First Temptation: The Billionaire's Game

CHAPTER 11

The days blurred together like warm sunlight through silk curtains.

Soft.

Dreamlike.

Almost unreal.

Wala namang malinaw na “usapan” after the kiss. No confrontation. No awkward pulling away. Just… a shift.

Isang tahimik na pagbabago sa pagitan naming dalawa.

Parang may bagong rhythm na hindi namin pinag-usapan, pero pareho naming sinundan.

Hindi na siya laging nakasuot ng armor—figuratively or literally. Wala na ‘yung coldness sa boses niya, ‘yung laging calculated na bawat kilos. He started showing up in softer ways.

Sometimes with coffee.

Sometimes with quiet company.

Sometimes with silence that didn’t feel suffocating.

And me?

Hindi na ako laging naka-high heels emotionally.

I let myself breathe. Let myself loosen. Even let myself laugh without second-guessing kung may meaning bang iniisip ang mga tao.

And for the first time since arriving sa mansion… I felt something close to peace.

A strange, golden kind of peace.

It came in slow moments.

Like this one.

Swimming.

“Ayoko ng sunburn, Xan!” sigaw ko habang tinatanggal niya ‘yung giant umbrella sa tabi ng pool.

“Then don’t fall asleep on the deck chair,” sagot niya, smirking as he peeled off his shirt.

Yes.

His. Shirt.

And yes, I did pause for like… a full seven seconds just to appreciate that moment.

Because damn.

That body.

Lean, toned, golden. Every muscle defined like he was carved from some ancient Roman fantasy.

May water bottle pa akong hawak pero para akong mauhulog sa upuan ko.

“Stop staring,” he muttered, not even looking at me, as he dropped the umbrella to the side and walked toward the edge of the pool.

“I’m a fashion student,” I said, recovering as fast as I could. “Consider it… muscle structure research.”

“Right,” he said with a low laugh, before diving into the water like a damn Greek god reborn in Batangas.

His body sliced through the surface with perfect form, no splash, all grace.

Nag-sink siya for a moment, then resurfaced a few feet away, shaking his hair back, water glistening on his skin.

Jesus.

I was in trouble.

“Tumalon ka na rin,” sigaw niya, brushing water from his eyes. “The water’s warm.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” sagot ko. “I’d rather not drown.”

He swam back to the ledge and leaned his arms on it, looking up at me. “I won’t let you.”

And just like that—four simple words—my chest tightened.

Hindi ko alam kung dahil sa tono niya o sa intensity ng tingin niya habang sinasabi ‘yon, pero tumama siya nang diretso.

I won’t let you.

Not just about swimming.

Not really.

And we both knew it.

“Fine,” I said, pretending to stretch. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

“You already do,” bulong niya, too low for me to fully process.

“What?”

“Nothing. Jump in, Villareal.”

So I did.

I squealed when I hit the water, eyes shut tight, kicking upward until I broke the surface.

Pag-angat ko, he was there—right in front of me. Arms out. Ready to catch.

Even if I didn’t need saving.

And suddenly, I was treading water with his hands just inches away from my waist.

My hair was dripping. My cheeks flushed. My heart?

Wild.

He didn’t touch me.

But he didn’t have to.

That closeness?

It said everything.

We floated there for a moment, silent, surrounded by the soft ripples of the pool and the gentle hum of summer.

Then he whispered, “You’re not afraid of me anymore.”

“I never was,” sagot ko, pero mahina. Because it wasn’t true.

I was afraid.

But not of him.

Of what I was starting to feel.

Of how safe I felt when he was near.

Of how easy it was to forget who we were supposed to be when we were just… us.

In water. In warmth. In this strange pocket of time na hindi namin ginusto pero pareho naming hindi na kayang bitawan.

Fashion.

Afternoons were quieter.

Parang ibang mundo sa hapon. Wala ang alon ng bisita. Wala ang pressure ng performance. Walang makeup, walang ilaw, walang click ng camera.

Just the sun.

Soft and golden.

Just the breeze.

Steady and quiet.

And us.

I’d sketch on the patio—feet tucked beneath me, notebook resting on my lap, surrounded by swatches of fabric, scattered pencils, and half-empty cups of coffee. The hem of my linen dress swayed with the wind habang pinipilit kong ilabas ang ideyang pilit na nagtatago sa isip ko.

Minsan wala akong nagagawa.

Minsan, parang isang drawing lang ang sapat para maramdaman ko ulit ‘yung connection ko sa sarili ko.

Samantalang siya?

Xander would sit a few feet away, sa maliit na table under the shade, laptop open, one hand on the mouse, the other usually holding a glass of cold brew or espresso. The kind of man who always looked like he was in the middle of a silent power meeting, kahit walang ibang tao sa paligid.

But even when he was working…

He noticed everything.

