First Temptation: The Billionaire's Game

CHAPTER 4

POV: Cassie Villareal

“Hindi ako aalis dito hangga’t ‘di kayo nakikinig.”

They froze.

Mom and Dad were seated in the formal study, surrounded by mahogany walls, brass desk accents, and enough national flags to remind anyone that this wasn’t just a house—it was a power center. But I didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Mom looked up from her tablet, her face already tight with annoyance. “Cassie, now’s not the time.”

“It’s exactly the time,” I said, stepping forward and pulling out a folder from behind my back like a dagger.

“This,” I said, voice trembling but sharp, “is my acceptance letter. Fashion Institute of Milan. Full-semester design immersion. I applied last year. I got in. This is what I want.”

Mom’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “You applied in secret?”

“Yes,” I said, chin up. “Because I knew the answer would be no if I asked.”

Dad removed his reading glasses and sat back, folding his arms. “You’re right. It is no.”

“Of course it is,” I said, the bitter laugh escaping before I could stop it. “Because anything that isn’t pre-approved, staged, or on-brand gets buried.”

“We’re in the middle of an election cycle,” Mom said calmly. “Everything you do reflects on us.”

“I’m not a campaign prop,” I snapped. “I’m your daughter. I’m a designer. This is the first thing I’ve earned without using our last name. And now you’re telling me I can’t go?”

“We’re telling you,” Dad said, voice low and deliberate, “that we’ve already arranged something better.”

My heart dropped.

“Better?”

Mom leaned forward. “We’ve secured a spot for you in a highly selective mentorship program. Invitation-only. Private. Quiet.”

“Where?” I asked, cautious.

“A private estate,” she answered. “Just outside the city. Exclusive. Media-free. Completely secure.”

“And who exactly runs this mystery program?” I asked, arms crossed.

Dad smiled slightly. “Monique Madrigal.”

I froze.

That name I knew.

The Monique Madrigal. Founder of House Madrigal. Couture goddess. Cold-blooded legend. She didn’t mentor—she molded. And very few survived her world.

“She chose you,” Mom said. “One slot. Direct mentorship. You’ll be living in her estate for the duration of the immersion.”

Something in my chest coiled.

“And what’s the catch?” I asked.

“No catch,” Dad said. “Full creative access. No distractions. Total privacy.”

“And no escape,” I murmured.

“What was that?” Mom asked.

“Nothing,” I said quickly.

Because I knew that name. I’d seen it before. On silent fashion weeks. On architecture forums. On donor lists.

Madrigal.

The same surname as the man from the club.

The man who haunted my skin without touching it.

The man who gave me back my bracelet with eyes like cold fire.

They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. To them, Madrigal was just a prestigious name on paper.

But to me?

It was a warning. A thread. A quiet danger wrapped in silk.

“Take it,” Dad said. “Or you stay here. Your choice.”

Except it wasn’t.

Because if I stayed, I’d rot behind layers of security and image control.

And if I left…

I’d be walking straight into a house that belonged to a Madrigal.

A name that suddenly meant far more than fashion.

I swallowed hard.

“Fine,” I said.

But in my chest, everything screamed.

Because I had a feeling that once I crossed those gates—

Nothing about me would ever come out the same.

Tatlong black SUVs. Dalawang escort motorcycles. Lahat naka-tinted windows, matte black finish, government-issued plates. The kind of convoy reserved for high-profile transfers or diplomatic extractions—except this time, it was just me.

And I wasn’t a diplomat.

I was the liability daughter being exiled under the guise of a creative mentorship.

I sat in the backseat of the middle SUV—silent, stiff, suffocating in my own head.

Beside me? A female security aide who hadn’t said a word since we left the palace grounds. In front, two more bodyguards in identical suits and unreadable faces. Earpieces buzzing with quiet, clipped instructions from someone in the lead vehicle.

Protocol. Protection. Control.

Even now, even while being “granted freedom,” I was wrapped in the same goddamn cage.

I leaned my head against the cool window, forehead pressing against the glass, watching as the city slowly peeled away behind us. The Manila skyline faded into dull grays and sprawling roads. Flyovers gave way to quiet towns. Towns gave way to long stretches of highway surrounded by greens—fields, forests, and faraway hills.

No more traffic noise. No more honking. Just the hum of tires on pavement and the occasional crackle of radio comms between vehicles.

I wasn’t allowed to bring my phone. No laptop. No WiFi. No contact with the outside world.

Not even Trixie.

All I had were my sketchpads, a few pens, a duffel bag of clothes I wasn’t sure I’d get to wear, and this tightening knot in my chest.

No updates. No escape. No clue.

