CHAPTER 3
2794 Words
Maaga pa lang, ramdam ko nang may mali.
There was something in the air—like static before a storm.
Nasa balcony ako ng private suite ko sa Malacañang, naka-silk robe pa, nakatali ang buhok sa messy bun, tahimik na umiinom ng kape. The usual morning routine. The one moment in the day where I could pretend I was normal. Invisible. Free.
Pero kakaiba ang katahimikan ngayon. Parang may bumubulong sa hangin na, “Brace yourself.”
Then—
“CASSIE!”
Halos mabitawan ko ang mug. Sunod-sunod ang yabag. Malalakas. Mabilis. May tensyon.
Paglingon ko sa glass doors—
BOOM.
Bumukas ang pinto na parang sinipa. My mother barged in like a general on a warpath. Hawak ang iPad niya na parang sandatang may bala ng kahihiyan. Nakapajama pa siya, buhok magulo, pero ang mukha niya?
Nakapang-giyera.
“Anong—”
“Explain this.” Walang pasakalye. Walang good morning. She shoved the screen into my face like it was evidence in a courtroom.
I blinked.
And there it was.
A blurry—but devastatingly real—photo.
Ako. Sa dancefloor. Arms raised, head thrown back, eyes closed. Hair wild. Skin glowing. Back arched like I belonged to the night. Surrounded by shadows and bodies. Pure chaos. Pure me.
Sa ilalim ng litrato, isang headline na mas malakas pa sa sigaw ng kahit anong press con:
“FIRST DAUGHTER GONE WILD?”
• Exclusive underground club spotted in BGC
• Cassie Villareal seen partying with unknown men
• Security breach in presidential circle?
My breath caught.
Parang may humigop ng lahat ng hangin sa katawan ko. My mouth opened, but the words refused to form.
My mother stared at me—not like her daughter—but like I was a crisis. A mistake. A scandal wrapped in a silk robe.
“Where... where did this come from?” bulong ko. Kahit alam ko na. Deep down, alam kong wala nang safe place. Not even in the dark.
“Twitter. f*******:. Google Alerts. Your father’s phone has been ringing nonstop since 5 a.m. CNN is calling, Cassie.” Her voice was a blade. Controlled. Precise. Deadly.
“Do you understand what you’ve just done?”
I tried to speak. I really did. Pero kahit anong pilit ko—wala.
Because no matter how unfair this was, how exaggerated or taken out of context—
The damage was done.
And the whole world had seen it.
Not the perfect daughter.
Not the President’s pride.
Not the poised, intelligent, graceful young woman they molded in press kits.
No.
Ang nakita nila?
Ako. Cassie. Raw. Wild. Free. Dancing like the world didn’t own me.
Caught in the dark.
Dancing like no one was watching—
Except… someone was.
And they recorded it.
They turned my freedom into fuel for judgment. Into a spectacle. Into a headline.
“Do you have any idea what kind of narrative they’re building right now?” tanong ni Mom, pacing like a caged tiger. “Na-recruit ka raw? Influenced by underground drug culture. May mga conspiracy thread sa Reddit! May nagsasabi pang Xan Madrigal was grooming you—”
“What?!” I finally snapped, voice cracking.
“Exactly! That’s what people do when you give them a crack in the image—they rip it wide open!” she shouted, throwing her hands up.
I swallowed hard, chest tight. Heart pounding. Not from guilt—no.
From fury.
From fear.
From that familiar ache of never being seen for who I really was.
“I just wanted one night,” I whispered. “One night to breathe.”
She paused. Looked at me like I just confessed a crime.
“And in that one night,” she said coldly, “you could’ve destroyed everything we built.”
I felt it then.
The invisible bars closing in.
The reminder that even when I dance in the dark, my shadow always reports to the light.
Mom handed me the iPad again, this time slower.
“Fix it.”
“How?”
“Deny. Reframe. Pretend you were taken. Say you were misled. Blame someone. Blame anyone but you.”
My throat tightened. “But I’m not sorry.”
She froze.
Our eyes locked.
And for the first time… I think she saw me.
Not the image. Not the daughter she presents to the press.
Just me.
And she hated it.
She turned around without another word, leaving the room like she just lost a war.
I sat down slowly, the iPad still glowing with the damning photo.
And in that silence—
I wasn’t scared.
I wasn’t ashamed.
I was alive.
Bruised by the truth, but no longer suffocating in the lie.
I thought the worst part was the photo.
Akala ko ‘yun na ‘yun. That the chaos would die down after the initial wave. Na after one news cycle, one trending hashtag, one scandal-hungry morning, the world would move on to the next celebrity break-up or political circus.
That I could just outlast it.
But I was wrong.
So f*****g wrong.
The internet didn’t just react.
It dissected me. Devoured me.
#CassieVillarealScandal
#FirstDaughterGoneWild
#IsThisOurFutureFirstLady
#SayangSiCassie
Twitter turned into a war zone. t****k became a courtroom. i********:—a graveyard of tagged photos with judgment in every caption.
