The Art of Falling Slowly

Chapter One

The Manila night was a sweltering velvet canvas, pricked with the million glittering, almost desperate lights of the sprawling metropolis below. But up here, thirty-seven floors high in the exclusive Althea Residences, the city was a distant, shimmering admirer, its cacophony muted to a dull, appreciative roar. The real universe, for tonight at least, and most nights if Nifty Alcantara had her way, revolved around her, the pulsating beat of the music, and the seemingly endless cascade of champagne in her penthouse.

The bass from DJ Axel’s custom-built console vibrated through the Italian marble flooring, a primal heartbeat thrumming up through the soles of expensive shoes and bare, perfectly pedicured feet. It was a physical presence, this music, weaving itself into the chorus of animated chatter, shrill laughter, and the incessant, festive clinking of crystal flutes. Fairy lights, thousands of them, were strung with a kind of inspired, careless artistry across the open-air cabanas, twined around the imported palm trees, and draped along the sleek glass balustrade of the infinity pool. They cast a warm, almost conspiratorial glow, making everyone look a little more glamorous, a little more daring, a little more inclined to shed their daytime inhibitions with their designer jackets.

The air was a potent cocktail: the heady sweetness of night-blooming jasmine from the meticulously landscaped planters, the sharp, clean tang of chlorine from the pool (soon to be much more intimately acquainted with some of the guests), the smoky undertones of grilled wagyu skewers being passed around by discreet waiters, and overarching it all, the sweet, yeasty, intoxicating aroma of free-flowing, top-shelf bubbly. Dom Pérignon was the drink of the night,

Nifty herself, a human firework in a silver sequined micro-dress that shimmied and scattered light with every gesture, every infectious giggle, was the undisputed, unapologetic sun of this glittering solar system. Her laughter, a rich, throaty peal that could be surprisingly loud, was the night’s unofficial soundtrack. One moment she was demonstrating an outrageously exaggerated salsa step with a somewhat bewildered but game German diplomat, her hips swaying with a life of their own; the next, she was perched precariously on the thickly padded arm of a bespoke velvet sofa, regaling a rapt huddle of socialites, models, and a couple of bemused-looking tech billionaires with a story that had them roaring, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rims of their glasses. Her eyes, dark and almond-shaped, sparkled with a potent mixture of mischief and genuine delight.

"To us!" she’d bellowed earlier, her voice, husky from laughter and champagne, somehow cutting through the sophisticated din. She stood on a low ottoman, her glass held high, the sequins of her dress catching the light like a thousand tiny camera flashes. "To nights we definitely won't remember, with people we absolutely will forget by Monday!" A raucous cheer had erupted, a collective, joyous agreement to embrace the delicious irresponsibility of the evening. Someone near the bar had even smashed a glass in their enthusiasm, a sound that was quickly swallowed by another wave of music.

The guest list, as always with Nifty’s parties, was an eclectic, potent mix. There were the scions of old Manila families, their inherited ennui temporarily banished by the sheer energy of the event. There were the brash, self-made entrepreneurs, dripping in new money and eager to network, even in this hedonistic setting. A smattering of artists, musicians, and fashion designers added a bohemian flair, their colorful attire a vibrant contrast to the more classic elegance of the business crowd. And then there were Nifty’s inner circle, her "partners-in-crime," as she affectionately called them.

Bianca, ever the pragmatist despite her penchant for dramatic eyeliner, leaned in. "Nifty, darling, you've been flitting around like a hummingbird on a sugar rush mixed with Red Bull. Come, breathe for a second. Have some water. Or, you know, a less alcoholic form of champagne." Bianca was clutching a flute of what Nifty suspected was actually sparkling cider, a small act of rebellion against the night's prevailing theme.

Chloe, Bianca’s aesthetic opposite in a neon pink bandage dress that defied gravity, scoffed, her eyes already scanning the crowd for fresh amusement. "Breathe? Water? Bianca, are you feeling alright? This is a Nifty Alcantara production! Breathing is optional, hydration is for amateurs! Besides," she lowered her voice conspiratorially, nudging Nifty with a sharp elbow, "did you see those absolutely divine specimens from the Spanish embassy? The new cultural attaché, Ricardo? Or was it Rodrigo? Whatever his name is, he’s been trying to catch your eye all night. He looks like he stepped straight out of a telenovela, brooding stares and all."

Nifty threw her head back and laughed, a cascade of shimmering sound. "Has he now? Or is he just strategically positioned near the oyster bar? Most men here seem to develop a sudden fascination with me when the seafood arrives."

