Paul’s condo in Balete Drive was quiet in that expensive kind of way, soft lighting, spotless surfaces, and the kind of silence that felt like it charged per minute. Takeout containers covered the coffee table: Korean wings, ramen, fries, and a tub of ice cream Paul insisted on buying “for balance,” which meant nothing but sounded rich enough to slide.
Mariella sat cross-legged on the couch, drowning in Paul’s oversized San Beda shirt like a child cosplaying “girlfriend.” Paul sat beside her, laptop open, finishing something he refused to call “work,” but the intensity in his eyes screamed otherwise. When he finally closed it, he did so with that trademark rich-people finality, the I have conquered enough today kind of click.
“Andrei organized a graduation party,” he said casually, openi
