Chapter Two

C-02: The Gentleman with an Umbrella

I quietly enjoyed my food, eyes fixed on the shore where the waves rolled in gently. A breeze drifted through the open bistro, bringing with it the faint scent of sea salt and sunscreen.

From my peripheral vision, I spotted Mr. Drunk Bag Stealer—leaning against one of the wooden railings just outside. He had a phone to his ear, brows furrowed as he spoke in hushed tones.

I kept my gaze low, hoping he'd just pass by. But instead, to my dismay, he walked into the bistro and took a table—just two rows across from mine.

I guess this place really is that popular.

Trying not to let him ruin the moment, I shifted my focus back to my meal. The food was beautifully plated and flavorful, each bite perfectly balanced with the sweet tang of the blueberry lemonade soda. For something so simple, it hit all the right spots.

I’d been having the same breakfast for the past three days, though. Maybe it was time to branch out. Tammarah did say there were plenty of great spots in this part of the resort worth trying.

As I polished off the last bite, I pulled out the digicam Rika had lent me. I snapped a quick shot of my empty plate—proof that yes, I did eat well.

Noticing the lens was a bit fogged from the ocean breeze, I turned the camera over to give it a gentle wipe. But as I adjusted my grip, my finger accidentally hit the shutter button.

Click.

The screen flickered for a second before the photo displayed.

It was a candid shot of me, slightly off-center—wind messing up my hair, my expression caught somewhere between amused and content.

But what truly caught my attention was the unexpected photobomber—none other than Mr. Drunk Bag Stealer. Though subtly blurred, he somehow stood out from the background.

He looked tall, dressed in a black button-down shirt with the sleeves folded up to his elbows. His face was calm, almost unreadable, as he stared at his phone, a glass of something cold in his other hand.

I caught myself glancing in his direction again. Honestly, almost everyone was. Understandably so—his aura alone screamed authority, and with his looks and physique, he was hard to miss.

"Goddammit!" I heard him curse, slamming his phone on the table. The sudden sound made me jump.

I quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by a nearby shell centerpiece.

Maybe it was time to leave. I had plenty of resort activities left to try.

I signaled the waiter and asked for the bill. As he approached with a smile, I felt a strange shift in the air—a heavy presence drawing near.

"Here’s your card and receipt, Ma'am," the waiter said politely, though his eyes briefly darted to someone behind me.

I nodded in thanks and took the card, sliding it into my pocket. As I turned to leave, I bumped into something firm.

He smelled expensive—like dark musk, citrus, and something I couldn’t place—but definitely no trace of alcohol this time.

“Sorry,” I muttered, stepping aside without daring to meet his eyes.

But before I could get far, his hand caught mine.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low and authoritative.

My heart dropped. I could feel the weight of everyone’s stares settling on us. My cheeks burned.

I yanked my hand away and rushed outside.

“Goddammit, woman! We need to fucking talk!” he called out, following close behind.

He grabbed my arm again, more firmly this time. His grip made me freeze.

“Let go of me! I don’t know you!” I snapped, trying to pull away.

“And neither do I!” he shot back, his voice sharp but steady. “But we still need to talk.”

His gaze locked on mine—cold, unreadable, but intense.

“For what?” I snapped, my voice raised, cracking slightly.

He exhaled harshly, raking a hand through his jet-black hair—messy from the breeze and tension.

“Who paid you?” he asked in a low voice. “Do you even know what you’ve gotten yourself into—?”

Paid me?

My blood ran cold. Did he really just…?

“How dare you insult me!” My hand flew before I could stop it. The loud slap echoed, and for a moment, he stood stunned, his grip on my arm loosening.

“I may come from a lowly background, but that doesn’t mean I’m like every other woman who sells her soul for money,” I spat, my voice trembling with rage.

I could already feel the sting in my eyes—the tears, unwelcome, threatening to spill.

But he scoffed.

“Right… like I’d fall for that trick again. Tears?” he said coldly. “You think crying’s going to convince me you’re innocent?”

