In between Sunsets and Rain.

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NAIA Private Terminal – Manila

The heat hit me first.

Sticky, dense, and clinging to my skin like memory. It wasn't the Spanish breeze I was used to—it was heavier, more chaotic, humming with honks, barking vendors, and the distant roar of Manila traffic.

I stepped out of the jet wearing oversized sunglasses, a silk Dior scarf knotted around my neck, and that haunting feeling that I'd just left a part of myself behind in Spain. Papá walked ahead, already giving terse instructions to the driver. I clutched my purse tighter.

The car waiting for us was sleek, black, with the Valliere crest pressed onto the doors—subtle but impossible to miss. I slid into the leather seats, too exhausted to fight, too numb to speak.

As the city unfolded outside the window, everything was unfamiliar and loud and alive.

Billboards. Jeepneys. Street kids playing by the gutters, laughter echoing against crumbling walls. Real life.

And yet, there I was—Rheagan Valliere—cloaked in luxury, sitting in the back of a chauffeured car like a foreign princess in her own country.

"Where are we going?" I asked finally, my voice low.

"To the estate," Papá replied.

Twenty minutes later, the air turned cooler, the skyline thinning out into greens and winding roads. When we pulled into the gates of the Valliere property—a sprawling ancestral home tucked into a hillside, with white stone columns and endless gardens—I stepped out into the misty breeze.

The staff lined up like they were waiting for royalty. My name echoed down the halls.

"Welcome home, Señorita Rheagan."

But I didn't feel at home.

Not here.
Not yet.

I was halfway up the marble staircase when I heard it.

Laughter.

Loud, obnoxious, echoing across the silence of the estate like it owned the air. I paused, eyebrows twitching as my heels clicked back down toward the main hall. The staff scattered as I descended, one even whispering "Señorita, you might want to freshen up—" but I ignored them.

"We have visitors, huh?" I said dryly, stepping into the edge of the living room.

There they were—kuya Lysandre, seated with his signature stillness, like some regal ghost in navy blue slacks and a book untouched in his hand. And Issaiah, leaning back, cool, sipping something dark from a glass. Both turned as soon as I spoke.

But the third one didn't.

He was the one laughing—head thrown back, legs shamelessly sprawled across our antique velvet sofa, sneakers still on.

I tilted my head. "Wow. Someone's loud."

At that, the boy turned.

And then I saw him.

A tall guy. Basketball player height, dark hair slightly messy like he styled it with his kamay, and this ridiculous smile like he thought he was God's gift to women. He was laughing at something he just said, one arm lazily slung across the backrest of the couch like he owned the place.

"Uy," he grinned, finally noticing me. "Sino 'to? New yaya niyo pre?"

Silence.

Issaiah nearly choked on his drink. Lysandre didn't even blink.