Chapter 4

(Erena’s POV)

Ugh, not this again.

I slammed the bathroom door shut behind me, leaned on the sink, and stared at my reflection.

Mascara smudged, lipstick faded, hair like I just got out of a small hurricane… but still. Maganda pa rin ako. Kahit sabog. Kahit laspag. Kahit—ugh, wala akong saplot.

I snorted at my own reflection. “Great. Gising ako sa kama ng stranger, n*******d, at amoy suka. Peak society girl behavior.”

Hindi ako lasengga ha. I mean, sure, I blacked out a little. Maybe vomited in a general direction. But that was the tequila’s fault, not mine.

And whose idea was it to serve bottomless shots in crystal glasses? Oh... Wait... realizing it's a poor decision on my part. I accept that.

I reached for the robe hanging neatly by the sink. I like that it's malambot. At least the man has taste.

Then I spotted my dress—freshly pressed, folded, with a laundry slip tucked on top.

Huh. Totoo ngang pinalaba niya ang damit ko. Napangiti ako.

May moment na gusto kong matawa. Sinong stranger ang nagpapalaba ng damit ng babae na sumuka sa kama niya?

Either saint siya, serial killer, or bored rich guy. Honestly, pwede lahat.

Another knock on the door.

“You dead in there?” his voice—smooth, dry, and irritatingly calm.

“Unfortunately for you,” I called out, tying the robe tighter, “I’m very much alive.”

“Shame. I was about to call the morgue.”

I rolled my eyes. Ang yabang din pala nito.

I opened the door just a little and peeked out. There he was—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a fresh white shirt, sleeves rolled up like he was on the cover of GQ: ‘Men Who Got Puked On But Still Look Hot.’

He gave me a once-over, eyebrow raised. “Nice robe. Suits you.”

“I make anything look good,” I snapped, stepping out like I owned the place—even if I haven't wear anything underneath yet.

He just smirked and nodded toward the dining table. “Breakfast?”

“Unless it’s caviar and espresso, pass.”

“Pancakes.”

“Fine. But only because I skipped dinner. And I hate wasting hotel amenities.”

I sat down like a queen visiting the peasants, crossed my legs, and grabbed a fork. “So… what’s your name again? Or do I just keep calling you ‘That Guy I Puked On’ in my memoirs?”

He took a sip of his coffee, amused. “Aki.”

"What? Akin?", me sounding confused. "What a weird name."

"Yeah, I can be yours.", he looked at me and start sipping coffee again.

I raised an eyebrow. I felt something tremble inside me. Maybe I'm too hungry? Damn! This guy looks like a blessing in the morning.

Hindi ko namalayang nakanganga na pala ako. Dali dali kong sinara ang bibig. Buti na lang at busy ang lalaki sa lamesa.

“I’m Erena,” I added, as if the name should mean something. (Which, to most people, it does.)

“Yup, I know,” he said.

I felt proud. Huh. Kahit sino talaga kilala ako. Ngiti ng kaloob looban ko.

I took a bite of the pancake. Not bad. Light, fluffy, rich—like me.

“So,” he continued casually, “do you make it a habit to crash into strangers’ hotel rooms and pass out?”

I smiled, slow and sharp. “Only when the universe bores me.”

He laughed, and I hated that it made something in my stomach flip.

But I didn’t show it. I was Erena goddamn Lopez. Heiress. Hurricane. Walking scandal with a designer bag collection and a permanent resting rich face.

Yes, I was embarrassed. Mortified, even.

But I’ll be damned before I let a man—any man—think he had the upper hand.