First Temptation: The Billionaire's Game

CHAPTER 1

RED CARPET. FLASHBULBS. MGA SIGAW NG MEDIA.

Mga mata ng buong bansa—lahat nakatutok sa’kin.

Bawat ilaw ng camera, parang kidlat na sumisilaw sa dilim ng utak ko.

Bawat sigaw ng pangalan ko, parang palakpak sa isang kasinungalingang pilit kong isinusubo araw-araw.

Dahan-dahan akong bumaba mula sa bulletproof black SUV, suot ang designer gold gown na personally pinadala pa mula Paris. Custom fit, hand-stitched, gawa sa telang parang likido sa balat. Backless, high slit, plunging neckline—lahat ng ikakataranta ng conservative media.

At 'yun ang goal ko.

A calculated rebellion. A subtle middle finger in couture.

“Miss Cassandra! Look here!”

“First Daughter! Pa-picture naman!”

“Cassandra, are you dating someone?!”

Nginitian ko sila. Peke. Pang-camera. Nakasanayan na.

‘Yung ngiting trained in front of mirror sessions with media coaches, designed to charm but not provoke. Sweet but unattainable. Soft but powerful.

Kahit ayokong nandito, kahit gusto ko nalang magkulong sa kwarto ko with my sketchpad, nagpakita ako.

Kasi anak ako ng Presidente.

At ang mga anak ng mga makapangyarihang tao? Walang karapatang pumili.

Kahit na deep inside, gusto kong sumigaw ng—

“Hindi ako trophy!”

“Cassie, slower,” bulong ni Camille, ang mommy ko, habang hawak ang braso ko at nakangiti rin sa mga camera. Flawless. Perfect posture. Pearls and poison.

“Don’t walk like you’re storming the runway.”

“Maybe I am,” I whispered back, fake-smiling.

“Don’t make a scene,” she hissed through clenched teeth, still smiling for the cameras like nothing was wrong.

Too late, Mom.

I’m the scene.

Habang naglalakad kami paakyat sa presidential-themed stage entrance ng Grand Imperial Hotel, I could feel the weight of a hundred stares. Lahat sila naka-tutok sa akin—hindi bilang fashion designer, hindi bilang babae, kundi bilang anak ng pinaka-makapangyarihang tao sa bansa.

Smile.

Wave.

Tilt your head just a little.

Don’t blink too much. Don’t slouch. Look graceful. Be perfect.

A puppet in heels.

Sanay na ko sa ganito. Scripted. Controlled. Plastic.

As I walked the red carpet with cameras flashing from every angle, I gave them what they wanted—Cassandra Villareal, the It Girl, the First Daughter, the ultimate political princess.

“Miss Cassie! So elegant!”

“Your gown is stunning!”

“How does it feel to be the most admired young woman in the country?”

I smiled sweetly, waving like a Miss Universe finalist trained by an entire palace PR team.

But deep inside?

Tangina, I’m suffocating.

Because none of this feels real.

None of this is me.

They see perfection—poise, wealth, beauty.

What they don’t see is the pressure.

The loneliness.

The silent scream behind every designer gown and polished answer.

Yung paulit-ulit na araw kung saan hindi ko na alam kung ako pa ba 'to o kung produkto lang ako ng image management ng Malacañang.

They call me "spoiled."

They don’t see the cage I live in.

They say I’m "lucky."

They don’t see the nights I cry, begging for freedom.

They call me "iconic."

But I haven’t even been allowed to design under my own name.

Sa bawat flash ng camera, para akong niluluto sa sariling spotlight.

And the worst part?

I’m expected to smile through it all.

Because for them, I am not Cassie.

I am the daughter of the President. A prop. A headline. A doll in a golden box.

But tonight?

I’m getting tired of pretending.

And one wrong step, one real moment—

Could be the end of this perfect little show.

I adjusted my gown slightly, making sure the slit revealed just enough thigh. I didn’t care what the conservative media would say tomorrow. I didn’t care what my mother would scold me for in private. I wanted them to talk.

