Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The morning sun spilled over Malacañang's gardens, gilding the trees, but the palace itself felt heavy. Like every polished wall was whispering: behave, behave, behave.

I didn't want to.

I hadn't slept well. My brain had been looping between last night's humiliation with Dad's chief of staff and that stupid memory of a dragon glowing under moonlight.

Now, a housemaid in neat uniform stood outside my room, saying, "The President will see you in his office."

The President. Not Dad.

I dragged myself through the long hallways, past portraits of dead men with starched collars and unsmiling faces. My sneakers squeaked against the marble.

When I pushed open the double doors, I found him behind his massive desk. Papers stacked high, aides buzzing around him like worker bees. He waved them out with a flick of his hand when he saw me.

"Sit," he said.

That was it. No hug, no smile. Just sit.

I slumped into the chair opposite him, crossing my arms, reading the wooden nameplate on his table that says Karwin Fernando Chaves Jr., President of the Philippines. "Good morning to you too, Dad."

He didn't look up from the file he was signing. "You've caused me trouble."

"Oh, I'm great, thanks for asking," I shot back. "My flight was long, the paparazzi swarmed me, but hey, I survived. Totally fine."

Finally, he looked at me. And I hated that his eyes were the same as mine—dark, sharp, heavy with judgment.

"You think this is a joke?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I said. "A very expensive, very stupid joke that somehow I'm the punchline of."

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "You embarrassed this office."

I laughed, short and bitter. "This office embarrasses itself just fine without me."

His jaw tightened. "Careful, Kaira."

There it was. The warning. The reminder that in this palace, I wasn't just his daughter. I was a liability, a headline, a political chess piece. They only wanted me to live here instead of home so they can surveil on me.

Before I could fire back, the doors opened.

And in swept my mother.

The First Lady of the Philippines, Ramelda Luisita Aragon-Chaves.

She was impeccable as always—hair perfect, pearl earrings gleaming, today's "casual" outfit a designer blouse paired with a handbag that probably cost more than most people's annual rent.

She kissed Dad's cheek lightly, then air-kissed mine. "Kaira, darling."

Her perfume hit me like a floral cloud. I fought not to sneeze.

"You're trending again," she said, sliding gracefully into the seat beside me. "Do you know how many calls I've gotten from friends asking if you're engaged? One even sent me a photo of herself crying. Crying! Because she thinks she's lost her chance to see Travis Javierres at a charity gala."

I stared at her. "You have the weirdest friends."

She ignored me, smoothing a hand over her bag—crocodile leather, gold clasp, logo front and center. New. She always had something new. But then and again, she only uses anything once.

"You need to be more careful," she continued, her tone polite but edged. "Your father has enough enemies without his daughter feeding gossip columns. If you can't keep a low profile, at least learn how to spin it into something useful."