Chapter 4:

The rest of Hannah's shift blurred into a haze of beeping cash registers and endless lines of customers. She rang up loaves of bread, cold sodas, packs of instant noodles, restocked shelves, mopped the sticky tiles by the entrance-but her mind was stuck on one single number that kept looping in her head: Ten thousand pesos a week.

It sounded like a dream. It would cover her full tuition for the whole semester, buy all the textbooks she'd been copying from library reserves, pay her tiny room's rent three times over, and still leave enough left over for the things she'd been scrimping on for years. It would mean she could stop skipping lunch so she could save for her mom's medicine. It would mean she could finally breathe.

But it also meant him.

It meant walking back into that cold, beautiful penthouse. It meant standing in the same room as Arthur Chen again. It meant breaking the one rule she'd set for herself that dawn: pretend we never met.

When her shift finally ended, the store lights dimmed and the night air wrapped around her cool and damp. She didn't head straight home. She sank onto the concrete curb outside, pulling her thin cardigan tighter around herself, and stared at the scuffed toes of her sneakers. Her phone felt heavy in her pocket, like it was burning a hole right through her uniform.

Just as she was about to dial the agency, it rang. Her grandmother's name lit up on the screen.

"Hello, Grandma?" Her voice came out softer than she intended.

"Sweetie, are you eating well? You sound tired." Her grandma's voice was gentle, but Hannah could hear the quiet worry in it. "Your mother's doctor called today. He said she needs a new round of medication-stronger ones. It's going to cost more than we thought."

Hannah's throat tightened. She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting back the sting of tears. "I know, Grandma. I'm... I'm working on it. I'll get the money."

"You push yourself too hard, sweetie. Just... tell me you're okay? That you're not skipping meals again?"

"I'm fine," she lied, her voice steadying itself. "I'm managing. Don't worry. I'll send something extra this week. I promise."

She hung up slowly, the silence rushing back in louder than before. Ten thousand pesos. It wasn't just about school anymore. It was about her mom. It was about the only family she had left.

I can't afford pride, she told herself, wiping her cheek roughly with the back of her hand. Not when their lives depend on it.

She took a shaky breath, found the agency's number, and pressed call. "Yes," she said quietly when the supervisor picked up. "I'll take it. But strictly professional. No extra favors. No small talk. Just cleaning."

Across the city, the bass thumped loud enough to rattle the windows of the exclusive lounge. Arthur stood near the bar, glass in hand, surrounded by the usual crowd-old friends, business associates, the most famous faces in Manila's high society. He'd been coming to places like this since he turned eighteen; he knew every song, every joke, every polite lie everyone told.

But tonight, everything felt flat.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, barely tasting it. A well‑known model leaned against his arm, laughing at something he hadn't heard, her perfume sweet and overpowering. She was beautiful-everyone said so. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect smile. But when she touched his arm, he felt nothing. No spark, no interest, nothing but a strange, hollow indifference.

Another woman, a beauty queen whose face was on every billboard in the city, slid into the seat beside him and leaned in close. "I haven't seen you at any events lately, Arthur. Have you been hiding away?"

He forced a polite smile, but his mind was miles away. He thought of wild curls sticking up in every direction, of sauce smudged at the corner of a mouth, of someone yelling at him for leaving a mess like he was a messy little boy.

He looked at the beauty queen-polished, poised, exactly the kind of woman he used to chase-and realized with a jolt that none of it worked anymore. The charm, the flirting, the effortless grace that used to captivate him... it all felt like watching a play he'd already seen a hundred times. He felt like he was looking at them through thick glass-impressed, maybe, but completely untouched.

"I'm just... busy," he said, his voice distant.

He set his full glass down on the counter, untouched, and pushed through the crowd. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't wait for anyone to notice he was leaving. He just walked out into the cool night air, leaned against the hood of his car, and stared up at the stars.

What is wrong with me? he wondered, dragging a hand through his hair. I used to love this. I used to live for this. Now all I can think about is a girl with a broom who told me to pretend I never existed.

He shook his head, got behind the wheel, and drove away from the noise-back toward the quiet, empty penthouse where it had all begun.

Two days later, Hannah stood before the heavy mahogany doors again. She'd washed her uniform, tied her hair back tight, and tucked every stray curl out of sight. She'd rehearsed her line a hundred times on the way over: Good afternoon, sir. I'm here for the cleaning. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She lifted her hand and knocked.

The door swung open.

Arthur stood there. He wasn't in a suit this time-just a plain white shirt and dark jeans, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept well, but his eyes cleared the moment they landed on her. He stood there for a long beat, just looking, like he was making sure she was really there.

Hannah lifted her chin, locking every feeling away deep inside, and spoke in the steadiest voice she could find.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm here for the cleaning."

Arthur swallowed, stepping back to let her in. "Come in."