Slowed-down videos. Zoomed-in gifs. Edited montages of me dancing—laughing—owning my body and my moment, now rebranded as “recklessness.”
Ang saya kong minsan lang maramdaman?
Ginawang kasalanan.
They layered dramatic sound effects. Red font. Headlines like:
“She’s not a daughter. She’s a disgrace.”
“How can she represent the country when she can’t represent herself?”
“Cassie Villareal—party girl or problem child?”
But it wasn’t just strangers.
Even verified journalists and so-called “public figures” started throwing in their two cents.
“A First Daughter should be dignified.”
“Sayang ang upbringing.”
“This is what privilege looks like with no accountability.”
They didn’t know me.
But they wrote my story like they did.
And the comments?
They were knives.
“Walang utak kahit may ganda.”
“Kung ako tatay niya, ikukulong ko siya.”
“This is why girls like her shouldn’t have platforms.”
I told myself not to read them.
But I did.
Because part of me wanted to know just how much the world hated the real me.
Pero ang pinaka-matinding tama?
Hindi galing sa headlines.
Hindi galing sa trolls.
It came from one email.
[INBOX: FASHION HOUSE INTERNSHIP]
Subject: Re: Application Status – URGENT UPDATE
Cassandra,
We regret to inform you that due to recent media attention and image conflicts, your placement for the summer design internship has been officially withdrawn.
This decision is final and effective immediately.
We wish you well.
— Atelier Brionne, Paris
I stared at the screen.
Blank.
Still.
Walang gumagalaw. Not even my breath. My hand hovered over the mouse, not clicking. Not reacting. Just...
Dead.
I read the email again. And again. Hoping na baka maling inbox. Baka ibang Cassie ang tinutukoy. Baka may typo.
Pero hindi.
It was me.
It was my name.
And my dream—yung pinaghirapan ko, pinagpuyatan, pinangarap nang palihim sa likod ng political curtains ng pamilya ko—was gone.
Not because I failed the test.
Not because my portfolio wasn’t good enough.
But because I danced.
Because I smiled.
Because for one goddamn night—I chose myself.
I swallowed hard.
But the lump in my throat only grew.
This wasn’t just a rejection.
It was punishment.
A reminder na kahit anong galing mo, anong sipag mo, kapag babae ka at nagkamali ka ng “a little too much,” the world will eat you alive.
You can be brilliant. Beautiful. Talented. And they will still reduce you to your worst moment.
Kumuyom ang kamao ko.
I shut the laptop, slowly, as if closing it would make the pain stop.
But it didn’t.
The silence that followed was heavier than any headline.
I bit down hard on my lip, trying not to cry. Trying not to scream. Trying not to feel like the ground just collapsed beneath me.
“Don’t let them win.”
Bulong ko sa sarili ko.
Almost like a prayer.
Almost like a lie.
But what if...
What if they already did?
What if they succeeded in making me ashamed of myself?
In making me believe that I deserved to lose everything just for being human?
My phone buzzed beside me—more notifications. More gossip. More fallout.
I didn’t check it.
I just sat there, clutching my own chest like I could hold my heart together with my bare hands.
And in that moment, I felt it—
Not just sadness.
But rage.
Because I was tired.
Tired of being punished for breaking the rules when I never got to write them in the first place.
Tired of being told who I’m supposed to be.
Tired of smiling while they turned me into a brand.
So maybe...
Maybe it was time they saw what Cassie Villareal really looked like when she stopped pretending.
Tahimik ang buong bahay.
Too quiet.
No press briefings on the TV. No muffled conversations from downstairs. No rustling of staff moving discreetly through the halls like ghosts.
Just silence.
Which, in this house, was always a bad sign.
I was sitting at the edge of my bed, still wearing my oversized shirt from last night, one sock missing, hair uncombed. My planner lay open beside me on the mattress—like a cruel joke.
The pages still bore the dreams I once held so tightly.
"Paris – June 12."
"Atelier Brionne orientation – June 15th."
"Final portfolio review – DONE!"
My handwriting was still bubbly. Hopeful. Scribbled in pink ink. Underlined with hearts.
Past tense na siya ngayon.
Those words didn’t mean anything anymore.
They were just ink on paper.
A timeline that belonged to another girl. A girl who still believed that if she worked hard enough, stayed quiet long enough, smiled wide enough—she could be free.
Hindi ko na narinig ang pagbukas ng pinto. Wala man lang katok. Walang paalala. Parang multo.
Pag-angat ng ulo ko, andun na siya.
Daddy.
Still wearing his reading glasses. Crisp barong, freshly pressed. His sleeves were rolled just enough to seem approachable. But his posture?
Straight. Steel.
He wasn’t the President right now.
He was my father.
But the way he looked at me?
Cold. Distant. Wounded.
Like I’d just shot his entire re-election campaign in the heart.
“Stand up,” he said.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
I blinked, unsure if I heard right. “What?”
“Stand up,” he repeated. “Give me your phone.”
