Chapter 3:
The Trail She Left Behind

Arthur watched her disappear through the glass doors until he could no longer make out her shadow moving past the shelves. He sat there for a long moment, the engine idling soft and low, the morning sun spilling over the rooftops and gilding the street. The whole world felt bright and awake now-but all he could see was her: the way she'd held her bag like it weighed a ton, the stubborn set of her jaw, the flush on her cheeks when she'd stumbled and hurried away.

He shook his head, finally shifting into drive, and pulled away slowly. He didn't head straight home. Instead he circled the block once, passing the store again-half‑hoping to catch another glimpse, half‑afraid she'd spot him and scold him all over again for not listening to her.

Stubborn, impossible girl, he thought, but there was no sharpness to it-only something warm and curious unfurling deep in his chest. First year. Full scholar. Scrubs penthouses at three in the morning, works shifts before anyone else is even out of bed... and tells me to pretend I never met her.

He'd met hundreds of people in his life-most of them smiling too wide, asking too much, careful to say exactly what they thought he wanted to hear. But Hannah? She'd scolded him like he was a careless boy, laughed at her own clumsiness, told him point‑blank to ignore her, and never once looked at him like he was Arthur Chen the heir-only like Arthur, the fool who couldn't keep his own home in order.

It was the most honest thing that had happened to him in years.

When he finally stepped back inside the penthouse, the chaos was gone. Every can cleared, every surface wiped, every trace of the wild night swept away-except for the faint, clean scent of lemon cleaner still hanging in the air. And there, caught on the edge of the leather sofa, was a single dark, coiled curl.

He picked it up carefully between his fingers, almost surprised by how much he didn't want to throw it away. It was just hair-nothing important. But it felt like the only thing that had felt real all night. Almost without thinking, he slipped it into the inner fold of his wallet, like he wanted to hold onto the memory of her for just a little while longer.

He didn't sleep. He showered the night away, pulled on a soft navy shirt, and stood by the window for a long time, staring out at the waking city. Then he picked up his phone, found the number of the cleaning agency, and dialed.

The woman who answered was polite and professional. "Good morning, Chen Residence. How may I help you?"

Arthur cleared his throat, suddenly feeling strange-restless, awkward, and absurdly, confusingly shy. He gripped the edge of the table with one hand, like it might steady him.
"Good morning. I... I had an emergency cleaner sent over earlier. A young woman. First year at Ateneo." He paused, feeling foolish for asking, feeling heat rise up the back of his neck for no reason he could name. "I'd like to request her specifically for all my future bookings. And... could you tell me her name?"

The woman on the line hesitated a moment. "I'm sorry, sir-company policy. We can't share personal details of our staff without their consent."

Arthur nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "I understand. But if you tell her... that I'd like her to be my regular cleaner. Permanent slot. And I'll pay double the usual rate." He leaned forward slightly, speaking before he could second‑guess himself. "Tell her she won't need to take extra shifts anywhere else if she doesn't want to. The pay will cover it."

As soon as he hung up, he stood there for a long moment, staring at his own phone like it had betrayed him. Why was he blushing? Why was he nervous? Why did he care this much about a girl he'd only known for three hours? He told himself it was just kindness-just helping someone who clearly worked too hard. He told himself he was just being fair. But deep down, he knew: he was already looking for a reason to see her again.

Hours slipped by. The sun climbed high, and the clock edged past noon. He never made it to his classes that day. His car circled the campus again and again, drawing curious glances from students who knew the heir's familiar dark sedan-always lingering near that one corner, right outside the 7‑Eleven.

By the time afternoon rolled around, he'd parked a little way down the street, where he could watch without being seen. And then he saw her.

She came hurrying back, bag slung over her shoulder, shoulders hunched like she was racing against time. She slipped through the glass doors, and Arthur found himself leaning forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel, unable to look away.

From where he sat, he could see her clearly through the glass. She'd pulled a steaming bowl of instant noodles from the warmer, along with a small carton of milk, and perched on one of the narrow stools by the counter. She leaned over the bowl, using chopsticks to lift long strands, eating quickly and messily-sauce smudged faintly at the corner of her mouth, dark hair falling forward over her face that she brushed away impatiently with the back of her hand.

It was nothing like the polished, careful meals he'd grown up with-fresh, home‑cooked, perfectly portioned food served by staff who made sure he ate well. Watching her, a small frown tugged at his brow. That's not proper food, he thought quietly, a quiet, concerned ache settling in his chest. How is this enough energy for someone who works as hard as she does? This isn't going to keep her going through all those hours.

He watched her slurp another mouthful, and a faint, helpless smile pulled at his lips despite himself. It was unguarded, unpolished, entirely her-and he found he couldn't look away.

Am I being weird? he asked himself, shaking his head, heat rising in his cheeks again. What the hell am I even doing? Skipping class, driving around all day, staring at a girl eating noodles like some kind of stalker?

He sat there for a few more minutes, fighting the urge to step out of the car, fighting the strange, fluttery feeling in his chest. But then he remembered what she'd said-pretend we never met-and he let out a slow breath, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled away. He didn't go back to the penthouse. He drove toward the city center, toward the noise and lights, toward another party he'd been invited to-champagne, laughter, people who knew exactly who he was. He told himself he was going back to how things were. But as he joined the crowd, his mind kept drifting back to that little store, to the girl eating noodles, to the curl tucked safely in his wallet.

Inside the 7‑Eleven, Hannah had just set down her empty bowl when her phone rang. It was the agency.

"Hannah? Good news-one of your clients wants you exclusively for all his bookings. Permanent slot. And he's approved double pay."

Hannah paused, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Double pay? Who is it?"

"We can't share names yet, but he's already cleared everything. That works out to roughly ten thousand pesos a week-just for his place. No other shifts required if you don't want them."

Her breath caught. Ten thousand pesos a week. For someone who counted every peso, who juggled three jobs just to keep up with school stuff, books, and daily expenses-it was more than she'd ever dared hope for. It would cover her school fees, her meals, everything she needed, without her running herself ragged.

But she hesitated. It's him, she thought at once, her stomach twisting. The messy penthouse. The boy who laughed at my scolding.

She didn't say yes right away. "Let me... let me think about it. I'll call you back later."

She hung up, staring at her reflection in the glass counter, her mind racing. Ten thousand a week. That's life‑changing. But if I take it... I'll see him again. And I told him to pretend we never met.