Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The problem with being "globally trending" is that it sounds so glamorous until you realize half the hashtags are memes of you choking on champagne while diamonds glitter in the background.

A week after the whole thirty-seven-rings circus, I was trending again. Not because Your Majesty, the show I'd poured blood, sweat, and fake royal tears into, had been number one on Netflix for weeks. No. People were still obsessing over the engagement ring rotation program. Apparently, the internet found endless joy in making calendars for me: Monday—Diamond One, Tuesday—Ruby Two, Wednesday—Sapphire Three.

So yes, by the time the after-party for Your Majesty rolled around, I was already in a mood.

"This is your night," my manager said firmly as we rattled through traffic in a car that was supposed to scream low profile but absolutely screamed celebrity trying not to be seen. She was in the seat beside me, hair frazzled from stress, eyes glued to her phone as if sheer willpower could stop the bleeding of my endorsement contracts.

"My night," I echoed, staring at my reflection in the car window. The city lights blurred my face, streaked it into something unrecognizable. "You mean, my one-night parole before the tabloids crucify me again?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Kaira, please. For once, can you just enjoy this? The show is a hit. Number one globally. Fans adore you. Netflix adores you. This is the good news we've been begging for."

I raised a brow. "You make it sound like Netflix is adopting me. Should I start calling Ted Sarandos Dad?"

She groaned. "Don't. Just—smile. Drink champagne. Be gracious. Don't mention tattoos. Or rings. Or men whose last names start with J."

I held up my tote bag. "This is my only ally tonight. If anyone asks stupid questions, I'm whacking them with it."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Watch me."

The car pulled up to the venue. Even through the tinted glass, I could see it: the explosion of light, cameras flashing, reporters packed shoulder to shoulder. The after-party was being held in a ballroom that looked like Versailles had been reborn in Makati. The red carpet gleamed, waiting for me like a guillotine.

I inhaled sharply. Showtime.

The door opened, and noise hit me like a wall. Shouts of my name, camera flashes strobing, lenses thrust forward like weapons.

I pasted on a smile—the kind I'd perfected since childhood, sharp enough to slice, soft enough to charm. My gown flowed around me, a shimmering deep green that hugged all the right angles, my hair in loose waves down my back. I looked every inch the global star.

Inside, I was already calculating how many seconds it would take before someone screamed the word engagement.

My manager muttered as she trailed me, "Remember: tonight is about Your Majesty. Nothing else. No comments about your personal life. If the press asks, redirect. Smile. Say you're honored to be part of such a project. Done."

"Redirect, smile, honored. Got it," I said sweetly. "Like a malfunctioning GPS with good cheekbones."

The first round of reporters surged. "Kaira! Over here! A few words!"

I stopped, tilted my head just so, let the lights catch the diamonds on my earrings. "It's been an incredible journey," I said, autopilot switching on. "We worked so hard on Your Majesty. To see it embraced around the world—it's humbling."

Click. Flash. Shouts.

Another question. "How does it feel to play a queen when the world is already calling you one?"