Just one massive question echoing louder with every kilometer we traveled:

What the hell did I just agree to?

My fingers gripped the edge of my sketchbook, thumb rubbing against the spine like it could ground me. Like I wasn’t being shipped off to some secret estate with zero signal and zero context.

I should be excited.

This was fashion—the thing I loved more than anything. The thing that made me feel like I was in control. I should be screaming, celebrating, crying happy tears.

But instead?

All I felt was dread.

Because this didn’t feel like an opportunity.

It felt like exile dressed in couture.

Like they were hiding me away. Polishing me in private so they could use me again someday. Like I wasn’t a person—but a problem to be repackaged.

I tried to breathe, but the silence felt heavy. The longer we drove, the more I felt like I was being erased from the world I used to know.

I looked at my reflection in the window—tired eyes, blank stare, a version of myself I barely recognized.

They called this a mentorship.

But it felt more like surrender.

And deep down, I couldn’t shake the fear that wherever we were going… someone was waiting.

Not just a mentor.

Not just an elite designer.

But someone who already knew I was coming.

Someone who had seen the reckless girl from the club.

Someone who might’ve been expecting her.

And I wasn’t sure if that terrified me…

Or thrilled me.

Two hours later… somewhere in Batangas

Tumigil kami sa tapat ng isang napakalaking gate—black wrought iron with golden filigree details. Walang signage, walang pangalan, pero halatang hindi ordinaryo. May gumagapang na vines sa gilid ng bakal, parang binabalot ng kalikasan ang karangyaan.

At pagkapasok namin?

Para akong nalunod sa ibang mundo.

Gravel driveway na parang walang katapusan. Matataas na punong tila mga bantay. Stone pathways winding like a secret. In the distance, a glimmering lake reflecting the blood-orange sky.

Pero ang bumungad sa gitna?

Isang mansion na hindi galing sa modernong panahon.

No high glass walls. No sleek concrete or digital gates.

Ito’y parang villa sa Tuscany.

Warm beige stones. Ivy-covered walls. Archways and shutters. Windows na bukas pero tahimik. Mamahaling katahimikan.

I stepped out of the SUV.

Nag-angat ako ng tingin sa buong paligid—walang ingay, walang ibang tao. Pero ramdam mo ang presensya. Yung tipo ng tahimik na parang may mga matang nakasilip sa likod ng bawat bintana.

“Where’s the staff?” tanong ko sa head guard, pinipigilang ipakita na kinakabahan ako.

“They stay in a separate wing, Ma’am,” sagot niya, turo sa isang compound na halos natatabunan ng mga puno sa di kalayuan. “This house is strictly for the resident… and the mentor.”

Resident. Mentor.

I blinked. “Ako lang… ang estudyante?”

“Yes, Ma’am. You’re the only one invited this cycle.”

Putangina.

Bago pa ako makapagtanong ulit, bumukas ang giant wooden doors sa unahan. Mabagal. Parang scene sa isang gothic movie. At mula roon, lumabas ang isang babae.

Graceful. Elegant. But with that kind of sharpness you feel, not see.

She wore cream trousers, a silk blouse, and a look that could cut diamonds.

“Cassie Villareal,” she said, voice calm but precise. “Finally.”

I straightened unconsciously. “You are…?”

“Monique Madrigal,” she said, walking closer. “Director of the Madrigal Creative Foundation. This estate is under my care for the duration of your residency.”

Hindi ko agad nakuha ang ibig sabihin niya. Hindi siya yung inaasahan kong sasalubong. Hindi siya ‘yung... iniisip kong nandito.

Pero may bigat ang apelyidong ‘Madrigal.’ And now, it made sense.

They didn’t just send me to a fashion program.

They sent me to the lion’s den.

Monique smiled faintly. “Come. The house is ready for you. We’ll begin orientation in the morning. For tonight, settle in.”

Pumasok ako sa loob, tahimik pa rin ang paligid, pero mas malamig na ngayon. High ceilings. Marble floors. Giant windows that framed the view like paintings. A grand staircase na parang daan papunta sa ibang mundo.

“May… ibang tao ba sa bahay?” tanong ko habang sinusundan siya.

Monique paused at the base of the stairs.

“There will be,” she said, her voice unreadable. “But for now, enjoy the solitude. You’ll need it.”

Then she nodded to one of the silent aides, who picked up my bag and gestured toward the west wing of the house.

Bago siya tuluyang lumayo, Monique added, “You’re not here to be protected, Cassandra. You’re here to be unmade. And rebuilt.”

I froze.

She didn’t wait for my reaction. Tumalikod na siya at nawala sa isang hallway.