Sometimes he’d glance at my sketches, lean over just enough to cast a shadow on my page, and say things that stuck longer than they should’ve.

“Too sharp.”

“Too safe.”

“Too boring.”

But never cruel.

Never empty.

Because when he said something, may laman. May insight. May weird mix of instinct and calculation na parang may sariling language ang utak niya na sinasalin lang niya para sa akin.

One afternoon, habang pinupunasan niya ‘yung salamin ng reading glasses niya—yes, he wears them sometimes, and yes, he looks sinfully good in them—he said something that stopped my pencil mid-stroke.

“You draw like you want to say something,” he murmured, sipping espresso. “But you’re still scared they’ll hear you.”

The air stilled.

Even the wind, parang nahinto sandali.

That one stung.

Because it was true.

Mas totoo pa kaysa sa mga sinabi ng professors ko.

Mas totoo pa kaysa sa mga critique ng fashion mentors sa mga shows ko.

I looked down at my sketch.

A halter dress na may asymmetrical cuts, stitched with metallic thread, half-rebellion, half-apology.

My armor. My offering.

“Bakit mo ‘yan nasabi?” tanong ko, not meeting his eyes.

He shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Because I used to be the same. You hide behind your technique, Cassie. Your tailoring is too precise for someone with your heart.”

I turned to him then. “Are you saying I’m… fake?”

“No,” he said quickly, firmly. “I’m saying you’re scared. And you think perfection will protect you.”

My throat tightened.

“Will it?” I asked.

He paused, eyes searching mine.

“No,” he said, softly this time. “It’ll only delay the collapse. But when you finally let go? That’s when the real art begins.”

His voice was low. Almost reverent.

Parang hindi niya lang ako kinakausap bilang designer.

Parang… bilang babae.

Bilang taong may gustong sabihin pero paulit-ulit na pinipigilan ang sarili.

I blinked hard and looked away, pretending to refocus on my sketch. But my fingers had gone still.

He noticed.

Of course, he did.

He always does.

Then he stood, slowly, walked to my chair, and without asking, sat on the ledge beside me. Our knees almost touched.

He picked up one of my sketches—‘yung hindi ko pa tapos. ‘Yung sinimulan ko sa gabi ng fashion review pero hindi ko pa kayang harapin.

He studied it quietly.

Then he murmured, “This one... is you.”

I looked at the sketch. It was messy. Raw. A deconstructed dress with uneven stitching, unbalanced lines, and one sleeve bleeding into something like a cape.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it felt like something.

“You want to say something,” he said again. “Stop whispering.”

I swallowed hard.

Then, slowly, I picked up my pencil.

And started drawing again.

This time—no fear.

Just feeling.

Just me.

And I could feel him watching.

But not to judge.

To witness.

And somehow… that made all the difference.

Shared Meals.

Dinner wasn’t just food.

It was tension—slow-cooked in candlelight and served with unspoken glances. Every clink of cutlery, every sip of wine, every silence between mouthfuls felt like another secret not yet told.

We didn’t talk about us.

Never directly.

But somehow, the silence said everything we refused to admit.

He always poured my wine first—without asking, without looking. Parang automatic. Parang instinct.

I’d steal bites from his plate when he was mid-sentence just to piss him off. Minsan, sinasadyang i-dip pa sa extra sauce kahit alam kong ayaw niya ng madaming lasa.

“Do you always cook this well?” I asked one night, biting into something buttery and unfairly perfect.

He didn’t even look up. “Do you always talk this much when you’re nervous?”

I choked—on the food and the audacity.

He looked at me then. Smirking.

The kind of smirk that said “I know you.”

I kicked him under the table.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look offended.

He just kept smiling.

Taena.

That smile? It stayed with me even when I went to bed.

Each day was warmer. Closer. Dangerously comfortable.

Because the closer I got to him…

…the harder it was to remember why I should stay away.

That night, it was just the two of us in the garden.

No staff. No wine. No distractions.

Just the wind, the stars, and that strange, familiar pull between us na hindi na kailangan pang pangalanan.

I sat on the stone steps—barefoot, legs tucked underneath me, wearing his oversized black hoodie that swallowed my entire frame. The sleeves covered my hands, and the scent of him clung to the fabric like memory.

Xan stood a few feet away, facing the dark line of trees at the edge of the estate. Arms crossed. Shoulders stiff.

Like he was waiting for something… or remembering something painful.

“Do you ever get tired?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t look at me.

“Of what?” His voice was low. Heavy.

“Of pretending you’re always in control.”

For a long time, he didn’t answer.

The silence stretched between us, tense and fragile.

Then finally—he exhaled. Long. Slow. Tired.

“I lost my parents when I was twelve,” he said.

No warning. No buildup.

Just truth.

Dropped like a stone into the quiet.

