Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The city lights looked different when you weren't sure where you belonged.

By the time Danilo dropped me at my condo, the sun was starting to sink, smearing orange across the glass towers of Makati. The ride back had been quiet. Danilo didn't ask questions. I didn't offer answers. My tote bag sat heavy in my lap like a secret.

When the elevator opened onto my penthouse floor, everything felt off-kilter. The hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant and lilies from some neighbor's bouquet. My door loomed ahead, sleek and expensive, but not exactly home.

Inside, the silence hit me first.

I let the tote slide to the floor, toes of my heels digging into the carpet. The city sprawled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—glittering, indifferent, alive. My phone buzzed with messages: my manager, unread; my mother, ignored; my father, blocked.

I sank onto the couch, knees pulled to my chest, the fabric of my dress wrinkling beneath me. For a while, I just stared at the skyline.

And then the tears came.

Quiet at first, then harder. All the anger, all the defiance, all the adrenaline drained out of me and left only the ache.

I was free.

But it felt like grieving.

Because no matter how corrupt, how manipulative, how suffocating—they were still my family. My father. My mother. My brother. Memories of childhood before the politics, before the cameras. Sunday breakfasts. Secret birthdays. Moments that weren't scripted.

And now, all of it felt like it had been burned.

I pressed my palms to my eyes, whispering, "I'm free. I'm free. I'm free," like saying it enough times might make the ache shrink.

A sound cut through the quiet.

Soft. Small.

From the far corner of the penthouse.

I froze, palms still on my face.

Another sound—like a faint shuffle.

My heart thumped hard.

I lowered my hands slowly, scanning the room. The penthouse looked the same—expensive furniture, art on the walls, soft lighting. But in the far corner near the hall, the shadows seemed... wrong.

"Travis?" I called, my voice trembling more than I wanted.

Silence.

I stood, brushing at my face, forcing sarcasm into my tone like armor. "Okay, not funny. If you're here, this is officially creepy. Even for a billionaire with control issues."

Nothing.

I took a few steps toward the corner. My heart hammered louder. The shadows didn't move.

"Travis, seriously," I said again, louder this time. "This isn't sexy mysterious. This is Netflix true crime documentary territory. If you're hiding in my penthouse, at least have the decency to answer me before I grab a frying pan."

Still nothing.

A chill slid down my spine.

I snatched my phone from the couch and hit Travis's number.

He answered on the second ring, his voice low, steady. "Kaira."

My breath rushed out. "Okay, not funny. Come out."

"What?"

I turned toward the corner again, phone clutched tight. "I said come out. You're in my penthouse, aren't you? You somehow got in. That's—look, Travis, I've let a lot slide, but sneaking into my home? That's stalker territory."