First Temptation: The Billionaire's Game

CHAPTER 5

"6 PM curfew? Are you serious?"

I was standing in the middle of the study-s***h-design room, surrounded by mahogany shelves filled with design books, vintage architecture volumes, leather-bound sketchpads. Parang library ng isang obsessive genius.

And there he was.

Xan Madrigal.

Leaning casually against the edge of a massive drafting table, legs crossed, espresso cup in hand like he had all the time in the world—and the entire world in his pocket.

Which, unfortunately, might be true.

“Yes,” he said coolly, without even blinking. “This isn’t a resort. It’s a mentorship.”

I scoffed. “I didn’t sign up for military school.”

He set down his cup and met my glare with unnerving calm. “You didn’t sign up for anything,” he said. “You were placed here. Which means you play by my rules.”

My jaw tensed. I hated the word placed. Like I was a pawn on a board they’d built behind my back.

“You mean my parents’ rules,” I snapped.

He tilted his head, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Same thing.”

I took a slow, defiant step forward, folding my arms. “You can’t just lock me up here like some spoiled heiress in designer rehab.”

“You’re not locked in,” he said, still maddeningly calm. “You’re simply expected to follow structure. You want to design? Then you follow discipline.”

“Discipline doesn’t mean curfews and isolation and being watched like a security threat,” I spat back.

He arched a brow. “It worked for Dior. And McQueen.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw another dimension. “You’re not McQueen.”

“No,” he said, stepping forward until we were just a breath apart. “But I know what it takes to break someone into brilliance.”

Boom.

That voice. That stare. That subtle but undeniable challenge in his tone.

It hit me like silk and steel wrapped around my ribs. And worse?

It stuck.

He didn’t need to yell. He didn’t need to slam his hand on a table.

He just looked at me like he saw something I wasn’t ready to admit was there.

“f*****g hell,” I muttered under my breath, turning around in a dramatic spin, my hair flying like a curtain I could hide behind. “Fine. Lock the gates. Set your precious rules. Just don’t expect me to smile and curtsy like some obedient little intern.”

I stormed toward the door.

But then—

“Cassie.”

His voice dropped—low, quiet, almost gentle.

I froze. Against my better judgment.

I didn’t look back.

I couldn’t.

“Don’t mistake this place for a cage,” he said, calm and cutting. “It’s a mirror. The only thing you’ll be fighting here… is yourself.”

Boom.

That landed.

Like a knife made of truth.

And it scared the hell out of me.

I walked out before my legs could betray me. Before the quiver in my chest bloomed into something stupid—like vulnerability.

But inside?

I was already unraveling.

---

The Next Morning

I woke up way earlier than I planned. Or maybe I never really slept.

Too much silence.

Too much thinking.

Too much… him.

I tried to focus on breakfast—some fresh fruit and yogurt that tasted like air—but I was barely two bites in when he walked in.

Xan.

Fresh from an early swim, damp hair slicked back, skin still glistening slightly under a clean black polo. Effortless. Untouchable.

Every step he took echoed like a silent warning.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just dropped a manila folder in front of me on the table.

"House rules," he said coolly, like he was handing me a napkin.

I stared at the folder like it was radioactive. “Seriously? Written?”

He nodded. “Signed, actually. Standard for all Madrigal residency participants.”

“Madrigal prison, you mean,” I muttered.

But curiosity won. I flipped the folder open.

---

RULES AND STRUCTURE: CASSIE VILLAREAL – MADRIGAL DESIGN RESIDENCY

1. Curfew is 6:00 PM sharp. Gates lock at 6:01. No exceptions.

2. Design Hours: 9 AM – 5 PM. Check-in required at the studio before start.

3. No outside guests. Clearance required for all visits.

4. Phone use restricted. One approved personal call per week.

5. All designs must be original. Weekly progress critiques mandatory.

6. Violation of any rule = immediate removal. No second chances.

---

“Wow,” I said, lips curling. “Did you write this before or after boarding school broke your heart?”

Xan didn’t even flinch. “I wrote it after my last three interns cost me a million pesos worth of wasted resources and bad press.”

“Cute,” I said flatly. “And what happens if I don’t follow one of these pretty little rules?”

He leaned over the table—slowly, deliberately—until his face was just close enough to steal my breath.

“Then you’ll learn something about consequences. And about yourself.”

Silence.

Tight. Electric. Sharp as scissors against skin.

I swallowed.

He smelled like espresso and clean cotton and a hint of sin.

