Flashback — Six Months Ago, Ayala Heights, Quezon City
The duplex Alen showed me sat quietly on a cul‑de‑sac in Ayala Heights, where streetlamps looked imported from Paris and every hedge was trimmed meticulously. The guardhouse boom gate lifted immediately when he waved—apparently, he'd been visiting regularly for weeks.
Taupe-on-taupe walls, faux-Spanish tiles, an honest-to-God white picket fence: brochure perfection.
But it was the silence that sold the fantasy—no tricycle mufflers, no barangay karaoke, just cicadas and the faint whir of a CCTV camera rotating lazily above us.
"Michelle, we can build our family here." Alen's smile stretched ear-to-ear as he guided me toward the tiny backyard—three meters of Bermuda grass, one anemic calamansi tree, and a sensor-activated light that flickered whenever I moved.
"Cats too—you love cats," he added, smiling like the line had been drafted and edited by a PR team.
"I do," I admitted, genuinely warmed by the thought of felines sunbathing on the windowsill.
The late-afternoon light gave everything a cinematic glow, like God had applied an Instagram filter to our poverty-induced trauma. For a moment, my chest loosened. Maybe I could live here—quiet, normal, boring.
His grip tightened around my hand.
A slim platinum ring slid onto my finger—a modest diamond, easily insurable and perfectly photogenic.
"Say yes," he whispered, desperation hidden behind confidence.
"This feels sudden, Alen—"
"It's the right step. Practical." He squeezed my hand tighter, placing a thick Manila envelope into my other hand. Bold letters announced: FIRST PACIFIC LIFE – SPOUSAL INSURANCE APPLICATION. Inside were photocopied IDs and pre-filled forms.
"You just beat the censors with Daughters of the House—Rachel made you a media darling overnight. If we announce an engagement now, they'll spin us as a 'power couple for justice' before the tabloids invent scandals. It reassures my firm's nervous partners—and frankly, the Bar Association is sniffing around a malpractice rumor. A stable domestic image keeps them at bay," he explained with his toothpaste-commercial smile.
A breeze drifted past, yet sweat formed at his hairline. Another camera swiveled, monitoring us. I forced a smile wide enough to hide the storm brewing inside me.
Not butterflies. Just a gut-deep warning.
I never actually said yes. I just… didn't say no.
Present Day — Himawari Omakase, Metro Aurelia
The restaurant was softly lit—minimalist wooden panels, jazz purring overhead, warm sake poured like secrets. Himawari was the kind of upscale Japanese restaurant where men proposed, women accepted, and both eventually regretted it.
Alen sat across from me, dressed in his best shirt with his worst intentions. He rambled about wedding plans—a garden venue, artisanal soy candles from his cousin's girlfriend. "...and we can write our vows. Maybe yours can mention how lucky you are that I always put the toilet seat down."
I smiled like it was charming.
"Have you submitted the insurance paperwork yet?" he asked casually, as if we were ticking off a mundane checklist rather than pretending our relationship wasn't already decaying. "First Pacific said they'll need your blood test results next week. They're rushing approvals since the Bar Association's reviewing my profile next month. Optics, you know?"
Oh, I knew.
I nodded and smiled, biting into the uni as if it didn't taste like ash—as if I hadn't contemplated faking a coma to escape this engagement. But realistically, I needed insurance—solid protection against Alen's world. He was a lawyer, I was a producer fresh from public scandal—not the easiest breakup scenario.
Evidence. I needed solid evidence.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to the breathy, performative tone reserved for foreplay.
"I booked a hotel," he said, grinning suggestively, "before my trip to Batangas. You know, so I can taste you before I fly out."
Fly out. As if Batangas was f*cking Tokyo.
He stood and slid into the booth beside me. Himawari had those romantic, intimate side-by-side setups, unfortunately.
His hand snuck under the table. Fingers brushed my thigh. Then higher.
He found the edge of my panties and slipped beneath them, brushing over my clit with the grace of a toddler trying to unlock an iPad.
I felt nothing—just a mild itch. Emotional, mostly.
"Are you getting wet from me fingering you, Mitch?" His voice deepened.
I turned my head, eyelids heavy, lips parted like a starlet in softcore cinema. Moaned softly.
"Oh yes," I breathed, grabbing his wrist theatrically. "It's so good, babe… but I miss your dick sliding into my pussy."
His pupils widened in pride.
Inside, laughter roared through me. You're single on Bumble, you absolute piece of shit.
Later That Night — Eterna Hotel, Room 706
The room smelled of bleach, Zonrox, and old wood. Dim lights, aggressively humming aircon. Faux-luxury seducing me with thread count.
Alen removed my dress like a bragging Redditor unwrapping a gift.
"You're so beautiful, Mitch," he said, thumb trailing my waist. "You've always had this softness. It's so you."
I blinked.
"But after the wedding, maybe we could start working out together? Just light stuff. Keep you healthy. Sharpen everything."
Sharpen everything. Like I was a pencil needing fixing.
He dropped to his knees as if proposing—this time, with his tongue.
What followed was less devotion, more disaster. He licked my clit erratically, like he couldn't decide on letters. No rhythm, no skill—just wet chaos and Morse code.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he mumbled.
Compared to what? Flowers?
He jabbed his tongue sharply. It didn't feel pleasurable; it felt like I owed someone an apology.
"You close?" he asked hopefully.
"Not yet," I whispered sweetly. "You just need to learn my body more. Like you said."
He beamed—mission accomplished.
He stood, dropped his boxers, presenting his dick like a trophy. "Sit up," he ordered gently. "You want my dick, right?"
