Objection

Chapter Eleven

It was a Thursday afternoon, and the sun over Recto was merciless. The pavement shimmered with heat, and jeepneys honked like a symphony of chaos. Mariella just wanted to get home, drink iced coffee, and pretend she was emotionally stable.

Then she saw him.

Right outside Sogo.

Jonas Fuente.

And of course, he was not alone.

He stepped out of the red-and-yellow motel doors with that freshman girl, the same one her friends had described. The one with the tight ponytail and confused morality. The girl was laughing, holding his arm like she had just won a raffle for "Most Gullible."

Mariella stopped cold. Her entire body stiffened.

Jonas noticed her immediately. His grin faltered for half a second, then came back, smug and infuriating.

“Mars,” he said, pretending to be casual. “Hey.”

Mariella crossed her arms, her voice steady but sharp. “Well, look at that. The man who thinks loyalty is optional.”

The freshman blinked, unsure whether to smile or hide. “Uh… hi po.”

Mariella gave her a look that could curdle milk. “Sweetheart, do not ‘po’ me. I’m not your tita. I’m the ghost of your bad decisions.”

Jonas chuckled. “You’re still dramatic, huh? You should move on. This is getting sad.”

Mariella’s eyes narrowed. “Sad? No, Jonas. What’s sad is you thinking you upgraded when you just downgraded to a toddler with Wi-Fi.”

The freshman frowned, whispering, “What does she mean?”

Jonas laughed again, arrogance dripping from every syllable. “You’re just jealous. You can’t stand that I’m happy now. Not everyone wants to date someone who is as cold as ice.”

Mariella took a step closer, her tone icy. “Happy? You look like a man who just cheated on his IQ test.”

Jonas smirked. “Relax, Mariella. You were boring. Admit it. You’re cold, too uptight. You think you’re perfect.”

Mariella smiled. “And yet, here you are walking out of Sogo. Clearly, mediocrity suits you.”

For a moment, he faltered. Then he smirked again. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Mariella leaned in just enough for her words to sting. “I sleep just fine, Jonas. You, on the other hand, should start praying the condom didn’t break.”

The freshman’s mouth fell open. Jonas’ jaw twitched.

Mariella turned on her heel, head held high, and walked away before she could do something that would get her disbarred before she was even sworn in. Her pulse was racing. Her pride burned.

By the time she got to the jeepney, she was trembling with fury. She pulled out her phone and scrolled to the name that had haunted her contacts list for almost a week.

Temu Paul.

She hit call.

The line rang twice before a deep voice answered. “Ariella.”

Her breath hitched. That voice again. Calm, confident, dangerous.

“You,” she said, her tone clipped. “You said I’d receive instructions. It’s been almost a week.”

There was a pause. Then, amusement. “You sound impatient.”

“I just saw my ex walk out of a Sogo with the girl he cheated on me with. I think I’ve earned the right to be impatient,” she snapped. “I want the instruction. Now.”

Another pause, then that low, deliberate voice again. “You sound angry.”

“I am angry,” she said. “And I want payback.”

He chuckled softly. “You sound emotional. Not a good look.”

“I’m not emotional. I’m motivated.”

There was silence, then his voice dropped lower, like velvet over steel. “Go home.”

“What?”

“Go home, Ariella. Your instruction will be there.”

The line went dead.

Mariella stared at the phone, her chest heaving. “Go home,” she muttered. “What does that even mean?”

As she got off on her street and walked toward her apartment, the sun had already dipped behind the buildings when she reached Maria Cristina Street, her mind racing the entire way.

When she stepped into their apartment, her roommate Charity was waiting at the door, holding an envelope.

“Mail for you, Ariella,” Charity said, eyes wide with a hint of teasing, she was, after all, the one who’d come up with that name for Mariella’s Tinder profile. “A courier just dropped it off. The guy looked like he delivers divorce papers to billionaires.”

Mariella frowned, taking the envelope. The paper was thick and expensive, embossed with a golden logo.

Shangri-La Makati.

Her pulse spiked.

Inside was a smaller envelope with a key card and a single note written in clean, elegant handwriting.

December 10. Friday. 9 PM. Room 2606.

Mariella stared at it, her mouth dry.

“Girl,” Charity said, peeking over her shoulder. “That’s not Sogo. That’s Shangri-freaking-La.”

Mariella sat down, staring at the key card like it was a live grenade.

“What kind of poser books Shangri-La?” she whispered.

Charity raised an eyebrow. “Either someone rich, or someone crazy. Maybe both.”

Mariella pressed her lips together. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a joke anymore.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt something other than heartbreak or rage.

She felt curiosity. Dangerous, burning curiosity.