Sa likod ko, pumikit ang malaking pinto. Tahimik. Matatag.

And just like that, I was inside.

Alone.

Inside a stranger’s house.

Under someone else’s rules.

But as I turned to follow the aide toward my new room, I passed a hallway. Dimly lit. Empty. Still.

Except for one thing.

A presence.

A weight.

Like someone was watching.

And I swear—just for a second—sa pinaka-dulong bahagi ng hallway, may anino. May silhouette ng isang lalaking nakasandal sa poste, barely visible.

But familiar.

Sharp. Still. Waiting.

I blinked—and he was gone.

Or maybe I just imagined him.

But deep down?

I knew I didn’t.

Because even without saying his name…

I felt him.

And wherever he was in this house?

He already knew I had arrived.

I had just begun exploring the house when I heard Monique’s voice echo from the staircase.

“Cassandra, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

I turned, heart already thudding.

Not again.

Not him.

Monique was descending slowly, graceful as ever, but this time she wasn’t alone.

Trailing behind her—

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal shirt and black trousers. Sleeves rolled. Watch glinting. Gaze unreadable.

Xan.

Fuck.

He was walking like this was his house. Like I was the intruder.

“Cassie,” Monique said as they reached me, “this is the lead mentor assigned to your residency.”

I froze.

Xan’s eyes met mine. Calm. Calculating.

And amused.

Monique didn’t notice the way my breath caught.

She was all business.

“Mr. Madrigal is one of the major benefactors of the foundation. And tonight marks the start of your creative immersion under his guidance. For the next eight weeks, he will be your direct supervisor, evaluator, and—” she added pointedly—“mentor.”

My chest tightened.

“Mentor?” I repeated, trying to keep my voice even. “As in… personal mentor?”

Xan gave a polite nod, expression neutral. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Villareal.”

I nearly choked.

He was so full of s**t.

Monique continued, “I’ll be coordinating from the capital. The estate is now under his full management. You'll have complete access to the studio, library, and grounds.”

And just like that, she handed over my fate to the very man I had no intention of ever seeing again.

Monique smiled one last time. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Dinner is served at seven, orientation starts tomorrow. Good luck, Cassandra.”

Then she walked off, stilettos clicking against the marble, her perfect figure vanishing through an archway like she hadn’t just turned my world upside down.

The moment we were alone, I rounded on him.

“Ipaliwanag mo nga sa akin anong kinalaman mo dito?” I hissed, stepping forward, fury rising in my throat. “What the hell is this, Xan? Coincidence? Or calculated?”

Xan didn’t even flinch.

“Calculated,” he said simply.

Of course.

I crossed my arms, trying to look like I had control. “So anong role mo dito? Papasayahin ako habang nakatago ako sa media circus? Bantayan ako para di na makawala?”

He stepped closer—too close. “I’m here to break you.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Not in the way you think,” he said, his voice low. “This isn’t charm school, Cassie. This place isn’t just about design. It’s about discipline. Vision. Control.”

My jaw tightened. “Control. Of course.”

“You want to be a real designer?” he asked, tilting his head. “Then we start with the truth. Real design doesn’t come from comfort. It comes from collapse.”

I was speechless.

He looked around the grand hall like it was a chessboard. “You’ll have access to world-class equipment. Materials. Resources. But the rules are simple.”

He held up one finger.

“One: No running. Once you're in, you finish the cycle. No leaving mid-residency.”

“Two: No outside contact unless cleared. That includes phones, press, and family.”

“Three: You do what I say in the studio. No arguments. No ego. Only work.”

I stared at him, stunned. “Are you even qualified to—”

“I own this estate,” he cut in. “I fund this program. You were placed here because your family needed a clean narrative. But I accepted you because I saw your sketches.”

I froze.

“You saw…?”

“In Paris,” he added casually. “Before the scandal. Before the headlines. You had raw potential—undisciplined, but dangerous. I like dangerous.”

I clenched my fists. “And what, exactly, do you get out of this?”

A slow smile curved his lips. “I get to watch you become something no one can control. Not even your father.”

I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or threatened.

Maybe both.

He turned his back and began walking toward the grand staircase again. “Dinner. Seven sharp. Don’t be late. I hate waiting.”

Then he paused on the first step, glancing over his shoulder.

“Oh—and Cassie?”

I met his gaze, still burning.

“This isn't a prison,” he said. “But it will break you if you fight it.”

And with that, he disappeared upstairs, leaving me breathless and burning in the middle of a house that suddenly felt too big—and too full of shadows.

And for the first time since I arrived...

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay.

Or if I ever wanted to leave.