I sat up. Bobbed. Spit. He moaned like I'd performed a miracle.
Then he pulled me onto the bed like an offering.
"Condom tonight, babe," I murmured politely. "I'm not on the pill."
"Don't worry, Michelle. You know I always respect your boundaries," Alen reassured me, smiling like saying it aloud made it true.
I smiled back. "I'm so lucky."
Starfish mode: activated.
He slid in, gasping. "Oh fuck, you're so tight."
Because I'm not turned on, Alen.
He thrust quickly, erratic, as if late for an appointment.
I moaned once—fake, enough to keep the story going.
He climaxed fast, loud, triumphant. He removed the nearly-empty condom and collapsed into sleep.
I slipped out of bed, wrapped in the robe, and grabbed his phone.
2:37 a.m. — The Inbox of a Coward
No passcode.
I checked messages. Nothing. Photos? Clean. Too clean.
I almost gave up.
Suspiciously spotless.
I opened Gmail. ALT FILES sat there like a roach in the corner of a luxury condo.
Inside: blurred nudes. Cropped tits. Pussy shots.
tightwet69.jpeg, fatnippledoll3.jpg.
I almost closed it.
Then I saw the thread:
"The List – Private Discord"
I clicked.
Fingerprint required.
Of course.
I glanced at Alen—dead asleep, snoring like a toddler who'd overdosed on ego. I padded softly to his side. Carefully picked up his hand.
Gently—like this was affection, not espionage—I pressed his thumb against the sensor.
Click. Unlocked.
The Discord app loaded like a crime scene.
Usernames exploded: ManilaMamba, cliticalmass, lawyer_gago69.
Thread after thread: "Thick Girls Only", "Anonymous Queens", "You Smash or Pass?"
I clicked one called "Curvy 🔥 (real upload)"
And there I was.
My back.
My shape.
A soft shot of me sleeping—naked, facedown. Face blurred.
Another image.
Closer.
My pussy.
Legs parted.
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like my organs were folding in.
"She thick. You fuck that pussy you're real bro."
"Thick? Nah. Just fat. Is fat pussy even good to fuck?"
"Blurred face but that ass? 10/10. Would."
I didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Just saved.
No one had named me. Not yet.
But I knew.
I knew.
I took screenshots. Saved them twice. Then again.
Renamed the folder: "For Brunch."
I backed out. Deleted history. Slid the phone back on the nightstand.
Alen hadn't moved. He wouldn't. He was too used to being safe.
I stood for a long moment, robe clinging to me, air thick with the scent of fake sex and betrayal.
I had all the screenshots already saved. The photos. The comments. The folder with my body blurred like it didn't matter. I had what I needed.
But something kept pulling me back.
My hand hovered over the search bar in Discord.
Then I typed:
"Batangas."
Just to be sure.
A thread popped up instantly.
#virginwatch–batangas
I clicked it.
The post was recent. Just days ago. A photo of a girl—barely legal if even. Straight black hair. Innocent smile. Sitting at what looked like a restaurant. Bloom & Vine, the caption confirmed.
The message attached:
"Newbie virgin. First timer. Who's game?"
Comments poured in.
"Smash."
"Looks clean."
"I'll go if no one claims by Sunday."
Then—
"Virgin? Easy. I could make her legs open like my fiancée." – @SpermKingLaw
Alen.
My chest twisted.
My fingers locked around the phone like they could crush it.
This wasn't just about me anymore.
This wasn't just betrayal.
This was a man I almost married publicly grooming young women in secret—bragging about it using me as the benchmark.
I copied the thread.
Saved every frame.
Renamed it: "Batangas Bloodbath."
I didn't scream.
I didn't cry.
I just stood there, quietly.
Then I did what any producer would do.
I prepared for the scene.
4:02 a.m. — Exit Wounds
I grabbed my dress. Bra. Underwear. Shoes. Charger. Phone.
I tossed the hotel's complimentary slippers on my feet because I couldn't bear to put the heels back on. They felt complicit.
I tied the robe tighter and headed for the door—pausing only once to glance at the man in bed.
Alen. Naked. Mouth open. Dreaming of his next conquest, maybe.
I had already texted him twenty minutes ago:Studio emergency. Last-minute meeting. Had to go. Hadn't even stirred.
But still, I didn't want to risk any interaction.Not even a breath.Because if he opened his mouth, I might throw a lamp at it.
I stepped out into the hallway.
The moment the door shut behind me, I exhaled.
Then inhaled like I'd been underwater.
4:12 a.m. — Eterna Hotel Lobby, Metro Aurelia
I booked a Grab the moment I stepped outside. The night air clung to my skin—sticky with secrets, guilt, and the memory of fingers I never asked for.
I stood near the curb in oversized slippers, hoodie over my hotel robe, bra shoved unceremoniously into my tote bag. My mouth still tasted like dick and deceit. My body? Still radiating the burn of violation.
I just wanted to disappear.Get home. Lock the door. Wash off the entire night.
Then—A black SUV pulled up to the entrance. Big. Quiet. Heavily tinted.
I froze.
The kind of vehicle politicians use to dodge charges.The kind of car men like my father used to corner me in.
My chest tightened.I stepped back, heart stuttering.
The front window rolled down slowly.
I held my breath.
In the backseat. Legs crossed. Dressed in all black, crisp shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Sleeves casually rolled. Private driver at the wheel.
Raf.
He looked like someone who had just left an afterparty hosted by the director of Parasite.
Eyes locked on mine through the gap in the glass.
Not a word. Not a smile.
To be continued.