Chapter Three

By ten that night, Carrie finally surrendered to exhaustion. She shut down her laptop, the orchids on her desk sagging like they too had fought the day and lost. Ayala Avenue shimmered with headlights and brake lights, the city's arteries still clogged with late commuters. She crossed the street, her heels clicking against the pavement, the air thick with the perfume of exhaust and the comforting tang of fried chicken drifting from Jollibee.

Salcedo Village greeted her with the familiar rhythm of its streets. Security guards chatted softly on the corners. A few stragglers loitered outside convenience stores. Her condo rose ahead, tall and sleek, its glass catching the last hints of neon from the avenue.

The building's ground floor spread like a miniature city. The organic grocer had already gone dark, its refrigerators humming like a low heartbeat. Clothing and shoe boutiques sat shuttered behind iron grills, mannequins staring blankly into nothing. Jollibee, Greenwich, and J.Co still pulsed with neon, offering late comfort to call center agents and cab drivers. Two independent restaurants moved toward closing, waiters scraping chairs across tiles, wiping down tabletops with the tired choreography of routine.

At the farthest corner stood the crown jewel: La Bellezza, a restaurant with Italian roots, French elegance, and American confidence. It was a brand on the rise, with branches in Bonifacio Global City, Alabang, Cebu, and Davao, each one carefully crafted under the hand of Anita Sandoval.

Carrie slowed her pace. Through the tall glass windows she saw the staff finishing their night rituals, rolling carts back to the kitchen, polishing the last glasses, folding linens with reverence. The restaurant was nearly empty.

Nearly.

In the dimmest corner, two figures sat across from each other.

The woman's back was straight, her posture like a blade. The slope of her shoulders, the proud line of her neck, Carrie knew it instantly. Anita.

Across from her sat a man whose presence seemed to bend the light. He leaned back, at ease, one arm draped over the chair. The sharpness of his jaw, the casual arrogance in the set of his shoulders, the air of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. Andrew.

Carrie's breath hitched.

She froze in place, her body betraying her. She told herself to keep walking, to get into the elevator and vanish. But her eyes refused to look away.

Anita shifted, and her face turned just enough for Carrie to see. The sight knocked the wind out of her. Anita Sandoval, the woman who ruled her empire with unshakable poise, was breaking apart in public. Her mascara smudged, her eyes glistening, her lips trembling with words that faltered in the air.

Andrew turned. His gaze landed on Carrie through the glass. For a moment, the noise of the city fell away.

One eyebrow arched. His mouth curved into a lopsided grin, careless and knowing. He had caught her watching. He enjoyed that she was watching.

Heat crept into Carrie's face.

Anita pressed her palms flat against the table, her entire body taut with anger or grief. Carrie could not tell which. The scene felt too intimate, too raw, for her to witness.

She tore her gaze away and walked quickly toward the elevators. Her reflection in the mirrored doors looked pale, her chest rising and falling too fast. The elevator chimed open and she stepped inside, pressing the button with a hand that trembled more than she wanted to admit.

By the time she closed the door to her condo, her body was heavy with fatigue, but her mind spun wild. She tossed her bag on the sofa and collapsed into bed, still in her blouse, the city's glow sneaking past the curtains.

She should have fallen asleep instantly. But her thoughts would not let her.

They kept circling back to Andrew.

She saw him again in her mind's eye, seated in the shadows, the grin sharp as a knife and warm as a dare. He was taller than she remembered, six feet, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who seemed carved to take up space. His features were cut clean, dark eyes flashing with unreadable secrets. His smile could unravel a person if they let it. His black hair was styled neatly, but it carried the suggestion that he could let it fall loose and still look just as untouchable. He had the impossible balance: polished and dangerous, elegant yet unpredictable.

Carrie turned on her side, pulling the sheets closer.

She told herself she was thinking of him only because he was part of the story, because Anita's tears had cracked the surface of something larger. Because it was her job.

But deep down, she knew the truth.

She was thinking of him because he was Andrew Lorenzo.

And tonight, his face had carved itself into her mind so sharply that she knew sleep would not come easy.