We did nothing but trade laughter and stories for the rest of the afternoon. It was a mercy that Berna and Xael were so naturally boisterous; their energy kept the shadows of my mind at bay, making the outing far from the boring affair I had feared.
It was a stroke of luck that I didn't have a shift at the tea shop. Had I been forced to work, the exhaustion would have surely broken me.
When I finally returned to our house, I dropped my bag onto the wooden sofa with a heavy thud. The house was stiflingly silent, the only sound the rhythmic creak of my footsteps on the floor. I checked the kitchen, hoping—against all experience—to find a meal waiting under the food cover. As expected, there was nothing.
I let out a long, weary sigh and opened our ancient refrigerator. It groaned and shuddered, a relic of a machine that seemed to be held together by rust and habit. Inside, there were only pitchers of water and a few pieces of frozen fish. I pulled them out and dropped them into a bowl of water to thaw, their icy scales clinking against the ceramic.
I was rinsing rice when the front door burst open. The silence was instantly shattered by the familiar, jagged edge of my parents' voices.
"I told you to stop the gambling, Ofelia! We have nothing left!" My father's voice trailed my mother into the room. She was massaging her temples, her face a mask of weary defiance as she headed for the wooden sofa.
"Do I pester you about your drinking, Fernan? No! So, keep your mouth shut!"
"How can I be quiet when you're flushing everything we have down the drain? Dammit! Have you no shame? That money belongs to your daughter—money she works herself to the bone for—and you lose it before the sun even sets!"
"You act as if it were your money to begin with!"
A sharp crash echoed from the living room. I spun around to find my mother huddled on the sofa, her hands shielding her face as if bracing for a blow. My father stood over her, his hand pressed to his forehead, trembling with a rage he was fighting to contain. Between them lay the shattered remains of a gin bottle, the clear liquid seeping into the floorboards like a wasted offering.
"I may drink, Ofelia," my father hissed, his voice thick with repressed emotion, "but I know when my daughter has reached her limit!"
He caught my gaze, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow, before turning and retreating up the stairs. The door to their room slammed shut, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
"I'll... I'll just cook some—"
"Don't bother," my mother interrupted, her head still bowed. "Eat if you want. I'm going out."
I spent that night eating in a silence that felt heavier than the noise. I stared at my reflection in the small hallway mirror. I looked dull. Faded. Like a photograph left too long in the sun.
I retreated to my room and collapsed onto the bed. As I shifted, I felt something hard and unyielding beneath my pillow. I reached under and pulled it out, my breath hitching as I saw the cover.
It was the book. The copy Honibee had signed.
I swallowed hard, my fingers tracing the spine. I should read it, shouldn't I? If only to understand the geography of the world I had wandered into last night. But was it real? Or was I simply losing my grip on reality?
I opened the book, and my heart nearly stopped. The pages were blank—except for the first chapter. There, in crisp black ink, were my own thoughts. My own actions. Every detail of my encounter with Perseus in the elevator, written as if by a silent observer. The book wasn't just telling a story; it was recording mine.
I shoved the book back under the pillow, my pulse racing. I lay back and closed my eyes, waiting for the transition, for the world to shift again. But minutes turned into an hour, and I remained pinned to my thin mattress in the dark.
Frustrated, I sat up and glanced toward the window, my brow furrowed.
Wait.
Through the glass, I didn't see the dark silhouettes of my neighborhood's shanties. I saw a sprawling tapestry of city lights. The rhythmic hum of heavy traffic. The towering silhouettes of BGC skyscrapers.
I was back.
"Yes! I've been knocking for ages, but she's out cold!" A woman's voice drifted from the other side of the bedroom door. I scrambled out of bed and pressed my ear to the wood.
"What are we supposed to do if we're late? My beauty can't handle this stress, girl! It's a miracle we're even going," Stacey's voice complained.
I took a steadying breath and slowly pulled the door open. No matter how much this world claimed to be mine, my soul still felt like a trespasser here—a poor girl masquerading in a life of silk and glass.
"Oh, she's finally among the living." Penelope stood up from the sofa and handed me a thick, cream-colored envelope. It was heavy, embossed with gold foil—the kind of invitation that suggested an event of immense gravity.
"We've all been invited to a gala," she said with a small smile.
The three of them watched me, waiting for me to open it. I felt their eyes scanning me, curious and expectant.
"It's an invitation from your ex," Felisse added casually, not looking up from her phone.
"Ex?" I repeated, the word tasting strange in my mouth. "As in... ex-boyfriend?"
"What else would it mean, Ensley?" Felisse laughed, reaching for a bowl of chips. "Raven. The mayor's son."
I sat down in the velvet armchair, my mind spinning. A mayor's son? The girl I was portraying apparently moved in circles I couldn't even fathom.