I froze. My hand clenched the fabric of the hoodie, suddenly needing something to hold.

“They were in politics,” he continued. “Corrupt. Powerful. And very, very hated.”

He laughed—but it was dry. Bitter.

“Someone made sure they paid for it.”

My heart sank.

“I got sent to a ‘family friend’ after that. Which is just a nicer way of saying I was dumped sa isang compound with people who only wanted to exploit my name.”

“You were alone,” I whispered.

“Always have been.”

He finally turned to look at me.

And in that moment, the shadows didn’t hide the pain in his eyes.

“But I learned. I watched. I waited. And by twenty, I had enough blackmail and leverage to take down every person who ever tried to own me.”

My breath caught.

“That’s how you built all this?” I asked softly.

He nodded once. Sharp. Controlled.

“No trust funds. No soft landings. Just survival. Cold, brutal, necessary.”

The air turned heavier.

Not just from his confession—but from the intimacy of it.

This wasn’t something he told people. This wasn’t a story polished for pity.

This was his truth. Raw. Unfiltered.

And somehow, he gave it to me.

“You’re not what I thought,” I said quietly.

His eyes flicked up. “No?”

“I thought you were arrogant. Cold. A control freak.”

He smirked faintly. “You’re not wrong.”

“But also…” I stood, slowly, walking toward him, “someone who built an empire with no armor but his own pain.”

For a second, something broke in his expression.

Like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of gentleness.

Like no one had ever said it to him before.

And maybe no one had.

“I’m not asking you to trust me,” I said, my voice shaking just a little. “But I’m here. And I see you now.”

He stared at me.

Longer than necessary.

As if he was trying to decide if I was real.

And for once…

He looked like he might let me in.

Like he might finally give up a piece of himself, not as a weapon… but as an offering.

He didn’t speak.

But he stepped closer.

And that was enough.

The silence in my room felt heavier than usual.

Not just quiet—heavy. Like the air itself was made of thoughts I wasn’t ready to think.

I sat at the edge of the bed, still wearing his hoodie—his scent clinging to me in places even I couldn’t reach. My fingers traced the soft hem like it was a lifeline. Parang kung hinaplos ko lang ito nang sapat, baka mahanap ko rin ‘yung sagot sa tanong na hindi ko pa rin kayang buuin.

He told me.

Xander Madrigal.

The man who built walls taller than his estate. Who spoke in half-truths and silence. Who lived like emotion was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

He told me.

About the pain.

About the parents.

About the power built from nothing but sheer rage and quiet suffering.

At hindi ito ‘yung klaseng pagbubukas na ginagawa ng mga lalaking gustong magpaawa. Hindi ito ‘yung scripted na trauma dump para lang magmukhang “deep.”

No.

It was real.

It was raw.

It was him—exposed, unguarded, and heartbreakingly human.

And he chose to say it to me.

I curled up under the blanket, knees tucked close to my chest, still feeling the weight of his voice sa hangin ng garden kanina. Parang naiwan ‘yung kaluluwa ko doon, nakaupo pa rin sa bato, nakatitig sa kanya habang binubuksan niya ang pinto ng isang kwento na ‘di niya pa yata kailanman binahagi.

The boy who lost everything at twelve.

The teenager who learned to weaponize silence.

The man who survived by building a kingdom out of fear and control.

The man who didn’t need anyone.

Not until now.

Not until me.

And God, bakit mas nakakatakot ‘yon kaysa sa lahat?

Bakit parang sa dami ng mga kwento kong sinubukang itago, he still saw through me—and now, I was the one who didn’t know how to carry his truth?

I closed my eyes, heart pounding against the silence.

Kasi nakita ko ‘yon sa mga mata niya kanina.

Nung sinabi kong “I see you now.”

He looked at me like he wanted to believe it.

Like part of him did.

But the bigger part—the broken part—was too used to being unseen.

And me?

I didn’t know what scared me more…

…na gusto kong pagkatiwalaan niya ako—

…o na ako mismo, sa hindi ko malamang paraan, ay nagtitiwala na sa kanya.

I pressed my palm against my chest, trying to breathe around the ache that wasn’t physical.

What are you doing to me, Xan Madrigal?

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Wala naman akong balak. Walang agenda.

But now?

Now I was tangled in him—in his silence, in his scars, in the moments when he almost lets me in.

I buried my face into the pillow and whispered to no one, barely a breath,

“I’m not supposed to fall for you.”

Because I wasn’t.

This was supposed to be temporary. A creative retreat. A break from noise.

Not him.

But the worst part?

The truth that lived in the silence between my heartbeat and his name?

I already was.

And it terrified me.

Because what if he’s not capable of catching someone who falls?

What if he’s so used to surviving alone… he doesn’t know how to hold someone who wants to stay?

