like I thought you'd be."
His breath caught. "What did you think I'd be like?"
She pulled the barong tighter. "More like Lakan, I suppose. All control. No soul."
The words didn't sting. They opened something in him he hadn't known was locked. She saw him. Not the CEO, not the heir. Him.
The rain eased to a drizzle. She carefully folded the barong and handed it back. Their fingers brushed.
"Thank you, sir."
"Quino," he said.
The name hung in the air between them.
Her eyes widened. She nodded—slow, wondering—then gathered her things and headed for the elevator.
He stood alone in the dark office, the scent of sampaguita still clinging to the barong. He was in deep water. Falling for a woman who had no idea he was already in love with her mind. And the lie sat between them, getting heavier by the day.