I wanted him to see.

Yes. Him—whoever that dangerous mystery man was on the guest list. Na sinasabi ni Trixie, is here tonight.

But right now, all I could think about was escaping.

Tumigil ako sa gitna ng red carpet.

Camera flashes blinding me from every direction.

Smile, Cassie. Chin up. Shoulders back. Hips forward. Walk like you own the damn place.

And so I did.

Pero sa bawat hakbang, may bumibigat sa dibdib ko.

Kasi alam kong ang bawat ngiti ko, scripted.

Ang bawat galaw, sinanay.

Para lang magmukha akong perpekto—kahit hindi naman talaga ako 'yun.

Sa likod ng mga camera at ngiti, may Cassie na pagod na.

Cassie na gustong tumakas.

Cassie na gustong kilalanin bilang siya mismo, hindi lang bilang "First Daughter."

Pero tonight, kailangan ko munang gampanan ang role ko.

So I walked the red carpet like I was born for it.

Because if I’m going to be trapped in this golden cage?

I might as well look damn good doing it.

Pagkapasok namin sa VIP holding room ng Grand Imperial Ballroom, agad akong bumunot ng phone mula sa clutch bag ko. My fingers shaking slightly as I tried to keep the façade intact.

“Cassie,” warning tone ni Mom. “Put that down. Your father’s coming.”

I rolled my eyes. “Perfect. Sabay na ang sermon.”

As if on cue, the door burst open with military efficiency.

Pumasok si Dad—President Mariano Villareal himself. Regal. Dignified. At halatang iritado.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe like a general inspecting his soldier’s uniform.

“Anong suot mo?” bungad niya, pigil ang inis, pero obvious.

I smirked. “A gown, Dad. Alam kong busy ka pero I’m sure you’ve seen one before.”

“Don’t play games with me, Cassandra,” mariin niyang sabi. “This is a formal, political event, not a runway. The press is already feasting on your slit and backless dress.”

I stepped forward, chin high. “Exactly. Let them talk. At least pinag-uusapan ako dahil sa style ko, hindi dahil sa corruption scandal ng kaalyado mo.”

Nag-freeze si Mom.

Si Dad? Umusok ang ilong.

“Watch your mouth. You’re a Villareal. Act like it.”

“Then maybe stop treating me like a damn accessory,” I snapped. “You only parade me around when it’s convenient. Like tonight. Re-election? Perfect time for a beautiful, obedient First Daughter.”

Tumahimik ang buong room.

Halos marinig ang paghinga ng air conditioning.

Si Dad, titig lang. Jaw clenched. Hands behind his back like he wanted to discipline a soldier.

“You don’t know the weight of this life,” he said coldly.

“And you don’t know what it’s like to live in a golden cage,” I whispered.

“Baka nakakalimutan mo,” dagdag niya, “lahat ng meron ka, galing sa pangalan nating Villareal.”

“Correction,” I snapped, eyes burning.

“Lahat ng ayaw ko, galing sa pangalan nating Villareal.”

Saglit siyang natahimik.

But his eyes darkened like storm clouds before a war.

“You will behave tonight, Cassandra. That’s an order.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Thanks, Mr. President. Noted.”

At bago pa niya ako masagot, tumalikod na ‘ko.

Heels clicking on the marble floor like gunshots.

Leaving behind the President, the pressure, and the perfect image they built for me.

If I’m going down tonight, I’m going down as myself.

Naglakad ako papunta sa dulong parte ng ballroom. Kung saan mas konti ang tao. Mas mahina ang ilaw. Mas tahimik.

Doon ako tumigil—sa tabi ng tall glass window overlooking ang ilaw ng buong Maynila.

Sa baba, millions of people living their own messy, free lives.

At ako?

Nakatayo sa pinakamahal na kulungan sa bansa.

I took a sip of champagne.

Bitter. Acidic. Pretentious. Like the world I belonged to.

