Chapter 1
Manila, 7:02 a.m.
The city never really sleeps. It merely holds its breath between the honk of a bus and the clatter of street vendors setting up their stalls. But thirty-two stories above EDSA, in the sleek silence of glass and chrome, it almost feels like peace.
Almost.
I stirred my espresso, watching the crema swirl like a storm. The bitterness suited me this morning. My phone blinked beside the saucer — fourteen unread emails, three meeting reminders, and a calendar alert titled:
“Venezia Design Summit — FINAL PANELIST CONFIRMATION.”
Italy.
I had less than a week to prepare. Less than a week to walk into the lion’s den of international design minds and prove that the De Almonte name wasn’t just heritage — it was evolution.
"He's going to be there."
My assistant, Nalani, had warned me yesterday, tiptoeing around it like it might ignite a war.
Augustus Theodore Montgomery.
Legacy of the Montgomery Atelier. World-renowned. Perpetually poised. And the only man I’d never managed to outshine.
I didn’t flinch at the news. I smiled, the way one does at a storm they’ve already braced for. We weren’t friends. We weren’t enemies either.
We were… something colder. Sharper. The kind of rivalry that made blood run hot but hearts freeze.
He was methodical. Ruthlessly precise. Untouchably polished. I hated how much I respected him.
I stood from my seat and crossed the marble floors of my penthouse, glass walls bathing the room in soft morning light. My latest model sat on the drafting table — minimalist, sustainable, and impossible to ignore. It was my submission for the competition, and it had taken six months to get it right. Every curve. Every calculation. Every unspoken scream stitched into steel and glass.
I had built a name without shortcuts. Without scandal. Without help.
If Augustus Montgomery wanted to play king in Venice, he’d better be prepared for a queen with sharpened claws.
My phone buzzed again. A message from Alaia.
“Coffee tonight? Before you disappear into workaholic mode?” I smiled. Only she would dare to say it outright. I typed back a quick yes, then returned to the model.
Outside, the Manila skyline was waking up, one construction crane at a time.
Inside, my thoughts were already 6,000 miles away — in the gilded halls of Italy, where legacy and ego clashed like marble and flame.
Let the architects come. Let Augustus come.
Let him see what I’ve built without him.
Five Years Ago
Florence, Italy
“Your design lacks restraint,” he said, not even looking at me.
We stood in a grand ballroom-turned-gallery. I was twenty-four. Young, hungry, furious.
“It lacks compromise,” I replied. “Which is why it matters.”
He looked at me then. Eyes the color of dusk — unreadable, calculating.
“Then we’ll see which of us the world listens to.”
And we did. Again. And again. In different cities. Different judges.
He won some. I won others. But no one ever forgot either of us.
My phone buzzed again. It was Alaia's text.
Alaia: I had a dream of you and August got stuck in an elevator. You murdered him with a stiletto.
I smirked and replied. Trust Alaia to to inject humor into my perfectly curated chaos.
Me: Coffee at 7. No stilettos. No murders...yet. I'd never ruin a Louboutin on him.
I tossed the phone aside and walked to the glass window, pressing my palm against it. Manila was buzzing now — people starting their daily wars. But mine had always been quieter. Waged in design, precision, and patience.
I’ll see him in Venice.
And this time, I won’t just challenge him.
I’ll dismantle him — brick by brick, silence by silence.
Because the thing about foundations is, once you shake them, even the most beautiful façade can fall.