What is wrong with this man?

“As if I care what you think of me!” My voice cracked, raw and furious. “I don’t even know who you are!”

“Just to remind you, you’re the one who chased me down!"

That was it. I couldn’t take anymore.

Before the tears started falling in earnest, I turned and ran—away from the bistro, from the crowd, from *him*. That jerk! And of course, plenty of people had witnessed the scene. My humiliation was practically broadcasted across the resort.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, fat droplets of rain began falling from the sky.

Of course. Of course this would happen now.

The downpour came suddenly, soaking everything in seconds. I ducked under the nearest fruit stand for shelter, my shoulders heaving from the sprint—and from everything else.

The roof barely held the rain off, but I shielded the camera in my arms like it was sacred.

I sniffled quietly, brushing my sleeve across my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if it was rain or tears anymore. Probably both.

I stared out at the endless curtain of rain. It didn’t look like it would stop anytime soon.

It was getting dark, and the rain still hadn’t let up.

I’d been standing under this rickety fruit stand for what felt like forever, clutching my bag and praying the camera stayed dry. My fingers were cold, and the chill was starting to creep into my bones. I’d already considered sprinting back to the hotel twice—but the thought of soaking the camera held me back.

I shifted my weight, feeling the squish of my damp sandals, and sighed.

Maybe I’ll just make a run for it.

"Miss Blueberry Lemonade Soda?"

I froze.

Turning around slowly, I furrowed my brows in confusion. A man stood a few feet away, holding a large black umbrella above his head. He had a friendly smile—warm, easy, and oddly familiar.

I tried to place him, but maybe the cold had numbed more than just my fingers.

Still, the way he said my drink order with such ease made it obvious—he must be from the bistro.

A waiter? No. He didn’t dress like one. In fact, he looked far too polished in his fitted beige jacket and dark slacks.

“I’m Isagani,” he said, clearly reading the confusion on my face. “I work at the bistro. Well... I own it, actually.”

“Oh.” That caught me a little off guard.

“You’ve been coming by a lot,” he added with a small, harmless smile.

I don’t know why, but my eyes locked onto the umbrella. It looked... safe. Warm. Dry. Everything I wasn’t at the moment.

“Reya,” I said finally, matching his smile with one of my own. “I hope you don’t mind, but... can I share your umbrella?”

I probably looked a mess—frizzy hair, wrinkled blouse, damp from the rain—but I didn’t care anymore. I just needed to get back.

"Of course," he said kindly, shifting a bit to make room for me.

I stepped under the umbrella, careful not to bump into him, grateful for the sudden shelter from the pouring sky. I sighed in relief, checking on the camera first.

"Just so you know, I’m clean," he said out of nowhere.

I blinked, turning to him with a puzzled expression. "Huh?"

He chuckled, eyes warm. "I mean—you can scoot closer. You’re still getting drenched." He angled the umbrella toward me.

"Oh… no, you don’t need to." I quickly shook my head, flustered. I must’ve looked ridiculous, half-wet and stubborn.

"It’s the camera," I muttered under my breath, clutching the strap protectively.

To my surprise, he let out a soft laugh. It wasn’t mocking. Just… amused.

"Is the camera really more valuable than you are?" he asked, glancing down at me.

I looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a lightness there. Kindness. That kind of gentleness that sneaks up on you.

He smiled again, this time a little more sincere. “I don’t think so.”

By the time we reached the foot of my hotel, he was kind enough to hold the door open for me. It was a small gesture, but somehow it made me feel even more indebted.

“Thanks…” I said quietly, stepping inside.

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what else to say. My thoughts were scattered, my words tangled somewhere between gratitude and fatigue. So I simply turned and made my way toward the elevator.

But after a few steps, I paused and glanced over my shoulder.

Through the glass doors, I caught a glimpse of his back as he walked away—calm, unbothered, his umbrella still in hand.

What a gentleman.

If only all men were like him.