Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Hannah's POV

Manila is nothing like the island. On the island, you can hear the breath of the ocean; here, all you hear is the suffocating roar of engines and the impatient honking of jeepneys. The air doesn't smell like salt and roasting corn; it smells like exhaust and old rain.

​It has been three months since the black helicopters took Luke away. Three months of silence.

​I smoothed out my blazer—the most professional thing I owned—and looked up at the glass giant standing in the heart of Makati. CROMWELL LEGACY. The name was embossed in silver, gleaming under the harsh midday sun. It looked untouchable.

​"Don't be intimidated, Hannah," I whispered to myself, clutching my portfolio. "You’re a filmmaker. You’re here to tell stories."

​The lobby was a cathedral of marble and silence. People moved like clockwork, dressed in suits that cost more than my father’s entire farm. I felt like a stray colored pebble in a sea of grey stones. After a grueling hour of waiting and three different security checks, I was finally ushered into an office for my interview.

​"We saw your student films, Ms. Martin," the creative director said, flipping through my resume without looking up. "Raw. Unpolished. But you have an eye for light that we lack in our corporate media department. We need someone to document the Chairman’s upcoming projects. It’s a junior position. Low pay, long hours."

​"I'll take it," I said before he could even finish. I didn't care about the pay. I just needed to be inside these walls.

​"Good. You start today. We’re preparing for a press conference on the top floor. The CEO is making an appearance."

​My heart hammered against my ribs. The CEO. I followed a group of assistants into the high-speed elevator. As we ascended, my reflection in the polished metal doors looked different. The island glow was fading, replaced by a nervous pallor. I kept rehearsing what I would say if I saw him. 'Hi, Luke. Do you remember the sausages? Do you remember the shore?'

​The doors opened to a hall of mirrors and flashing cameras. Reporters were gathered around a podium. And then, the room went quiet.

​A side door opened, and a man walked out.

​He was wearing a charcoal suit that fit him like armor. His blonde hair was slicked back perfectly, not a single strand out of place. He moved with a predatory grace, his chin held high, his eyes scanning the room with a cold, piercing indifference.

​My breath hitched. It was him. It was Luke.

​But as he stepped up to the podium, I realized with a jolt of horror that the "angel" I had cupped the face of in my bedroom was gone. This man’s face was a mask of stone.

​"The shares will remain locked," he spoke into the microphone. His voice was deep and sharp, cutting through the room like a blade. "Cromwell Legacy does not negotiate with minor shareholders who lack vision. If you aren't with us, you are in our way."

​A reporter shouted a question. "Mr. Cromwell, rumors say your recovery was a miracle. How are you feeling?"

​Luke leaned into the mic, a small, conceited smirk playing on his lips. "I feel like myself again. And 'miracles' are for people who can't afford the best doctors. Next question."

​I stood in the back, frozen. I felt a wave of nausea. He sounded... cruel. Vain. The man who told me that money doesn't make sense was now mocking people for not having enough of it.

​After the conference, the crowd began to disperse. I found myself standing near the exit of the hall as he walked toward it, flanked by the same men in suits who had landed on our beach.

​Our eyes met for a split second.

​My heart stopped. I waited for the spark. I waited for the recognition, for the "Island Luke" to peek through that expensive suit and say my name.

​Luke’s gaze swept over me. It didn't linger. It didn't soften. To him, I was just another faceless employee in a cheap blazer standing in his way. He didn't even blink. He just kept walking, the scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the air where the smell of sea salt used to be.

​He didn't just forget his memory. He had forgotten his soul.

The coldness of the encounter stayed with me long after the elevator dropped me back to the ground floor. I stumbled out of the building, the humid Manila air sticking to my skin, and found a quiet corner near a fountain. My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone. I needed a tether back to reality. I needed to hear a voice that didn't sound like a machine.

​"Hannah? You’re breathing like you just ran a marathon. What happened?" Ashton’s voice was a relief, even over the static of a long-distance call.

​"I saw him, Ash," I choked out, the tears finally breaking through. "I saw Luke. Or... I saw the man who used to be Luke."

​"And?" Ashton’s tone sharpened with concern. "Did he see you? Did he say anything?"

​"He looked right at me, Ash. It was like looking into a mirror that didn't show my reflection. There was nothing. No spark, no 'thank you,' not even a hint of a smile. He’s... he’s horrible. He stood on a stage and told the world that miracles are only for people who can't afford doctors. After everything you did for him! After how we stayed up nights making sure he didn't stop breathing!"

​There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I could almost hear Ashton’s jaw tightening.

​"Miracles are for the poor, huh?" Ash muttered, his voice laced with a bitterness I’d never heard from him before. "That arrogant son of a..." He stopped himself, sighing heavily. "Hannah, maybe Dad was right. Maybe the person we saved wasn't the 'real' him. Maybe the amnesia just stripped away the layers of the jerk he actually is."

