The cursor blinked. A tiny, stubborn pulse in the dim room. MD_Book6_Chapter1_FINAL(3).docx. The page held one sentence:
Lakam stood before her, his heart a wild bird trapped in the cage of his ribs.
Luna groaned and pushed back from the desk. The chair complained. Around her, towers of manuscript pages threatened to slide into the sea of empty coffee sachets. The air was thick with the smell of spent coffee grounds and dust.
Her phone buzzed. Ma'am Rita. Again. Luna watched it skitter toward the edge, then go silent.
The problem wasn't the plot. It was the confession. How did a man like Lakam break? What words did he use? She had no reference. No one had ever chosen her.
Diego. The memory was a sudden, sour taste. His arm around her at a BGC bar. "She's a writer. My creative girlfriend. Writes these fairy tales." He'd said it like she was a charming pet. A splash of color in his beige life.
Then the dinner. His mother's smile, all polished teeth. "Your father was a teacher? And you live in… Quezon City. How authentic."
The end wasn't a bang. It was a slow fade. Texts that got shorter. Calls that never came. He'd just… stepped back into his world. The easier one. The silence afterward had been the loudest thing she'd ever heard.
Her phone buzzed again. Lola Doring ❤️.
Luna swiped to answer. "Lola?"
"Luna! Nandito na ba ang apo kong artista?"
A real smile this time. "Lola, writer po ako."
"Pareho lang 'yan! Parehong nagpapakilig!" Her lola's laugh was a static crackle. "Luna, may interview ka ngayon, di ba?"
Luna's eyes shot to the clock. 8:22 AM. Makati. 9:00 AM.
"Puta—Opo, Lola!"
"Lengguahe, apo! Magmadali ka na. At…" A dramatic pause. "Magdala ka ng pandesal para sa kliyente! Pakitang gilas, 'nak."
"Lola, hindi po 'yun job fair—"
"Walang hindi! Gawin mo na lang social media… strategy! Tawag diyan, pakikisama! Sige na!"
The line died.
Chaos. A whirlwind of flying clothes, a frantic search for a clean-ish blouse. She shoved her sticker-clad laptop into her "I ❤️ QC" tote, stabbed at her hair with a brush until it resembled a messy bun, and thundered downstairs. A kiss on a wrinkled cheek, a grab for the paper bag of pandesal on the table, and she was out the door.
The jeepney crawl. The MRT crush. A universe of sweat and impatience. She erupted into the Ayala glare feeling like she'd been through a war.
The Montemayor Building was a cliff of glass. It reflected a distorted, rushing version of herself. The lobby was a cavern of chilled marble. Her shoes made tiny, sticking sounds on the polished floor.
Ten minutes late.
The elevator was a silent, swift ascent. The executive floor was a different planet. Quiet. The air smelled of lemony cleaner and money.
The receptionist had a smile that was a straight, polite line. She directed Luna to a waiting area. Then, the inner door.
He was there. Behind a vast, empty desk. A man carved from a different reality. His barong was crisp linen. His hair was a dark, perfect wave. He typed, his fingers a steady, quiet tap-tap-tap. He didn't look up.
Joaquin Montemayor.
Her stomach tightened. She clutched her tote. The pandesal bag crinkled in the silence.
He looked up.
His eyes were dark, flat. They moved over her—the messy bun, the blouse, the tote bag. A full inventory. She felt priced and shelved.
"Ms. Cruz." His voice was low, a calm, cold surface. "You're late."
Her throat clicked. "Sorry, sir. The MRT was… being the MRT."
No reaction. He gestured to the chair. "Sit."
She moved forward, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She sat, placing her tote on the floor. Without thinking, she set the paper bag of pandesal on the corner of his immaculate desk.
His gaze dropped to the humble, grease-spotted package. A single, perfect eyebrow lifted. A silent, devastating question.
Heat flooded her face. Pakitang gilas, 'nak.
Well. So much for that.