Chapter 1 Walking PR Crisis
As Kai Montinola stepped into the chaotic studio, the scent of hairspray and makeup filled her senses.
The hum of the lights, the chatter of stylists yelling in three different languages, and the rustle of barely-stitched clothes created the usual pre-show buzz.
But today wasn't usual.
Today, she had to contend with the walking PR crisis that was Andres Muhlach.
The first time she saw him in person, her brain tripped harder than her heels ever could.
She'd seen him everywhere — on TV, billboards, and perfume ads — but nothing compared to the real thing. Now, he was in the same room, breathing the same air.
Her longtime crush.
Her professional co-muse.
Her Roman Empire.
Her worst-case scenario.
The studio buzzed with anticipation.
Polished floors reflected the sharp angles of models filing in. The annual Benché Line 2025 fashion show was underway — a playground for the Philippines' brightest rising stars. Today, two of its brightest unknowingly orbited each other in the same room.
Kai Montinola arrived early. She always did. Not out of nerves — control. She liked the calm before the chaos. The silence before the bass dropped.
Except today, there was one thing she hadn’t prepared for.
One person.
Andres Muhlach.
Ten minutes after she walked in, he appeared at the entrance, his pale blue button-up shirt sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a hint of tan skin. The skylight caught his cheekbones, making him look like a model straight out of a Calvin Klein billboard.
Kai’s heart skipped a beat as she quickly looked away, busying herself with her outfit.
Calm down. You’re not thirteen. He’s just a guy.
A very symmetrical, stupidly tall guy.
Seriously. He looked like he got kissed by the sun, the moon, and every IG filter known to man.
Across the room, Andres tried hard not to look at her. Tried.
He’d seen Kai in photos, on TV, everywhere.
But in person?
He wasn’t ready.
She had that quiet kind of magic — the kind that doesn’t need noise to be loud.
Her eyes were sharp, unreadable, precise.
And he liked that.
Way too much.
So naturally, he stared.
A few seconds too long.
“Oh my God,” Atasha muttered, elbowing him near the lineup. “You’re glitching. Brain okay?”
“I wasn’t—” He coughed. “I wasn’t—”
“You were staring like she’s the last slice of cheesecake. Chill.”
“I was just—”
“Admiring the ceiling, right?” Atasha said with mock-seriousness. “Architectural appreciation is valid.”
"There's a lightbulb up there. Very moving."
Andres groaned. “Atasha.”
“What? You’ve got that crush-face. Adorable. Slightly tragic. But adorable.”
He ran a hand through his hair. Then, without meaning to, adjusted his sleeves again — even though they didn’t need fixing.
Was he seriously fidgeting like a teenager?
He glanced at Kai again — who was busy staring at the floor like it might give her stock tips.
She’s not even looking at me. Maybe I’m imagining this.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Just casually spiraling in a room full of cameras. Love that.
What he didn’t know:
Kai had looked at him.
Three times.
Once when he walked in.
Once when he laughed at something Atasha whispered.
Once when he adjusted his collar — his sleeves riding up just enough to reveal forearms.
Each time, she looked away like her life depended on it.
Because it sort of did.
You’re here to work, Kai. Not fall apart over forearms. Again.
Control your hormones, woman. This is a fashion show, not a Wattpad fic.
Atasha leaned toward a stylist, conducting silent commentary like a one-woman podcast.
“Either the beginning of a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers, or two emotionally constipated people in denial. Place your bets.”
The stylist snorted. Atasha looked smug.
Rehearsals began.
Models lined up. The choreographer shouted instructions as they ran through their runway struts.
As Andres brushed past Kai, she caught a faint whiff of his cologne — cinnamon? — and her heart did a backflip.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, but she clenched her jaw.
This fluttering anticipation?
Not in the plan.
Not even on the Pinterest mood board.
Their eyes met in the mirror, holding each other’s reflections for a heartbeat too long. Then she looked away like it burned.
The tension between them was palpable — thick enough to trip on.
Atasha sighed dramatically.
“If they don’t kiss by the finale,” she muttered, “I’m setting the stage on fire. For real. That much tension should be illegal.”
One silent rehearsal.
Two strangers orbiting the same stage.
Tomorrow was the real show.
And something told Kai — this wasn’t over.
