Chapter 4: Moving into the Golden Cage

Saturday morning arrived far too quickly.

By eight sharp, a pristine black Mercedes-Maybach pulled up along the dusty, flower-lined alley of Mariana’s family home in Project 4, Quezon City. Neighbours peeked through their wrought-iron gates, whispering excitedly as the uniformed driver, Kuya Bert, stepped out and politely loaded Mariana’s two worn suitcases into the trunk.

Her mother, Aling Rosa, stood on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron while looking at Mariana with a mixture of awe and deep suspicion.

"Maria, anak," Aling Rosa said, pulling her into a warm, tight hug that smelled of sampaguita and laundry soap. "Are you sure about this? A Montenegro? It feels like a fairytale... or a movie where the girl gets consumed by the rich folk."

Mariana swallowed the lump forming in her throat, plastering on the most convincing smile she could muster. "Nay, don't worry. Alex... he's different when it's just the two of us. He really cares about me." The lie tasted like ash on her tongue. "Besides, BGC is closer to the firm. I'll still visit every Sunday for dinner."

Inigo stood near the doorway, unable to look his sister in the eye. He knew—even if he didn't know the exact arrangement—that his sister was stepping into deep waters to clear his mess. When Mariana walked up to him, he hugged her tightly.

"I'm sorry, Ate," he whispered hoarsely into her shoulder. "I'll make this up to you. I swear."

"Just stay on the right path, Inigo," Mariana muttered quietly, squeezing his hand. "That's all the payment I need."

The drive to Bonifacio Global City took forty-five minutes. As the car crossed from the sprawling, chaotic streets of Manila into the gleaming, glass-and-steel expanse of BGC, Mariana felt as though she were passing through a portal into an entirely different universe.

The Maybach pulled into the private underground parking bay of the Grand Hyatt Residences. Kuya Bert escorted her to a private elevator that required a biometric scan and the silver keycard Alex had given her.

Ping.

The elevator doors slid open directly into the private foyer of the 50th-floor penthouse.

Mariana stepped out onto polished Italian marble floors. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows overlooking the Manila Golf Club, and minimalist designer furniture defined the space. It was sleek, immaculate, and utterly devoid of personal warmth—just like its owner.

"Welcome home, Miss Santos," a calm, dignified voice greeted her.

An older woman wearing a neat charcoal linen uniform stepped forward, offering a gentle smile. "I am Manang Celia, the head housekeeper. Sir Alejandro informed us of your arrival. Please, follow me to your suite."

"Thank you, Manang," Mariana said, relieved to see a friendly face in the middle of all the cold luxury.

Manang Celia led her down a wide corridor to a spacious master bedroom at the east wing of the penthouse. It featured a king-sized bed, a walk-in closet, an en-suite bathroom with a freestanding tub, and a private balcony offering a breathtaking view of the city line.

"Sir Alejandro's suite is in the west wing," Manang Celia explained as Kuya Bert set down her luggage. "He strictly requested that you have complete privacy here. He is currently in a board teleconference in his study, but he asked that you rest after settling in."

"Thank you, Manang Celia. This is... much more than I expected," Mariana said honestly.

After unpacking her clothes—which looked absurdly modest inside the grand walk-in closet—Mariana changed into a comfortable pair of oversized cotton pajamas. She walked over to the balcony, letting the cool wind blow through her hair as she looked down at the tiny cars below.

She was living in a five-star golden cage.

Around one in the afternoon, her stomach let out a loud rumble. Realizing she hadn't eaten since dawn, Mariana ventured out of her suite toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was a chef's dream—brushed steel appliances, marble countertops, and an enormous double-door refrigerator. She opened the fridge, expecting fancy gourmet meals, but found raw organic vegetables, sparkling water, expensive steaks, and imported cheeses.

"No instant noodles, no processed food..." Mariana muttered, sighing. "Rich people really don't know how to live."

Rolling up her sleeves, Mariana raided the pantry until she found garlic, rice, soy sauce, eggs, and a small slab of cured pork (tocino). Within twenty minutes, the sterile, scentless penthouse was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of toasted garlic fried rice and sizzling sweet pork.

She was just plating two portions when footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

Mariana turned around to see Alejandro standing at the kitchen entrance. He had shed his suit jacket; his crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, veined wrists. He held an iPad, but his gaze was locked onto the smoking skillet on the stove.

"What is that smell?" Alex asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

"It's called real food, Mr. Montenegro," Mariana replied, placing a plate of garlic rice and fried eggs on the kitchen island. "Garlic rice, egg, and sweet pork. Have you ever heard of it, or do you only consume corporate spreadsheets and cold water?"

Alex stared at the plate, then looked up at her. "Manang Celia usually prepares balanced meals."

"Manang Celia is on her afternoon break," Mariana said, hopping onto a high kitchen stool and pulling her plate toward her. "If you don't want any, more for me."

Alex stood still for three seconds. Then, slowly, he laid his iPad on the counter, walked over, and sat down on the stool opposite her. He picked up a fork, looked at the glistening garlic rice with suspicion, and took a small bite.

Mariana watched him out of the corner of her eye, suppressing a triumphant grin as his eyes widened ever so slightly.

"Well?" she challenged.

Alex chewed slowly, swallowed, and dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. "The garlic is slightly over-toasted," he remarked coldly, taking another bite immediately after. "And the grease content is questionable."

"And yet you're eating it," Mariana pointed out, smirking.

Alex didn't reply. For the next ten minutes, the high-powered CEO of Montenegro Holdings and his fake fiancée ate greasy homemade silog off a multi-million-peso marble counter in complete, surprisingly comfortable silence.

As Alex finished his plate, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen, and his expression instantly hardened back into the familiar "Ice Falcon" mask.

"My grandfather's secretary just called," Alex said, wiping his hands and standing up. "Don Eduardo is hosting a family dinner at the Montenegro estate in Forbes Park tomorrow evening."

Mariana’s fork halted mid-air. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes," Alex said, looking down at her, his dark eyes intense. "Tomorrow, you meet my family. And tomorrow, Miss Santos... your performance officially begins."