Pero kahit gaano ka kalaki ang ballroom na ‘to, kahit gaano karaming tao ang nakangiti sa akin—bakit parang ako lang ang hindi maka-breath?

Pumikit ako sandali.

And that’s when my mind drifted back to that night…

FLASHBACK – One Week Ago

Presidential Residence, 1:27 AM

Naka-hoodie lang ako, naka-upo sa carpeted floor ng kwarto ko. Laptop sa harap, earbuds on, heart pounding.

“European Institute of Fashion – Summer Internship Program”

Milan, Italy.

Hindi ko dapat ginagawa ‘to. Pero kung hindi ngayon—kailan?

Inopen ko ang portfolio file ko—mga sketches ko, personal designs na tinatago ko sa ilalim ng kama. Hindi sila pang-campaign. Hindi sila pang-pangarap ng parents ko. They were mine. Bold. Wild. Full of skin, rebellion, and truth.

I filled up the form, mabilis, nanginginig ang mga daliri ko.

Name: Cassandra Alessandra Villareal

Date of Birth:

Citizenship: Filipino

Statement of Intent:

“I am more than a name. I design to express the parts of myself I’m not allowed to say out loud. I want to learn from the world—not just be displayed in it.”

For a second, tumigil ako. Natigilan. Natakot.

What if they find out?

Pero mas malakas ang boses sa loob ko na nagsasabing:

Do this. For once, do this for you.

Click.

Submit.

Wala nang atrasan.



BACK TO PRESENT – BALLROOM

Napangiti ako.

The real kind.

‘Yung hindi para sa camera. Hindi para sa mommy kong laging may press release. Hindi para sa daddy kong akala mo lahat ng galaw ko ay parte ng campaign strategy.

Ngunit ngayong sandaling ito?

It was for me.

Because right now, kahit nasa gitna ako ng fake smiles, scripted speeches, at political puppetry—

I have a secret.

At ‘yung secret na ‘yon?

Hindi kayang bilhin ng pangalan namin. Hindi kayang kontrolin ng Malacañang.

Buhay ko ’yon. Desisyon ko ’yon.

At habang hawak ko pa ‘yon—kahit isang gabi lang—I felt powerful.

Nag-vibrate ang phone ko saglit, sumira sa konting peace na natitira sa utak ko. I slid it out from my clutch, expecting another stiff reminder from Mom.

Pero hindi.

It was from my co-conspirator.

[TRIXIE]: b***h. Confirmed. Alex Madrigal is here. And he’s looking at you like dessert.

Napatigil ako.

Parang may biglang humigop ng hangin sa paligid ko.

I didn’t reply.

Hindi ko na kinailangan. Kasi nang iangat ko ang tingin ko, parang automatic, alam na ng katawan ko kung saan siya titingin.

And there he was.

Sa kabilang dulo ng ballroom.

Tahimik. Kalmado. Hindi nagsasalita pero punong-puno ng presensya.

Ibang aura. Ibang klaseng lalaki.

Dangerous elegance.

Tall and lean in a black suit—walang tie. Two buttons undone, revealing just a glimpse of his collarbones and the kind of skin na hindi dapat pinapakita sa formal event na ‘to. One hand casually tucked in his pocket, ang isa’y may hawak ng glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid slowly like he had all the time in the world—and none of it was for anyone else.

Parang hindi siya bisita sa event.

Parang siya ang may-ari ng gabi.

And yes—he was looking straight at me.

Walang ibang tumama sa paningin niya. Wala siyang ibang sinulyapan. Just me.

Hindi ‘yung tipong titig lang na pansamantala. Hindi rin ‘yung polite interest na madalas kong makuha mula sa mga diplomat sons or trust fund babies na gustong makipag-date for headlines.

No. It was deeper. Darker.

As if… he already knew who I was.

As if… he already owned that part of me na buong buhay ko tinatago.