"You don't remember?" Stacey asked, leaning in with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Gosh! The man with the body of an Adonis! You two only broke up recently, don't tell me you've already scrubbed him from your brain!"
She tapped my arm playfully as Felisse turned her phone toward me. On the screen was a photo of a man who looked like he had stepped off a high-fashion runway. He had a smile that was both charming and predatory—the look of a man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
"Raven Reyes," Felisse explained. "He's still obsessed with you. He's been hounding us all week. Honestly, I think he only threw this party as an excuse to get you in a room with him again."
"Whatever you did to him, Ensley," Penelope added, inspecting her freshly manicured nails, "the boy is ruined for any other woman."
I shrugged, unable to offer an answer. What kind of "performance" had the real Serafina put on?
"Better get ready," Penelope warned, standing up and patting my shoulder. "That man is liable to send a search party if you don't show up. We'll be right here."
I retreated to the bathroom for a quick shower, my mind a whirlwind. Felisse and Stacey eventually invaded the space, helping me with my hair and makeup until I looked like a stranger once more—a vision in a backless black silk gown and silver stilettos.
"There," Stacey squealed, dragging me toward the door. "Now, let's go show that mayor's son what he's missing!"
We walked toward the elevator, but as the doors slid open, we came face-to-face with a man in a perfectly tailored black suit. He was standing there, tall and imposing, waiting for the lift.
"Attorney," Penelope called out.
Perseus turned, his dark, intense gaze landing on me instantly. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—irritation? Surprise? —before he pointedly looked away.
"Where are you headed?" Penelope asked.
"The mayor's gala," he replied shortly.
My heart sank. We were going to the same place. I wasn't sure I could handle his brooding presence for an entire evening.
"How annoying," I whispered to myself.
"Did you say something, Ms. Dela Merced?" Perseus asked, pausing his attempt to straighten his silk necktie.
"Oh, Attorney!" Stacey chirped before I could respond. "My friend here was just saying she'd be happy to fix that tie for you!"
I shot Stacey a look of pure betrayal, but she just winked at me. Perseus stiffened.
"No, I can handle it," he said, his jaw clenching as he fumbled with the silk. The frustration was evident in the way his brow pinched.
The elevator arrived, and the girls stepped inside, waving at me with wicked grins before the doors slid shut, leaving me alone in the hallway with the most intimidating man I had ever met.
"Fuck," he cursed under his breath. "We're late."
With trembling hands, I stepped forward and reached out, my fingers brushing his wrist.
"What are you doing, Miss Dela Merced?" he asked, his voice a low, warning growl.
"I'm just trying to help," I murmured, ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks.
I reached up and took the silk in my hands. I remembered the rhythm of the knot from my high school days—a small, practical skill that felt absurdly out of place in this luxury hallway. I could feel his breath, deep and steady, as he forced himself to stand still. He smelled of sandalwood and expensive ink.
"There," I said, giving the knot a final, gentle pat against his chest after fixing his tie. I turned quickly and stepped toward the second elevator as it opened.
I was mortified. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might burst. I stepped into the lift, hoping to be alone, but Perseus followed me inside before the doors could close.
"Basement," he said to the lift attendant.
The descent was agonizingly quiet. I stared at the floor, acutely aware of the man standing inches away from me. He was the hero of this story, the "Atty. Villamor" that thousands of girls dreamed about. And here I was, the girl who had just fixed his tie.
When we reached the basement, I stepped out and scanned the garage for my friends. Where are they?
My phone buzzed.
From Felisse: Girl! You're on your own! Just hitch a ride with Daddy Perseus!
I nearly dropped the phone. Was she serious?
"Need a ride?" Perseus asked, checking his silver watch.
I didn't answer at first, my eyes searching the concrete pillars for any sign of Stacey's car.
"I can give you a ride, Ms. Dela Merced," he said, his voice cold and flat. "Come on. Before I change my mind."
I followed him to a massive black pick-up truck. He opened the passenger door for me, his hand hovering near my waist to ensure my gown didn't snag on the frame. It was a gesture of unexpected chivalry that only made me more nervous.
The drive was silent. I stared out the window at the passing city, trying to ignore the magnetic pull of the man in the driver's seat.
When we arrived at the gala, he didn't immediately unlock the doors. He sat there for a moment, staring straight ahead, his jaw tight. Then, he turned to look at me. Even without a smile, the sheer force of his presence was overwhelming. He was dangerous, like a storm that you couldn't help but admire even as it threatened to destroy you.
"Thank you, Attorney," I said, turning my gaze to the stream of guests arriving at the entrance.
"No," he said, his voice softening just a fraction. "Thank you for the help with the tie."
In that moment, the world seemed to stand still, and I realized with a jolt of terror that my heart had stopped fighting the dream.