Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The knock on my condo door came at eight sharp the next morning, which was already a red flag. Nobody civilized knocks at eight a.m. unless it's the apocalypse or my father's staff.

I shuffled to the door in an oversized T-shirt and sunglasses I hadn't bothered to take off since crawling home last night. When I opened it, there he was: Danilo. The family driver-slash-shadow. Neat polo, pressed slacks, expression carved from granite.

"Miss Chaves," he said with a short nod. "We're expected."

I groaned, leaning against the doorframe. "Expected where? Breakfast? Coffee? Jail?"

His mouth twitched—his version of a smile. "Malacañang."

Of course.

I sighed dramatically, clutching my tote bag like it could protect me from politics. "Let me guess. Dad's having a coronary over last night, and I get the honor of being the human defibrillator."

Danilo didn't answer, which was answer enough.

Five minutes later, I was in the backseat of the convoy, sunglasses still on, earbuds blasting music in a futile attempt to drown out the dread. Outside, Manila blurred past in streaks of jeepneys, tricycles, and billboards—ordinary chaos. Inside, the car was too quiet, too heavy.

Malacañang rose ahead, all white walls and manicured lawns, the gates swinging open like jaws. I'd lived here for three years now, but every return made me feel like I was walking into a gilded cage.

We stopped at the palace steps. Danilo opened my door with the solemnity of a soldier delivering a prisoner. "They're waiting in the conference room."

"Perfect," I muttered, adjusting my tote. "Nothing says family bonding like a firing squad."

Inside, the air was thick, the kind of silence that only comes when everyone's already been talking about you before you arrive. Staff moved briskly, avoiding my eyes. Even the portraits on the walls seemed to glare.

The conference room door opened, and I walked into a wall of suits.

My father's chief of staff. Senior advisors. PR handlers. A half-dozen faces I knew only as names attached to crisis memos. All arranged neatly around the long mahogany table, laptops open, papers stacked, like they were here to negotiate a trade deal—except the commodity was me.

"Kaira," the chief of staff said smoothly, gesturing to a chair at the head of the table. "Please, sit."

I dropped into the chair, crossing my legs, adjusting my sunglasses even though we were indoors. "Wow, all this for me? I feel so... loved."

A nervous chuckle from one corner. Otherwise, silence.

The chief of staff clasped his hands. "We'll be direct. Last night's events have created a political storm. The President's approval numbers are volatile. We're less than a month from the State of the Nation Address, and this—" he tapped a photo on the table, me in a green gown, Travis looming behind me, diamond flashing on my finger "—is now the headline. Not policy. Not infrastructure. This."

I tilted my head. "You say that like it's my fault he showed up."

"Miss Chaves," one of the PR women said crisply, "you didn't deny him. You didn't clarify. You didn't control the narrative. You let the room believe you are engaged."

I snorted. "I let the room believe? Excuse me, Travis walked in like Moses with a press kit and declared destiny. What exactly was I supposed to do, shout 'Fake news!' on the dance floor?"