Chapter 2

Days passed, and even after being beaten nearly to death, I did what I had always done—I treated my wounds, swallowed a few painkillers, and forced myself to keep going. Because what else was I supposed to do? Lie in bed and wait for someone to notice? Wait for someone to come save me? No one was coming. No one ever did. So I learned to pick myself up, even when every part of me was begging to stay down.

Before work, I stood in front of the mirror and carefully covered the bruises on my face. Foundation, concealer, powder—layer after layer until the swelling and discoloration disappeared beneath a mask that made me look almost normal. I stared at my reflection for a while, trying to convince myself that the woman looking back at me wasn't falling apart. If the manager saw the bruises, she'd ask questions. She'd want to know what happened, and I didn't have an answer I could give her. More importantly, I couldn't afford to lose this job. I needed the money. I needed somewhere to go, something to hold on to, even if it was only a job that forced me to pretend I was okay.

So I fixed my hair, wiped the exhaustion from my eyes, and smiled at my reflection. It was easier to pretend I wasn't hurting than to admit there was no one there to care.

I really couldn't lose this job.

I worked at a nightclub during the midnight shift and at a coffee shop during the day. Five hours in the morning felt like ten, while eight hours at night stretched into something that seemed to last forever. My body was running on caffeine and ibuprofen, because most days, those were the only things keeping me upright.

At the club, I was only a waitress. Nothing more. I poured drinks, carried trays, smiled when I had to, and kept my head down. I did my job and went home. But perhaps because of where I worked, and because I was already too exhausted to keep correcting every accusation thrown at me, the rumors eventually found their way around the neighborhood.

Nagbebenta daw ng katawan.

I heard it everywhere. From girls whispering in front of the small store down the street. From the marites who laughed a little too loudly whenever I passed by. Sometimes, they didn't even bother lowering their voices.

I pretended not to hear them.

Because what else could I do? I was already tired of defending myself. Tired of explaining that working at a nightclub didn't make me the person they wanted me to be. Tired of denying things I had never done just so people could sleep peacefully with their assumptions.

So I kept walking.

I kept my eyes forward, swallowed every insult, and acted like none of it mattered. Because if I acknowledged their words, if I let them reach the parts of me that were already barely holding together, then they would win.

And I couldn't afford to break.

Not here.

Not now.

Kayle cornered me with the tray. "Ryn, can you take this to VIP Room 3? My stomach's killing me. Baka biglang lumabas sa harap ng customer, nakakahiya."

She shoved it into my hands. Her face was pale and clammy, desperation all over her.

I took it. "Sige."

The weight was still warm. And so was the panic in her eyes.

She bolted off immediately, one hand clutching her stomach, the other slapped over her mouth like she was holding herself together by force. "Bakit kasi pumasok pa rin kahit dinadiarrhea na," I muttered under my breath, but the words tasted bitter. I didn’t blame her. God, I didn’t. We both knew what happened if we didn’t show up. We both knew how fast they’d replace us.

My feet already hurt. A dull, throbbing ache that crawled up to my knees. And I still had another 8 hours to go. Eight hours of smiling, of carrying trays, of pretending I wasn’t dead on my feet.

The walk to the second floor felt longer than usual. My heels clicked against the stairs, each sound echoing through the quiet hallway. Too loud. I kept my eyes ahead, reminding myself not to think too much about the room waiting at the end.

Room 3.

I stopped in front of the door and knocked three times. The sound echoed before the door opened.

“Your order, sir. Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice steady. It had to be. I had learned how to sound calm even when I didn't feel it.

I turned to leave, but I felt it—the weight of their eyes following me. On my legs. On my face. The kind of stare that made my skin crawl, as if their gaze could strip away every layer of clothing I wore.

Don't look back. Don't look back.

“What's your name?”

The drunk, sluggish voice made my heart jump. I stopped for a second before forcing myself to turn around with the same polite smile I had practiced countless times.

“You can call me Aries po, sir. Enjoy.”

A fake name. A fake smile. Just enough politeness to keep things easy.

Then leave. That was all I wanted. Just to get out.

I closed the door behind me and let out a quiet breath I didn’t know I was holding. The air in the hallway felt heavier than it should, and halfway down I caught myself walking faster. I just wanted to get back to the bar, away from the rooms and the men inside them. Away from all of it.

I didn’t see him coming.

The impact knocked the air clean out of me. “Oh, shit.” My heels gave way and I hit the floor hard, landing on my butt first. Pain shot up my spine and for a second I couldn’t even breathe, just sat there trying to pull air back into my lungs.

“Putcha! Bulag ka ba?!”

Before I could apologize, a hand grabbed my shoulder and shoved me back down. Tears stung my eyes but I blinked them away fast.

Don’t cry here. Not here. Never let them see you break.

“Pasensya na po, sir. Hindi ko po sinasadya.” My voice shook as I lowered my head. I knew better than to argue. That was what they wanted, wasn’t it? To see me submit. To see me apologize even when I wasn’t the one at fault. To watch me make myself small.

“Sorry?! Sino ka ba sa tingin mo?!” His fist came up.

Everything slowed. I flinched and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the hit. But it never came.

A heavy thud echoed through the hallway instead. When I opened my eyes, the man who’d been standing over me was on the floor now, stunned and motionless. I stayed where I was, still shaking, until I slowly looked up.

Someone stood between us.

He was tall. Too tall. Black suit, black pants, black everything — like he’d walked straight out of a shadow and decided to stay there. The fabric didn’t wrinkle. Not a single hair out of place.

His face was clean-sharp jaw, cold eyes, mouth set in a line that wasn’t cruel but wasn’t kind either.

No anger. No pity. Nothing at all.

The air changed the second he was there. The noise dulled. Even my breathing felt too loud. He looked down at the man on the floor the same way you’d look at something you were already tired of cleaning up.

“Mr. Ashford!” The manager’s panicked voice echoed down the hallway as she hurried toward us.

I pushed myself up, hands trembling as I steadied myself against the wall. My gaze went back to the stranger.

My breath caught.

Lucien Ashford.