My heart stilled.
For a second, I thought he was joking. That maybe, deep down, he’d say something kind. Something fatherly.
But this?
This wasn’t about comfort.
This was about control.
“Dad—” I said softly, the panic starting to rise in my chest.
“Now, Cassandra.”
His voice didn’t rise.
It didn’t have to.
He was the kind of man who commanded obedience with just the weight of silence.
I stood up slowly, like I was preparing for execution. My hand reached behind me, pulling my phone from the waistband of my shorts.
My last tether to the outside world.
The only place I could still breathe.
The only place I could still be me.
I held it tighter.
“Please don’t,” I whispered. Barely audible.
But he heard it.
“You lost that privilege,” he said, eyes sharp, “the moment you decided to become a headline.”
He didn’t flinch as he took the phone straight from my hand.
That was the moment it felt real.
The moment I knew—this wasn’t just punishment.
This was erasure.
“The world saw a reckless daughter,” he continued. “A liability.”
I swallowed hard, heat burning behind my eyes.
“I’m not a liability,” I said, voice trembling but steady. “I’m human.”
He stepped closer. Not in anger.
But in doctrine.
“You are Villareal, Cassandra,” he said coldly. “You don’t get to be ‘just human.’ You represent a name. A nation. A legacy.”
My breath hitched.
“Then maybe I don’t want it,” I whispered.
His eyes darkened. His jaw locked.
“You don’t get to choose,” he said.
Like my life was never mine.
Like everything I was and everything I could be had already been decided—without me.
I didn’t cry.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to break.
But I wouldn’t give him that.
He turned his back on me.
“You’re grounded,” he said. “Effective immediately. No events. No media. No outside contact. Not without my or your mother’s permission.”
He walked toward the door, unbothered. Mechanical. As if closing the door would close the scandal. As if shutting me down would fix everything.
But I wasn’t done.
“Dad,” I said, my voice louder than I intended.
He paused at the doorway.
Hand on the frame.
I swallowed hard, gripping the hem of my shirt to stop my hands from shaking.
“Do you even care…” I asked, “that I lost my internship?”
There was silence.
I almost believed he might turn. Say he was sorry. That he was proud. That he knew how hard I worked. That he understood what it meant to lose the only thing that was mine.
But when he spoke, his voice was even colder.
“I care,” he said, “that you embarrassed this family.”
He didn’t turn around.
“Everything else is secondary.”
Then he walked out.
And just like that, the door clicked shut.
But the walls around me had already collapsed.
I sat back down, my legs weak, my hands limp. The silence crept in again, heavier now. Denser.
I stared at the empty spot on my nightstand where my phone used to be.
Where freedom used to be.
And that’s when it hit me—
I wasn’t just grounded.
I was erased.
Edited out of my own life.
Trapped, again.
Not in a palace.
But in expectations.
In legacy.
In the image they built around me.
And this time?
I didn’t know if I had enough fight left.
Because how do you scream when no one ever hears you?
How do you breathe when the air they allow you is scripted?
And how do you survive—
When your father treats your identity like a scandal to clean up… instead of a daughter to protect?
Isang linggo na ‘ko sa loob ng Malacañang.
Parang house arrest.
No events. No interviews. No calls. No social media. Wala akong phone. Wala akong internship.
Wala akong karapatang huminga nang walang pahintulot.
I was a prisoner in silk pajamas.
And I was slowly going insane.
Kaya nang marinig ko ang katok sa pinto ng private wing ko, napalingon agad ako.
“Ma’am, may pinadala po para sa inyo,” sabi ng isang staff. “Private courier. Walang pangalan.”
My brows furrowed. “From who?”
“Wala pong sinabing name. Pero sabi confidential. For your hands only.”
Bumangon ako agad. Nilapag niya ang maliit na matte black box sa coffee table. Maingat. Parang bomba.
The box was sleek. No logo. No sticker. No card.
I lifted the lid carefully.
Inside...
My bracelet.
The bracelet.
The one I designed. The one I dropped that night.
Nakahiga siya sa loob ng dark velvet lining—malinis, restored, as if it was never touched by scandal.
Kasama ng bracelet, may maliit na folded note. Cream paper. Sharp handwriting.
I opened it slowly.
And there, written in ink darker than midnight, were just eight words:
“Next time you want to run, call me instead. – X”
I froze.
The paper trembled slightly between my fingers, but not because of the aircon.
It was me.
My pulse. My breath. The memory of him—towering, steady, dangerous in the most quiet way.
No questions. No judgments.
Just… him.
Saying: I see you.
Saying: You don’t have to do it alone next time.
I sat down slowly, bracelet still in one hand, note in the other.
And for the first time since this whole mess started, I didn’t feel like a prisoner.
I felt like I had an escape route.
A wildcard.
A phone number I didn’t have—but suddenly wanted more than anything.
Because if there’s one thing that note made clear…
Xan Madrigal wasn’t done with me.
Not even close.
And I?
Wasn’t done running.
- Writer