Parang walang walls na sapat para pigilan ang tingin niya. Parang hinubaran niya ako gamit lang ang mga mata niya—at hindi ako tumutol.

Our eyes met.

One...

Two...

Three seconds.

And the world slowed down.

Parang lahat ng nasa paligid ko—nawala.

Wala na ‘yung tunog ng ballroom. Wala na ‘yung ilaw. Wala na ‘yung background music o mga taong palakpak nang palakpak sa stage kung saan si Daddy ay nagsasalita sa teleprompter.

It was just me. And him.

The First Daughter.

And the man your father warned you about—if only to keep you from becoming exactly like your mother.

He didn’t smile. Pero may bahid ng amusement sa gilid ng labi niya, ‘yung halos imperceptible curve na parang sinasabing: So, ikaw pala si Cassie. Interesting.

Parang alam niyang nababasa niya ‘ko.

Na kahit naka-gown ako, naka-heels, naka-guarded expression...

I was already curious.

I raised my chin slightly. A challenge.

Refusing to look away.

If this was a stare-down, I’d die before blinking.

But instead of walking toward me like I half-hoped he would, he turned slightly, cool and detached, as an older congressman approached him—one of Daddy’s long-time allies, judging by the slicked-back hair and desperate-for-approval smile.

Mukhang eager siyang i-introduce si Xan sa press.

Xan didn’t resist, didn’t even look bored. Parang sanay na siya sa political circus. He nodded slightly, the glass of whiskey never leaving his hand, and started walking the other way.

But then—

Before he turned fully, he glanced at me again.

One last look.

A smirk.

A glint of danger in his dark, unreadable eyes.

A whisper across the ballroom that only my body could hear.

And I felt it—straight between my ribs.

Trixie slid beside me again, hawak ang wine glass niya, lasing na sa excitement.

“Girl,” she breathed, voice hushed. “Did you feel that? ‘Cause my ovaries exploded just watching you two stare at each other.”

I swallowed hard, hand tightening around my champagne flute.

I barely managed to whisper, half to her, half to myself—

“Who the hell is that man?”

Trixie grinned like the devil herself. “Alex Madrigal. Xan to close friends. CEO ng Madrigal Global. Media ghost. Dangerous. Rich as hell. At ngayon? VIP guest ng Daddy mo.”

VIP guest.

Of course he is.

The kind of man Daddy calls an “ally” in public but watches like a threat in private.

Xan Madrigal.

His name rolled around in my head like the warning label on a drug I wasn’t supposed to touch.

He looked at me like he wanted to ruin me—

and I looked right back like I’d let him.

Pero gaya ng lahat sa mundo ko… bawal.

Forbidden.

Off-limits.

Exactly my type.

Naramdaman ko ang kamay ni Mommy sa siko ko. Cold. Delicate. Controlling.

“Cassie,” bulong niya, eyes fixed on the stage. “Your father’s speech is about to start. Stay close.”

“Right,” I muttered, smiling tightly.

Back to being a doll.

Tumayo ako sa tabi ng stage habang si Daddy ay nagsisimulang magsalita. May applause. May camera clicks. May spotlight. Pero wala akong naririnig.

Because my heart?

Was already somewhere else.

My mind?

Already making plans.

Sa dulo ng ballroom, nandoon si Xan—hindi na ako tinitingnan, pero alam kong alam niyang hindi pa tapos ang larong ‘to.

Nagkatinginan kami ulit ni Trixie. She raised a brow.

Her silent question: You still in?

I didn’t say anything.

I just gave a barely-there nod.

Hell yes.

Because for once…

I wanted to feel alive.

Even if it meant burning everything down.

Later that night – 11:43 PM

Tahimik ang buong palasyo.

Too quiet, actually.

Outside my bedroom window, I could see the shadows of the guards doing their rounds—predictable, robotic, military precision. The West Wing was on lockdown. The press had all gone home. Mommy was already in bed, naka-night serum na siguro habang binabasa ang script para sa susunod na charity appearance. Si Daddy naman, nasa study room kasama ang cabinet members, malamang nagdi-discuss ng bagong paraan para i-maintain ang image ng “perfect family.”

