Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

By the next morning, I decided I needed a plan.

Not a PR plan—my manager was already screaming down the phone about that. Not a political plan—my dad's office had sent me a forty-page PDF titled "Damage Control Protocol for Presidential Daughters." No, I needed a personal plan.

A sanity plan.

Step one: Leave the hotel.

Step two: Pretend I'm a normal person.

Step three: Return without incident, without headlines, without accidentally tripping over a billionaire's glowing dragon tattoo.

Simple.

I dressed carefully—wide-brim hat, oversized sunglasses, casual jeans, sneakers. The Holy Trinity of celebrity camouflage. The goal: blend in.

"See?" I told my reflection in the mirror. "Normal girl. Totally unrecognizable. No one will suspect you're the president's daughter-slash-superstar who may or may not be destined to marry Asia's richest man. You're just... Karen. Karen from Cebu."

I slung a tote bag over my shoulder and slipped out through the hotel's side entrance like a spy in an indie film.

And for a glorious hour, it worked.

I walked along Orchard Road, browsed through shops, even bought a ridiculously overpriced bubble tea. Nobody stopped me. Nobody stared. I was just another tourist with bad fashion sense and a sweet tooth.

"This," I muttered between sips, "is what peace tastes like. Tapioca pearls and anonymity."

Of course, peace never lasts. Not for me.

I was halfway through admiring a display of shoes I didn't need when I heard it—the telltale click-click-click of a camera shutter.

I froze.

Slowly, I turned my head.

And there they were. Paparazzi. Like mushrooms after rain, popping up out of nowhere. Two, then three, then five. Cameras flashing, shutters clicking, voices shouting.

"Kaira! Kaira! Are you meeting Travis today?"

"Show us the tattoo, Kaira! Where is it?"

"Are you two in love? Are you moving in together?"

I nearly choked on my bubble tea. "What? No! I'm shoe shopping, not soul-bonding!"

The crowd thickened, people pointing phones at me, whispering. Some screamed my name, others screamed his.

I clutched my tote bag tighter. "Oh, this is great. This is exactly what I needed. Nothing says normal day out like being chased through Singapore by a mob with Canon cameras."

I tried to push past them, muttering, "Excuse me, personal space is a thing, you know," but they swarmed closer, lenses practically grazing my cheek.

One shouted, "Smile for us, future Mrs. Javierres!"

That did it.

"Oh my God!" I snapped. "For the last time, I am not marrying his tattoo! It's a tattoo, not a marriage certificate!"

The flashbulbs blinded me. My chest tightened. Panic bubbled in my throat.

And then—the chaos shifted.

A black car pulled up to the curb. The crowd parted slightly as a man stepped out.

Tall. Calm. Controlled.

Travis.

Of course.

Because why wouldn't he appear now, at the exact moment I was about to melt into a puddle of bubble-tea-flavored anxiety?