Objection

Chapter Six

Mariella was drunk, heartbroken, and fully convinced she was the main character in a tragic telenovela that didn’t know when to end.

It was a Friday night in her shared two-bedroom apartment in Sampaloc, and she was on her third bottle of beer, belting In the Stars by Benson Boone like she was auditioning for “The Voice: Funeral Edition.”

“I’m stillll holdinnnn’ onnnn!” she wailed. “To everything that’s deadddd and gonnnneee!”

Her roommates, Charity and Melinda, both nursing students from St. Jude College, stared at her from the couch, horrified but entertained.

“Babe,” Charity said between laughs, “that song is literally for dead people.”

Melinda nodded. “Yeah, you sound like you’re at a wake, not karaoke.”

Mariella pointed dramatically at them, beer bottle in hand. “And I am! I’m mourning! Mourning the death of a relationship and the man who died to me the moment he left Sogo with a freshman!”

She raised her bottle in a solemn toast. “Rest in peace, Jonas Fuente. May your mediocrity live forever.”

Charity choked on her drink. “You’re unhinged.”

“I’m heartbroken,” Mariella corrected, wiping imaginary tears. “And drunk. Mostly drunk.”

Melinda giggled. “It’s been a week, girl. One week since your tragic love story ended. Maybe stop singing like you buried your husband.”

Mariella dropped onto the couch, hair wild, looking every bit the beautiful disaster. “You know what? No. I’m not moping anymore. I’m done crying over Mr. Three-Inch Fuente.”

Charity leaned forward. “Oh no. What are you planning?”

Mariella’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Revenge.”

Melinda gasped. “I like this energy. Go on.”

“I want him to regret cheating on me,” Mariella said, voice gaining strength. “Me, a former Binibining Magdiwang and Reyna Elena of Barangay Poblacion. He’ll look back and think, ‘Damn, I really fumbled the only woman who could’ve tolerated my mediocre face and fun-size dick.’”

Charity burst out laughing. “You’re insane. I love it.”

Mariella pointed at her. “I’m not insane. I’m inspired. I’ll make him jealous. I’ll f**k with someone so out of his league that his ego combusts.”

Melinda raised her brow. “Okay, that’s aggressive. I like the spirit, but tone down the homicide. Maybe just date the guy instead?”

Mariella waved her hand. “Please. He picked someone inferior. That girl probably still says ‘Good morning, Sir’ in texts. He cheated because I didn’t let him f**k me, but honestly, who would? Every time he grab my boobs, I wanted to yawn. I was practicing patience, not celibacy.”

Melinda snorted beer out her nose. “You’re killing me.”

Mariella kept going, voice rising with drunk conviction. “I even practiced giving head on a banana and a dildo for his birthday! I was gonna surprise him. I thought, fine, maybe I won’t let him pop my cherry, but at least I’ll give him a near-death experience he won’t forget. But no, he just had to go to Sogo with a freshman who probably still wears knee socks!”

Charity was crying from laughter. “Are you serious right now?”

Mariella nodded solemnly. “Dead serious. Who cares about s*x anyway? Everyone’s doing it. Melinda says it’s meh most of the time.”

Melinda shrugged. “She’s not wrong. Half the time it’s just ‘in, out, done, go home.’ The excitement lasts shorter than a TikTok.”

Charity tried to be the voice of reason. “Mars, s*x isn’t a solution. You can’t just throw away your virginity out of revenge. It’s not a raffle prize.”

Mariella looked at her, eyes glassy but fierce. “Of course I can. I’ll do it for a cause. A noble cause. Justice for the emotionally deceived.”

Both girls stared at her.

Melinda broke the silence first. “So where are you gonna find this lucky martyr?”

Mariella took another sip of beer, thinking deeply.

Charity’s eyes widened. “Oh my God. Don’t say it.”

Mariella smirked. “Tinder.”

Melinda shrieked. “Yes! The digital jungle! I love it.”

Charity groaned. “You hate Tinder. You said it’s for people with trauma and bad Wi-Fi.”

“I changed my mind,” Mariella said, already reaching for her phone. “Desperate times call for digital measures.”

“Fine,” Melinda said, grinning. “Let’s set it up. What school should we put? Not UE, Jonas will find you.”

Charity nodded. “Yeah. Make it Our Lady of Fatima University. It’s vague but respectable. You sound smart without sounding like a threat.”

Mariella frowned. “That makes zero sense.”

Melinda shrugged. “It doesn’t have to. We’re going for chaotic hot, not logical hot.”

Then came the photo selection, which was pure disaster.

Melinda scrolled through Mariella’s gallery and gasped. “Babe. Why are all your selfies crime scenes?”

“What’s wrong with them?” Mariella asked defensively.

“You look like a ghost defending her thesis,” Charity said between laughs. “And this one, you look like you just realized you failed StatCon.”

“They’re candid!” Mariella said.

“They’re horrifying,” Melinda replied.

Then she stopped scrolling and froze. “Wait. Found it.”

She held up Mariella’s Binibining Magdiwang photo, silver gown, awkward smile, and the unmistakable air of someone who was promised foundation blending but never received it.

“Oh hell no,” Mariella said. “That was three years ago.”

“Exactly,” Charity said. “Before you discovered bad men.”

Melinda squinted. “Why is your face three shades lighter than your neck though?”

Mariella groaned. “Because our barangay makeup artist used Maybelline Ivory like it was sunscreen. He said, ‘white is elegant,’ and I believed him.”

Charity howled. “You look like Miss Universe: White Lady Edition.”

Melinda uploaded it anyway. “This one works. It says: ‘I’ve suffered, but I still moisturize.’”

Mariella covered her face. “I hate you both.”

“Too late,” Charity said, typing away. “Profile complete. Age twenty-four, Our Lady of Fatima University - QC, future dentist, likes coffee, cats, and vengeance.”

Melinda raised her bottle. “To new beginnings and bad decisions.”

Mariella clinked hers. “To revenge.”

Later that night, still tipsy, she opened Tinder in bed. She scrolled through faces, gym bros, car selfies, men who thought holding fish was personality, until she saw him.

Paul Marcus Razon.

The man every girl in the U-Belt whispered about like he was an urban legend. The San Beda demigod with a jawline sharp enough to cross-examine. Even drunk, Mariella wasn’t stupid. She knew it had to be fake. The real Paul Marcus Razon didn’t need Tinder. He could just blink and women would evaporate into desire.

Still, she squinted at the screen, smirking. “Even if this poser looks five percent as hot as the real one, that’s still one hundred fifty percent hotter than Jonas Fuente.”

And without hesitation, she swiped up.

Super Like.

Across the city, in a sleek condo in New Manila, a phone buzzed softly on a side table.

You have a new match.