Chapter 6: Damage Control

I don’t lose sleep.

That’s another rule. Sleep is for men who don’t carry lists of names in their heads, people who crossed me, people I buried, people I spared for reasons I don’t explain.

But that night, after dropping Isla off, sleep stayed far away.

I stood by the window of my penthouse, city lights blinking like signals I’d learned to read years ago. Somewhere down there, Isla Carter was probably replaying our conversation, dissecting every word the way journalists do.

She would write again.

I exhaled slowly and reached for my phone.

“Matteo,” I said the moment he answered.

“Boss?” antok pa ang boses. “May problema ba?”

“Yes,” I replied. “And no. Get up.”

A pause. Then a sigh. “Sige na nga. Ano’ng kailangan?”

“Double her coverage.”

“Ayos,” he said immediately. “Pero boss…di ba sabi mo low-profile lang?”

“It still is,” I said. “She doesn’t know.”

“Eh ikaw?” Matteo asked. “Mukhang alam mo na lahat.”

I ignored that.

“Two men,” I continued. “Unmarked. No contact. No tails she can feel. I want updates every four hours.”

“Grabe ka naman,” Matteo muttered.

“Parang VIP treatment na si Ms.Carter.”

“She is,” I said flatly.

Silence.

Then, softer: “Gets ko na.”

I ended the call.

The next morning, her name showed up in my reports before anything else.

Coffee shop at 8:12 a.m.

Office by 9:03.

Meeting with the editor at 11:40.

“Anong meeting ’to?” I asked, scanning the file.

Matteo leaned over my shoulder.

“Mukhang pitch. Investigative piece.”

My jaw tightened.

“About what?”

“Hindi pa malinaw,” he said. “Pero boss… same area. Same keywords.”

Of course it was.

I tapped my fingers against the desk, once, twice. Every instinct screamed to shut it down. Make a call. Kill the lead before it breathes. Instead, I did something worse.

I opened her latest draft.

She wrote with restraint.

No accusations.

No names.

Just patterns.

Shadows.

Questions that made readers lean closer.

“She’s good,” Matteo admitted. “Sayang nga lang—”

“Finish that sentence,” I warned.

“—na mali yung binabangga niya,” he said quietly.

I closed the file.

“She’ll keep digging,” Matteo added. “Kahit bantayan mo pa.”

“I know.”

“Then bakit—”

“Because stopping her would confirm everything,” I cut in. “And because if anyone touches her without my permission, I’ll burn this city down.”

Matteo whistled softly. “Grabe ka na, boss.”

I didn’t respond.

That evening, I checked again.

She was still at the office, lights on, alone. Her shoulders were tense even through the grainy feed. I watched her rub her eyes, then straighten, determined.

Stubborn.

“Umuwi na siya,” Matteo said later. “Mukhang pagod.”

“Good.”

I waited until the report said she was inside her apartment before I allowed myself to relax. And that’s when I realized the problem.

I wasn’t managing a threat.

I was managing my reaction to her.

I picked up my phone, stared at her number that is still unsaved.

Don’t, I told myself.

I put the phone down.

Then I picked it up again.

‘Get some rest. You’ll need it.’

I sent it before I could stop myself.

A minute passed.

Then two.

Finally, my screen lit up.

‘Are you always this bossy, or am I special?’

I closed my eyes.

Yes, Isla.

You’re special.

And in my world, that’s the most dangerous thing a woman can be.