The Lorenzo name opened doors. It always had. People pretended that modern Manila ran on credentials, on clean résumés and quiet competence, but the truth lingered under every polished surface. Old families still shaped the city. A surname like Lorenzo tilted the world. It signaled history, wealth that had cloned itself across generations, and influence that never needed to announce itself. It simply existed, and people adjusted accordingly.
Andrew understood that. He did not abuse it, but he did not deny it either. Power meant responsibility, and he carried both with an elegance that irritated his rivals. His office in Bonifacio Global City reflected that same precision. It was all glass and marble, sunlight sharpening the edges of the room, the skyline rising like a promise behind him.
