Crown of the Empire

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Manila has teeth.

It bites you the second you land. Not like Sydney with its polite air that smells faintly of eucalyptus and order. Not like Singapore, which is basically a sterilized perfume bottle disguised as a city. Manila is raw. Manila snarls. Manila throws smog, noise, vendors, traffic, and humidity in your face and dares you to survive it.

And I always do.

The moment I stepped out of NAIA, the air slapped me across the cheek. Hot, heavy, humid, tinged with gasoline, roasted chestnuts, and sea salt drifting from the bay. Somewhere in the chaos, a vendor yelled about mangos. Horns blared like an orchestra warming up without a conductor. I smiled despite myself. The mess was mine.

The Vergara convoy waited outside—black cars gleaming under the weak airport lights, tinted windows rolled down just enough for drivers in Barong Tagalog to nod at me. Not flashy like politicians with motorcycles and sirens, but unmistakably powerful. Subtle power. The kind that said: You know who this is. Don't bother asking.

I slid into the backseat of the lead car. Leather, cold air-conditioning, silence. The exact opposite of the chaos outside. That was the Vergara way—control the noise by enclosing yourself in glass and steel.

As the car pulled out, Manila sprawled before me, alive, ugly, beautiful. Billboards flashed skin-whitening creams, politicians' smug faces, and K-drama idols selling fried chicken. Jeepneys rattled, overloaded buses swerved like mechanical bulls, and everywhere, people walked, sweated, sold, hustled.

And then the skyline rose. Makati's glass towers gleamed against the night, their logos glowing like deities in the smog. One tower gleamed brighter, taller, sharper. My family's name burned in blue neon: VERGARA BANK.

Home sweet battlefield.

My phone buzzed nonstop in my lap. News outlets. Gossip blogs. Social media notifications piling up like confetti. I scrolled, scanning the headlines:

Banking Heiress Sparks Frenzy at Javierres Gala

Mariya Vergara Pledges to Match Nikolai Takedo's Pediatric Fund

Fire vs. Ice: Will Asia's Two Youngest Titans Collide or Collaborate?

I almost laughed. Fire vs. Ice. Trust the media to turn a few barbed words into a fairy tale. If only they knew the truth: it hadn't been flirtation, or banter, or any of that romantic nonsense people projected onto two people with decent cheekbones. It was war. He'd challenged me, dissected me, and then stood there like marble, unbothered, untouched.

And worse, I hadn't been able to stop myself from answering back.

My thumb hovered over one article headline, irritation tightening in my chest:

"Heiress or Hothead? Mariya Vergara Plays With Fire"

Typical. A man raises his voice in a boardroom, he's assertive. I deliver numbers sharper than knives in a gala, I'm reckless. A man cuts someone off mid-sentence, he's confident. I do it, I'm "temperamental."

This was the reality. Misogyny wrapped in gloss, patriarchy in tailored suits. The lion's den wasn't just at home—it was everywhere. But unlike other pretty heiresses who smiled and kept quiet, I carried knives in my mouth.

The convoy slid into Makati, weaving past towers and honking cabs, before turning toward the heart of our empire. The car stopped in front of the Vergara Bank headquarters—thirty-two floors of glass and steel stabbing the sky, our family's crown jewel.

As the driver opened my door, I caught my reflection in the tinted window: red lips, sharp eyeliner, hair perfectly swept back from the flight. The world wanted a princess. I gave them a queen.