“You really think you can tame me with a folder?” I whispered.

“No,” he replied, voice softer now. Too soft. “I think you’ll tame yourself… once you realize how much power you’re wasting pretending you don’t care.”

And then—

He turned. Picked up his coffee. Walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving me breathless.

And holding the folder like it was a grenade.

I looked down again.

The rules were still there.

Firm.

Unmoving.

Ink on paper.

But somehow…

I already knew I’d follow them.

Not for my parents.

Not even for myself.

But because he was watching.

And because for the first time in my life...

I wanted to win.

Not to please.

Not to impress.

But to beat him at his own game.

Only question now was—

Who’d be broken first?

Me?

Or him?

Nakasandal ako sa hallway wall, arms crossed tight against my chest, jaw clenched. The cold from the marble seeped through my back, but the heat bubbling inside me kept me from shivering.

I was waiting.

For answers.

For a fight.

For him.

And then I heard it—his footsteps.

Slow. Steady. Self-assured.

Parang sinasadya niyang iparamdam na siya ang may-ari ng bawat hakbang sa bahay na 'to. No rush. No hesitation. As if even the air bent to his pace.

When he turned the corner and his figure finally came into view, I didn’t wait.

Didn’t soften.

Didn’t blink.

“Bakit may naka-lock na wing sa mansion?” I asked, my voice sharp, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

Xan stopped mid-step, a small frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Suot niya 'yung signature look niya—black button-down, two buttons open, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins on his forearms. Relaxed. Dangerous. Effortlessly powerful.

A walking contradiction.

“Excuse me?” he said, one brow arched with casual arrogance.

I pushed off the wall and stepped forward, refusing to be small. “I live here now, remember? Don’t I have the right to know what part of the house I’m actually allowed in?”

His eyes flicked over me like I was a puzzle he’d already solved. “You’re not here to roam,” he said. “You’re here to learn.”

My hands curled into fists at my sides. “I didn’t realize learning came with locked doors and CCTV watching my every move.”

“You want freedom?” he asked, voice colder now. “Earn it.”

My chest rose. Fell. Tight.

“You think this is discipline?” I spat. “This is control. This is a f*cking power trip dressed up in designer mentorship.”

He didn’t even flinch. “And you think rebellion makes you strong?” he replied smoothly. “It makes you predictable.”

I blinked. "Predictable?"

That word stung more than I cared to admit.

He stepped forward, slow and measured. “Every tantrum. Every glare. Every time you try to test the boundary—you're screaming for someone to finally hold the line.”

I scoffed, but it came out shaky. “Ikaw kaya 'tong naka-script lahat. Oras ng kain, oras ng tulog, oras ng paghinga. You live like a f*cking robot.”

Another step closer. “And yet here you are. Still playing the game.”

“I’m surviving,” I bit out.

“No,” he said, his tone cutting clean. “You’re reacting. You’re making noise so you don’t have to sit in silence and listen to what’s really going on inside you.”

I swallowed hard. “And what exactly do you think is going on?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped even closer. Until the space between us was nonexistent. Until I could smell the faint scent of coffee and cedarwood on his shirt. Until the silence between our mouths felt like thunder waiting to strike.

“That deep down…” he whispered, voice almost tender, “you crave structure.”

I flinched.

“What?”

“You like the rules,” he murmured. “The pressure. The challenge. Because when someone finally puts you in place… you finally feel seen.”

My breath hitched.

Fck him.*

F*ck that he could say something like that and it would ring true.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And that made it worse.

I hated how his voice sounded like a secret I didn’t want to admit.

Hated how his words peeled through me like thread unraveling a seam.

“You’re so full of yourself,” I whispered, throat tight. “Arrogant bastard.”

He smirked. That goddamn smirk. “You wouldn’t still be here if I wasn’t.”

“And you wouldn’t still be standing this close if you weren’t enjoying this,” I fired back.

Silence.

Hot. Heavy. Alive.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to my lips.

And then right back to my eyes.

My lungs felt like they were shrinking. I couldn’t breathe past the pull.

There was something in the air between us.

Not just tension.

Not just defiance.

But… recognition.

Like somehow, in all the noise and rules and rebellion, he saw the parts of me no one else bothered to look at.

And I hated that more than anything.

I took a shaky step back. Not because I wanted to.

But because I had to.

Self-preservation mode: activated.