"Don't be so cynical, darling!" Chloe insisted, grabbing Nifty’s arm with surprising strength. "He's practically undressing you with his eyes. I saw him. He almost dropped his empanada. Go say hi! Or better yet, let me drag you over there. Operation Iberian Conquest, activate!"

Bianca rolled her eyes, but a small smile played on her lips. "Chloe, for heaven's sake, don't manhandle the hostess. She’ll spill her champagne, and then we’ll really have a diplomatic incident. But," she conceded, adjusting her glasses, "Chloe has a point, Nifty. He does seem… rather interested. And not in that creepy, 'I’ve-Googled-your-entire-family-tree' way we encountered last month with that crypto bro."

Nifty took a long sip of her champagne, her eyes twinkling over the rim of the glass as she surveyed the man in question. He was, admittedly, rather handsome, with dark, brooding eyes and a jawline that could cut glass. He was currently engaged in what appeared to be a very serious conversation with a potted fern. "Hmm, 'not creepy' is indeed a high bar for this particular crowd," she mused. "Alright, alright, you vultures. Point him out again. But if he mentions his diplomatic immunity or his polo ponies within the first five minutes, I'm holding both of you personally responsible, and you’ll be on dishwashing duty for the rest of the night."

"Deal!" Chloe chirped, already trying to steer Nifty through the throng.

The "wild" part of the party, the part that would later be dissected in lurid detail by the tabloids, had been a slow, champagne-fueled burn. It started with the impromptu karaoke session. What began as a slightly tipsy rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" by a group of investment bankers quickly devolved into an enthusiastic, if spectacularly off-key, shouting match of 80s power ballads and 90s Tagalog pop anthems. Nifty herself had grabbed the microphone for a surprisingly soulful, if slurred, version of a classic Whitney Houston track, earning thunderous applause and a few concerned glances from the more sober attendees.

Then came the dares, each one more outrageous than the last, fueled by bravado and copious amounts of liquid courage. A prominent real estate developer, a man usually known for his staid demeanor and conservative suits, was seen attempting a handstand against the gleaming chrome bar, his face turning a shade of purple that clashed spectacularly with his pink Lacoste shirt. This, much to the amusement of a gaggle of i********: influencers who were live-streaming his wobbly, undignified efforts to their thousands of followers, complete with snarky captions and laughing emojis. Someone, Nifty vaguely recalled it might have been her flamboyant cousin, Anton, visiting from Cebu, thought it was a brilliant idea to start a conga line. The line, initially just a handful of willing participants, quickly swelled, snaking its way through the crowded rooftop, weaving precariously close to the infinity pool’s edge, and at one point, attempting to incorporate a bewildered-looking statue of a Roman god that Nifty had impulse-bought at an auction.

But Nifty, never one to be outdone, especially at her own party, had her own unique brand of chaos to unleash. She had a reputation to uphold, after all.

The infinity pool, a shimmering turquoise jewel under the hazy Manila moon, its surface reflecting the city lights like scattered diamonds, was an irresistible siren call. It had been winking at her all night. It started innocently enough. While Chloe was still trying to engineer a "casual" encounter with the brooding attaché (who had, by then, moved on to earnestly conversing with a tray of mini quiches), Nifty found herself near the pool's edge, the music thumping in her chest. She kicked off her diamond-studded Christian Louboutin heels, wiggling her toes on the cool, damp tiles. A sigh of pleasure escaped her lips. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes that Bianca, watching from a safe distance, instantly recognized as a prelude to something spectacularly ill-advised, she dipped a toe in. The water was cool, inviting.

A dare from a boisterous guest – "Bet you won't, Nifty!" – was all the catalyst she needed. Or perhaps it was the champagne, or the intoxicating feeling of the night, or simply the irrepressible Nifty-ness of her. With a wild whoop that momentarily silenced the DJ and echoed across the rooftop, she launched herself in. Not a graceful dive, not a hesitant wade. A full-blown, sequin-dress-and-all, exuberant leap.

The splash was magnificent, a silver, glittering explosion under the party lights, sending a shower of cool water over the nearest, unsuspecting guests, who shrieked in a mixture of shock and delight.

For a split second, there was a stunned silence. Then, chaos erupted. Gasps turned into cheers. The initial shock quickly morphed into a wave of collective exhilaration. If Nifty, the queen of the night, was in, who were they to stay dry and boring on the sidelines? It was like a signal had been given.

