Chapter 1: The Dare
Manila, 9:03 PM
Luna Marquez was late, underdressed, and utterly out of patience.
“Putangina, Andres, move this jeepney or I’ll set your tires on fire!” she barked into her phone, wedging herself between two street vendors hawking isaw and fried taho. The neon glow of Alejandro Tower loomed ahead, its glass façade mocking her with its sterile perfection. She’d rather chew barbed wire than plan another soulless corporate gala, but rent was due, and Mateo Alejandro’s empire paid triple.
Her combat boots squeaked on the lobby’s polished marble as security eyed her like a stray cat. She flipped them off with a grin, her neon-tipped braids swinging.
10:15 PM
The ballroom was a crypt—all white orchids, silent waiters, and billionaires sipping Dom Pérignon like it was cough syrup. Luna’s clients usually wanted opulence. Mateo Alejandro wanted obedience.
“Mr. Alejandro insists on monochromatic floral arrangements,” sniffed his assistant, Celeste, her French manicure tapping a spreadsheet. “No garish colors. No music. And absolutely no—”
“Pakyu ka,” Luna muttered under her breath, already dragging a ladder toward the ceiling.
10:47 PM
She was hanging a disco ball the size of a kubo when he walked in.
Mateo Alejandro didn’t enter rooms—he infected them. Six-two, all lean muscle and tailored savagery, his gaze sliced through the crowd like a machete. Luna’s breath hitched. Asshole.
“What,” he said, voice low and lethal, “is that?”
She glanced down. His eyes were black coffee and arsenic.
“A disco ball, sir,” she drawled, dangling the ladder with one hand. “You know, for fun? That thing rich people outsource?”
His jaw twitched. “Take. It. Down.”
“Make me.”
The room froze.
11:12 PM
He cornered her in the service elevator, his cologne—smoke and something unforgiving—filling the space.
“You’re fired,” he said.
She slammed the emergency stop button. “Fire me, and your next event will be a fiesta of cockroaches and karaoke.”
A beat. Then, shockingly, his lips curved. Not a smile. A threat.
“You want to play, hmm?” He stepped closer, his thumb brushing her wrist where her pulse roared. “Fine. Seven nights. Redesign my events. If you can survive my standards, I’ll triple your fee. If not…” His grip tightened. “You’ll beg to be forgotten.”
Luna’s laugh was all teeth. “Seven nights to ruin you? Game on, rich boy.”
Midnight
Outside, rain soaked the city. Luna didn’t notice. Her phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number:
[Unknown]: You’ll regret this.
[Unknown]: He’s mine.
Attached was a photo of Mateo at last year’s gala, arm around a woman with ice-blonde hair and a smile like a scalpel. Viola.
Luna deleted it, lit a cigarette, and whispered to the storm: “Bring it, bitch.”
Next Chapter Teaser:
Night One: Luna crashes a yacht party with lambanog, fire dancers, and a kiss that blurs the line between revenge and ruin. But Viola’s watching—and she plays dirtier than Manila’s sewers.