​"I want to leave, Ash," I confessed, looking back at the towering glass monolith behind me. "I was so stupid to think I could just walk in there and remind him of the island. He’s the CEO. He’s vain, conceited, and he looks at everyone like they’re beneath his polished shoes. I don't think I can work for a man like that. I’m thinking of quitting tomorrow."

​"Don't," Ashton said firmly.

​"Why not? I’m miserable!"

​"Because you didn't go to Manila just for a man, Hannah Martin. You went there for your dream. If you quit now, he wins. He takes away your island peace and your future career? No. Don't give him that power." Ashton’s voice softened. "Stay there. Observe him. Use that 'filmmaker’s eye' of yours. If 'Island Luke' is still in there, he’s buried under a lot of expensive trash. If he isn't... then at least you’ll know for sure and you can move on with your life at a top-tier company."

​I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, looking at my reflection in the dark glass of a nearby shop window. I looked small, but my eyes still had that island fire in them.

​"You're right," I whispered. "I'm not leaving. Not yet."

​"Good. And Hannah? If he ever treats you like dirt again, just remember—you’re the one who saw him at his weakest. You’re the one who knows what he looks like when he’s scared and lost. That’s a power he doesn't even know you have."

​We said our goodbyes, and I tucked my phone away. I looked up at the top floor of the Cromwell Legacy building. Luke Cromwell might have regained his memory, his money, and his arrogance, but he had no idea that his newest employee was the keeper of his greatest secret.

​I wasn't a hero anymore. I was a witness. And I was going back in.

The cold glass of the Cromwell Legacy tower felt like a barrier between me and the rest of the world as I stepped back through the revolving doors. Ashton was right. I couldn’t let a man who didn't even remember me dictate the trajectory of my life. I had worked too hard to get here.

​I smoothed my blazer, took a deep breath of the sterile, expensive-smelling air, and headed toward the Media and Communications wing on the 12th floor.

​The 12th floor was a hive of activity. Unlike the hushed, museum-like lobby, this place buzzed with the clicking of keyboards, the whirring of high-end printers, and the frantic chatter of people who looked like they hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.

​"You must be the new girl. Martin, right?"

​A woman with sharp, bobbed hair and a tablet tucked under her arm stopped in front of me. She didn't wait for an answer. "I’m Monica, the Senior Content Producer. You’re late for the briefing. Follow me."

​I scrambled to keep up with her. She walked with a terrifying speed that reminded me of the helicopters.

​"This is the bullpen," she said, waving a hand toward a cluster of sleek white desks. "That’s Vince, our Lead Editor. Don't touch his coffee. And that’s Sarah, she handles social media and damage control. You’ll be working under them to document the Chairman’s 'New Era' campaign."

​"Nice to meet you," I said, trying to offer a friendly smile.

​Vince, a guy with heavy dark circles under his eyes, barely looked up from his dual monitors. "If you can’t handle a camera while being yelled at by a man who thinks he’s a god, quit now. It’ll save us the paperwork."

​Sarah, at least, offered a sympathetic wince. "Ignore him. He’s just bitter because the CEO made him re-edit the last press release six times because his 'left side' looked too soft. Welcome to the Lion’s Den, Hannah."

​"Is he... always that difficult?" I asked, trying to sound casually curious.

​Monica stopped at a glass-walled conference room and turned to me. "Difficult? No. He’s a Cromwell. He’s perfectionist, impatient, and possesses the empathy of a shark. He’s the most successful CEO we’ve had in a decade, but he’s also the most hated man in the building. Just keep your head down, do your job, and whatever you do, don't look him in the eye for too long. He hates 'lingering.'"

​The irony tasted like copper in my mouth. On the island, he had begged me to look at him. He had searched my eyes for his own identity. Now, I was being warned that my gaze was an inconvenience.

​"Today’s task is simple," Monica continued, sliding a schedule toward me. "The CEO is doing a walkthrough of the new legacy wing. You’re on the secondary camera. Your job is to catch 'candid' moments of him looking 'visionary.' But stay out of his line of sight. He’s been in a foul mood since his therapy session this morning."

​My heart gave a painful little tug. Therapy. The word the men in suits had used on the beach. Was he actually getting better, or was he just being molded back into the monster the board members wanted him to be?

​"Ready?" Monica asked, her hand on the door handle.

​I looked at my reflection in the glass one last time. The girl from the island was still there, but she was learning to wear a mask of her own. "Ready."

​As we walked toward the executive elevators to meet the man who was no longer Luke, I realized that the "Cromwell Legacy" wasn't just a company name. It was a prison. And as the doors slid open, I saw him standing there, surrounded by assistants and lawyers, looking every bit the cold, arrogant king they said he was.

​The "candid" moment I caught on my lens wasn't visionary. It was lonely. But he was too vain to ever admit it.