“Keep your rules, Madrigal,” I said, my voice steady now, low but clear. “But don’t ever confuse control with understanding.”

I turned, heels clicking against the tile like a closing door. I made it five steps before I heard his voice again.

Calm. Cold. But dipped in something dangerously intimate.

“I understand you more than you’d like.”

I didn’t turn around.

I couldn’t.

Because maybe…

Just maybe…

That was the part that scared me the most.

Not the rules.

Not the mansion.

Not even Xan Madrigal himself.

But the fact that someone—finally—understood me.

And I wasn’t ready for what that would mean.

Gabi na.

And I still couldn’t sleep.

I had tried—God, I had tried. Kumot sa mukha, pillows over my head, even counting backwards in French like some Pinterest article had once suggested. Nothing worked.

Not when his voice kept echoing in my head.

> “I understand you more than you’d like.”

What the hell did that even mean?

Why did it feel like he had peeled back a layer of my skin with just one sentence?

Why did it sound less like a threat and more like a... truth?

I threw the blanket off with a frustrated groan and paced my room, barefoot on the cold wooden floor. The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. As if it was holding its breath.

I needed air. Space. Something that didn’t smell like pine and power.

So I pulled on a silk robe over my camisole and shorts, twisted my hair into a loose bun, and padded silently to the balcony. The night air greeted me—cool, gentle, whispering secrets I wasn’t ready to hear.

The sky above was littered with stars.

For a moment, I just stood there, breathing. Letting the breeze kiss my skin. Letting the silence try to fill the chaos in my head.

And then—

Splash.

A soft one. Measured. Controlled.

I turned toward the sound, eyes narrowing. The balcony curved, wrapping around the side of the mansion. Between the carved stone columns and the railings, I moved quietly, curious.

I peeked through a gap in the vines.

And froze.

Xan.

In the pool.

Alone. Shirtless. Wet. Moonlit.

His body moved through the water like he was born of it—powerful strokes, clean form, muscles slicing through the pool like art. Broad shoulders. Tapered waist. Arms that looked like they could hold up the world—or crush it.

Holy. f*****g. s**t.

I swallowed hard. Don’t look. Don't be that girl.

But I couldn’t not look.

The moonlight caught the droplets on his back as he turned, revealing his face—calm, unreadable, but softer than I’d ever seen it. No sharp words. No clipped tone. Just... him. Bare. Real.

Intoxicating.

He reached the far edge of the pool and stopped. Rested his arms on the marble. Head tilted slightly. His hair slicked back, jawline shadowed in silver light.

And then—

He looked up.

Right. At. Me.

My heart stopped.

Putang—

I ducked too quickly, slamming my shoulder against the column with a muffled “Ow!”

“Cassie?” His voice floated up, amused and smooth as sin. “Enjoying the view?”

“I wasn’t watching you!” I blurted from behind the stone, cheeks on fire. “I was getting air!”

He chuckled. Freaking chuckled. The kind of deep, lazy laugh that went straight to places I was trying very hard to ignore.

“Of course you were.”

Shet. Shet. Shet.

I risked a peek. Just a small one.

He was facing me now, standing waist-deep, water sliding down his chest like a damn cologne commercial. One hand slicked his hair back, the other resting on the pool’s edge.

Confident. Calm. Unbothered.

Like he knew the effect he had.

“Do you want to come down?” he asked, voice casual, lips curved. “Or just keep spying from up there?”

Tangina talaga.

“I wasn’t spying!” I hissed.

“Oh? So this was a... midnight architecture inspection?”

“Hindi kita ini-inspect!”

“Naked-eye appreciation walk, then?”

I groaned, dragging my hand down my face. “Ugh, ang yabang mo!”

He smiled wider. “You know, if you wanted to see me half-naked, Cassie... you could’ve just asked.”

I gasped. The audacity.

“You are impossible!” I shouted, flustered and humiliated, my voice bouncing off the stone.

He gave a small shrug. “And yet you’re still here.”

That did it.

I stormed back to my room in full retreat, robe billowing behind me like a battle flag. I slammed the balcony door shut and leaned against it, panting.

My hands were shaking. My chest tight.

But not from fear.

From adrenaline.

From heat.

From the simple, undeniable fact that I had just seen too much of Xander Madrigal—and now I’d never be able to unsee it.

My fingers brushed the edges of my robe, suddenly too aware of how little I was wearing underneath.

And worse?

He knew.

That smug bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

This wasn’t an accident.

This was war.

And dammit...

I was losing.