Soon, a select, equally uninhibited group followed her lead. A young actor, known for his dramatic roles, executed a surprisingly athletic cannonball. Two models, giggling hysterically, slid in hand-in-hand. Even the previously mentioned real estate developer, having recovered from his handstand attempt, was seen tentatively lowering himself into the shallow end, his expensive shirt now clinging to him like a second skin. The pool, moments before a serene, decorative centerpiece, became a churning, laughing, splashing playground of flailing limbs, airborne champagne (someone had the brilliant idea of bringing bottles into the pool), and shrieks of pure, unadulterated delight.

Nifty, her usually perfectly coiffed raven hair now plastered to her face and neck in dark, glistening strands, was a water nymph in shimmering silver sequins. She was laughing, gasping for air, water streaming down her face. Someone, a brawny rugby player she vaguely knew, hoisted her onto his shoulders. She became a makeshift, dripping queen on a slippery, human throne, her champagne flute still miraculously, if somewhat dilutedly, in hand. She remembered laughing so hard her stomach ached, the city lights blurring into a dizzying, joyful kaleidoscope. She remembered the sensation of cool water against her heated skin, the roar of her friends’ voices in her ears, the feeling of being utterly, intoxicatingly, gloriously alive. She felt like the empress of Manila, ruler of all she surveyed, even if her mascara was currently making a bid for freedom down her cheeks.

What she didn’t quite register, in the bubbly, chlorine-scented haze of the moment, were the flashes.

Not just the strobing party lights from DJ Axel’s rig, or the gentle twinkle of the fairy lights reflecting in the disturbed water. These were different. Sharper. More focused. More… predatory. Several guests, their expensive smartphones held aloft, were capturing the scene, their screens glowing in the dim light. Standard party behavior, perhaps. But, lurking just beyond the periphery of the main revelry, partially concealed by a large potted bamboo near a shadowy alcove by the service elevator – an area most guests wouldn't even notice – was another figure. A figure Nifty definitely hadn’t invited. A figure with a professional-grade DSLR camera, equipped with a long, intrusive lens. Methodically, silently, this figure was documenting every splash, every uninhibited pose, every champagne-soaked antic, the lens zooming in with unnerving precision on Nifty’s ecstatic, unguarded face. Each click of the shutter was a tiny, unheard nail being hammered into the coffin of her privacy.

As the first, tentative hints of dawn began to dilute the inky black of the tropical sky, painting the eastern horizon in shades of bruised purple and soft rose, the party finally started to fray at its glittering edges. The music softened from thumping house to mellow chill-out tracks. Conversations became more subdued, punctuated by yawns. The first wave of weary, champagne-logged revelers began to make their discreet (and not-so-discreet) exits, leaving behind a battlefield of discarded high heels, half-empty glasses bearing lipstick stains, crushed canapés trodden into expensive rugs, and the lingering, heady scent of a night that had been pushed to its absolute, glorious limits.

Nifty, eventually coaxed out of the pool and now wrapped in a ridiculously fluffy white Althea Residences bathrobe that someone (probably the ever-prepared Bianca) had procured, surveyed the scene from her balcony. The rooftop was a beautiful, chaotic disaster. Her beautiful disaster. A triumphant, sleepy, and slightly shivery smile played on her lips. The pool water was still and murky, littered with stray sequins and a deflated inflatable flamingo. Cushions were askew, fairy lights drooped, and a faint smell of wet fabric hung in the air. That, she thought with a deep sense of satisfaction, was a party. A proper party.

She padded towards the edge of the penthouse terrace, the cool pre-dawn breeze raising goosebumps on her damp skin. She looked down at the awakening city, now a tapestry of grey and muted gold. The first delivery trucks were rumbling along the wide avenues. The distant call to prayer echoed faintly from a nearby mosque. She took a deep, satisfied breath, the events of the night replaying in her mind as a series of vibrant, joyful, if somewhat blurry, snapshots. She felt a pleasant exhaustion, the kind that only comes after truly letting go.

Blissfully unaware, she had no idea that several floors below, in the early morning hum of the city’s newsrooms and the relentless digital churn of online gossip sites, digital images of her rooftop revelry – specifically, her in the pool, looking like a drenched but deliriously happy sea creature – were already being uploaded, captioned with salacious headlines, and prepared to explode onto the front page of the Philippine Daily and across every social media feed in the archipelago.

The fizz of the champagne was about to meet the undeniable, unforgiving flash of a scandal. Nifty Alcantara’s world, so recently a bubble of joyous abandon, was on the precipice of a very public, very messy, and very widely circulated hangover. The bill for the night's chaos was about to come due, and it was going to be astronomical.