CHAPTER ONE
1021 Words
The morning light poured into the bustling streets of Divisoria, illuminating the chaotic dance of vendors setting up stalls, jeepneys rumbling down narrow lanes, and shoppers weaving through the crowd in search of bargains. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly cooked street food, mingling with the occasional tang of exhaust fumes.
Amara Salazar rolled her food cart into place, expertly maneuvering around potholes and stray cats. She wiped her hands on a faded apron, adjusting the tray of turon and kakanin she’d prepared before dawn. Her younger brother, Paulo, trailed behind her, balancing a large cooler filled with bottled drinks.
“Kuya Romy bought two trays of kakanin yesterday,” Amara reminded him. “Make sure you stack them neatly this time. He likes his displays organized.”
“Yes, Ate,” Paulo replied, though his eyes wandered to the chicharon bag he’d sneakily opened earlier.
“You eat one more, and I’ll make you pay for it,” Amara teased, nudging him with her elbow.
The market was their world—a place of noise, struggle, and endless hustle. It was also their lifeline, the source of the meager income that kept their family afloat in their cramped apartment in Tondo.
As the sun climbed higher, the market grew livelier. Amara’s stall had its usual stream of customers: construction workers grabbing snacks for their breaks, mothers looking for affordable merienda, and children tugging at their parents’ hands for sweet treats.
“Salamat, Ate Amara,” said a young mother, handing over coins for a bag of turon.
“No problem, Mare,” Amara replied, flashing her warm, practiced smile.
Her smile faltered, however, when she saw a group of rough-looking men approaching. Dressed in cheap leather jackets and worn sneakers, they moved with the confidence of predators. The leader, a stocky man with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow, stopped in front of her cart.
“We’ve talked about this, Amara,” he said, his voice dripping with menace. “Everyone in this area owes us a little... gratitude.”
Amara’s grip tightened on her spatula. She recognized the man—Edgar, one of the petty enforcers of a local gang. They’d been pestering her for months, demanding “protection money” in exchange for not wrecking her stall or scaring away her customers.
“I don’t owe you anything, Edgar,” she said firmly, refusing to back down.
Paulo stepped closer to her, clutching the edge of the cart. “Ate—”
“It’s okay,” Amara said softly to her brother before turning back to Edgar. “I told you last time, I barely earn enough to keep my family fed. Go find someone else to intimidate.”
Edgar smirked, leaning closer. “Feisty, huh? Maybe you need a reminder of what happens when people don’t cooperate.”
Before he could say more, the growl of an engine cut through the market’s noise. A sleek black SUV rolled to a stop nearby. The doors opened, and two imposing men in dark suits stepped out, scanning the scene with sharp eyes.
Behind them, Rafael “Rafa” Monteverde emerged, his tailored charcoal suit starkly out of place amidst the grime of the market. He adjusted his cuffs, his expression unreadable as he approached the commotion.
“Is there a problem here?” Rafa’s voice was calm, almost casual, but it carried a weight that made Edgar flinch.
Amara turned to him, her brow furrowing in suspicion. Who was this man? He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not a street market. What is he doing here?
“No problem, boss,” Edgar stammered, backing away. He gestured for his men to follow, and they slinked off, disappearing into the crowd. Woah! What had just happened? It seemed like Edward got p***y with this man's presence.
Rafa’s gaze shifted to Amara, his dark eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. “Are you all right?”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” Amara said bluntly, brushing past him to check on her cart. I don't know this man to care for me. He has no business with me. I don't want to sound ungrateful, but that's the truth.
Rafa’s lips quirked into a faint smile at her defiance. “You’re welcome,” he said, his tone laced with amusement.
Amara straightened, crossing her arms. “I don’t need some rich guy playing hero in my life. Especially one who looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad.” It's very odd to help someone you barely knew these days. What does this man think?
Paulo let out a nervous laugh. “Ate, be nice. He scared them off. He helped us, remember? Be thankful to him.”
“Why? I can handle myself,” Amara replied, though her cheeks flushed slightly. She turned back to Rafa. “If you’re done with your good deeds for the day, I have work to do.”
Rafa nodded, stepping aside but not leaving. Instead, he lingered near the cart, watching as Amara resumed her business.
“Turon, please,” he said finally, pulling out a crisp bill.
Amara raised an eyebrow but handed him a neatly wrapped piece. “Keep the change,” he added before she could protest.
As he walked away, his phone buzzed. Kirk Reyes, his right-hand man, spoke on the other end. “Everything’s ready for the meeting, boss. ETA twenty minutes.”
“Good,” Rafa replied, glancing back at the market one last time. His gaze landed on Amara again, the fiery vendor who’d dared to dismiss him.
He smirked, tucking the memory away for later.
When Rafa was out of sight, Paulo leaned close to his sister. “Who do you think he is, Ate? He looks like a wealthy business executive.”
“I don’t know,” Amara muttered, staring at the card Rafa had left on the edge of her cart. It bore only his name and a number embossed in silver.
“But I have a feeling he’s in trouble.”
- Writer