And me?

I was standing in front of my floor-to-ceiling mirror, staring at my reflection like I was seeing a stranger slowly reemerge.

Gone was the First Daughter in a golden gown.

Now, I wore black leather pants—tight, low-slung, unapologetic. A silk halter top hugged my curves, dangerously backless. Over my shoulder, a sleek faux-leather jacket completed the look. My makeup was darker now—smoky eyes, nude lips, a s***h of eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man. My hair was tousled in that perfectly imperfect kind of way na hindi papasa sa standards ni Mommy pero sobrang ako.

I looked... fierce.

Untamed. Real.

And for once, I looked like me.

Yung Cassie na hindi sinasanay tumango sa utos, kundi ‘yung Cassie na gumagawa ng sarili niyang daan—even if that path led straight to hell.

Sa ilalim ng kama, kinuha ko ang aking maliit na black duffel bag—my rebellion kit. Inside: a pair of five-inch stiletto heels, a burner phone na binili ni Trixie sa Divisoria, lip gloss, breath spray, condoms (Trixie insisted, I rolled my eyes), at isang fake ID na nagsasabing ako raw si “Alessia Ramirez”—age 21, freelance stylist, walang koneksyon sa Malacañang.

Every item in that bag screamed: this is my life, not theirs.

I zipped the bag slowly. Mabilis ang t***k ng puso ko, hindi sa takot kundi sa thrill. I was about to commit a crime—not against the law, but against expectation.

At wala akong pake.

Kinuha ko ang phone ko. I muted the security cam alerts sa hallway. I knew the patterns of the guards by now—kung kailan sila lilipat ng shift, kung sinong mas madaldal at sinong nagte-text habang naka-duty.

I had ten minutes.

Lumapit ako sa French windows ng private balcony ko. Dahan-dahan kong binuksan iyon, siniguradong walang kaluskos. Pagkakasalpak ng stilettos ko sa marble ledge, I took a deep breath and counted.

Three… two… one.

Bumaba ako mula sa veranda, steady ang hakbang kahit mataas ang heels. Dumaan ako sa likod na garden path, kung saan ang mga presidential roses ay pinapatubo ni Mommy para lang sa photo ops. Sa gilid, may side gate na walang masyadong bantay—bingi sa gabi, bulag sa dilim.

At doon, naghihintay si Trixie sa loob ng black matte car niya. Windows tinted, headlights off, engine purring like a beast in heat.

Pagbukas ng pinto ng passenger seat, agad akong sumakay. Amoy leather, perfume ni Trixie, at danger.

She turned to me with a grin that could melt security lasers.

“Operation: Runaway Barbie is a go.”

I laughed under my breath, chest rising from the rush. “Let’s go before the palace dogs smell rebellion.”

“Too late,” bulong niya habang inaapakan ang gas pedal. “They’re already barking—inside your head.”

Habang paalis kami ng palace grounds, sinilip ko ang rearview mirror.

The gates of Malacañang were shrinking behind us, and all I could think was—finally.

Finally, I was more than just a daughter, more than just a pawn. I was a girl in heels, in leather, with secrets.

“Next stop—a private party at Midnight Club,” ani Trixie, ang tono niya parang announcement ng apocalypse. “And FYI…” she added with a wicked smirk, “sources say... Xan Madrigal might be there.”

My pulse jumped.

Xan.

Of course, he would be.

Because fate has a cruel sense of humor.

I turned to the window, watching the city lights blur past. Everything felt different tonight. Even the Manila skyline seemed to shimmer in defiance. Lahat ng liwanag parang nag-aapoy, tulad ng pakiramdam ko sa loob.

Because the one night I choose to escape my golden cage—

fate sends me straight to the man who might just be the fire I’ll burn myself with.

And the worst part?

I couldn’t wait.