But even as I thought it—terrified, shaking—I didn’t take off the hoodie.

I clutched it tighter.

Because for now, in this quiet war between fear and hope…

I was choosing to stay.

Knock knock.

I sat up on the bed, still in my oversized tee, hair in a messy bun. It was late—too late for the staff, too early for breakfast.

“Cassie,” his voice came through the door. Calm. Low. Xan.

Nagpintig agad ‘yung puso ko.

I walked barefoot to the door and opened it just enough to peek out. And there he was, leaning on the frame in a dark sweater and joggers—still unfairly attractive for someone who looked like he hadn’t slept either.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he held out a box. Matte black. Thin. Elegant.

“For you.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“You’re a designer. I’m giving you something to work with.”

I slowly took the box, brow raised. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

So I did.

Inside was a silk robe.

Not just any robe—champagne-colored, ankle-length, delicate lace on the edges, impossibly soft, and expensive-looking as hell.

I ran my fingers over it, heart skipping.

“Xan…”

He didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease.

But there was heat in his eyes. Controlled. Heavy.

“Design something sensual in this,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” His voice dipped. “You’ve designed for safety. For rebellion. Now try designing for desire.”

I swallowed hard. “And what exactly do you want me to wear under this?”

He stepped a little closer, eyes never leaving mine.

“That’s up to you,” he said. “But if I were you… nothing.”

Boom.

Brain? Gone.

Knees? Betrayed me.

Breathing? Optional.

Then, like it was nothing, he turned to leave.

But before he disappeared down the hallway, he paused—one hand on the railing, back still to me.

“I want to see the version of you you’re still afraid to show the world.”

Then he walked away.

And me?

I was left clutching silk and wanting fire.

ALEXANDER POV

Tahimik ang gabi.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that doesn’t scream—but lingers. Hangs in the air like a question you’re too afraid to ask.

I wasn’t used to this kind of quiet.

Not in this house.

Not in my life.

Usually, silence meant danger. Meant betrayal hiding behind a calm voice. Meant bullets waiting at the end of a hallway. I had been trained—no, forged—to treat silence as a signal. A threat.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Tahimik nga ang buong mansion, pero hindi ako mapakali.

I found myself standing outside her room, like a f*****g idiot with no plan and too many thoughts. Half-open ang pinto. Dim ang ilaw. May malamlam na music na galing pa siguro sa phone niya, pero halos wala na ring volume.

And there she was.

Asleep.

Curled up on the couch by the window like she wasn’t in the lion’s den. Like she didn’t just unravel my entire control system with a kiss and a quiet “I see you.”

Cassie.

Wearing an old tank top, shorts that didn’t hide much, at nakapatong sa armrest ang silk robe na ako mismo ang nag-iwan sa kama niya two nights ago.

Sketchpad sa kandungan. Isang braso nakaakap dito. Mouth slightly open in sleep.

Unaware. Unguarded.

And somehow… soft.

Too soft.

God, she shouldn’t look like that.

Like peace.

Like home.

Like temptation in its quietest, most lethal form.

She looked like something I wasn’t supposed to want—

—but already did.

Dangerous, I thought. She’s becoming dangerous to me.

Not in the way enemies are dangerous.

No.

In the way that made you second-guess yourself.

In the way that made you forget your lines. Your edges. Your purpose.

She wasn’t just the President’s daughter anymore.

She wasn’t just the brat who walked into my world demanding answers I never planned to give.

She was… more.

Layered.

Brave.

Still selfish, yes—but willing to bleed for things that matter.

Willing to bleed for me?

I didn’t know.

That scared me more than I’d ever admit.

Because for someone like me—feelings were liabilities. Attachments were weapons turned against you.

But when I looked at her?

Asleep, mouth parted slightly, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks like they were painted…

Something cracked.

And for a second—just one terrifying, holy-second—I wondered what it would feel like to crawl into that couch, pull her against me, and just... rest.

Not have s*x.

Not dominate.

Not control.

Just hold her.

Just… be.

And that thought?

Was more dangerous than anything else.

Because that kind of softness?

It breaks men like me.

I tightened my grip on the doorframe, every instinct screaming at me to look away. To shut it down. To shut her down.

But I couldn’t.

I watched her breathe.

Counted it.

Used it to regulate my own.

What are you doing to me, Cassandra Villareal? I whispered to the dark.

No answer.

Just the rhythm of her chest, rising and falling like she’d found peace in a place built on secrets.

My secrets.

I stayed longer than I should have.

My shadow barely touched her, but my thoughts were already tangled up in the fabric of her dreams.

Then finally—slowly—I stepped back.

Didn’t close the door.

Didn’t announce my exit.

But I walked away.

Not far.

Never far.

Because whether I liked it or not…

She was already under my skin.

And God help me, I wasn’t sure I wanted her out.