RUINED by YOU

Chapter 1 -Yes, I am WILD-

Germaine's POV

My name is Germaine Andrea Fajardo. A proud Filipina by blood, born and raised in the icy heart of Denver, Colorado... a place that taught me how to speak up, stand tall, and never let anyone dull my shine. I grew up surrounded by privilege, wrapped in warmth, and never had to wonder where my next meal would come from. I’m not gonna fake some underdog sob story just to gain sympathy points, I know where I came from. I was born with a golden spoon in my mouth. But I never let it define me. Because comfort never challenged me. And I don’t do easy.

Now I live in the Philippines, nestled close to my grandparents... my roots, my truth, the ones who love me without pretense or performance. I came here not because I was lost, but because I needed to remember. I needed to reconnect. With them. With myself. And ever since I arrived? Oh, the whispers started.

"Wild woman," they say. Like it’s an insult. Like it’s a curse they can pin on me to tame me. To shame me. But guess what?

I wear wild like a crown. Because if being wild means I speak my truth without sugarcoating it... if it means I chase what makes my soul burn and my skin tingle... if it means I own my body, my desire, my damn life, then yes. I am wild.

And let’s not pretend we don’t know what they really mean when they say it.

They mean I’m unafraid to want. They mean I’m too sensual, too bold, too free with the way I love, the way I lust, the way I live. And they’re right. I don’t hide it. I won’t apologize for it.

Because I love sèx.

There. I said it.

I love craving someone so badly it turns into poetry. I love the way hunger feels when it’s wrapped in heat, when it’s whispered in the dark, when it takes over your thoughts like a fever you don’t want cured. I love the way skin sings when it’s touched just right. But let me be clear, I don’t thirst for just any man.

There’s one... A Filipino man who stopped me dead in my tracks the first time I laid eyes on him. He wasn’t just handsome. A walking temptation dressed like a god, with a smirk that makes you forget your name and eyes that see straight into your wicked little thoughts.

And he’s rich. Not just "nice car" rich. We’re talking billionaire. Dangerous, powerful, untouchable. The kind of man who doesn’t ask... he takes. And somehow, that makes me want him even more.

I crave him.

Not in some fairytale, starry-eyed, slow-dancing-in-the-rain kind of way. No. I want him in the kind of way that makes your thighs clench and your morals melt. I want him to ruin me in the most delicious ways, to touch me like a secret, to whisper my name like a sin.

But here’s the twist... I’m a writer. And when desire hits me that hard? I channel it. I turn fire into fiction.

So I took his name. Just his first. Then I played with his last, twisted it into something just different enough. I turned him into a character, one who does all the things I imagine when the lights go out and the world gets quiet. He’s mine in my stories. And on those pages? We burn.

And if he ever reads it? He’ll never know it’s him. Or maybe he will. Maybe that’s what makes it even hotter.

Writing is how I take control. How I turn fantasy into power. How I turn longing into liberation. I don’t write soft love stories. I write obsession. I write tension so thick it feels like a wire about to snap. I write betrayal, scandal, chaos... and yes, I write steam. The kind that leaves your heart racing and your sheets in ruins.

I don’t write for the faint of heart. I write for the ones who’ve tasted lust and weren’t afraid to admit they liked it. So call me wild. Call me reckless. Call me whatever helps you sleep at night.

But me? I call it being alive.

Because I refuse to shrink for people who can’t handle the heat I bring. I refuse to apologize for the way I love, the way I crave, the way I own every damn inch of who I am.

My friend Xanthia just landed. Yep, she came all the way from Colorado and is crashing with me for as long as she damn well pleases. Just like me, she’s a proud Filipina—bold, blunt, and absolutely bad-ass. We've been inseparable since childhood, the kind of friendship that doesn't just survive distance—it laughs in its face. And now, she's here, in the heart of Manila, in my world.

It’s nighttime now. The city’s glowing, pulsing with heat and rhythm, but I’m supposed to be glued to my desk—fingers clacking away, writing something scandalous and brilliant.

But guess what? I’m not in the mood to behave.

I live in BGC now. Bought my own condo unit like a grown woman with her shìt together—which, surprise, I absolutely am. Independence looks good on me. And the cherry on top? The building I live in? Owned by none other than Knox Andrew Montenegro. Yeah, that guy. The walking sin wrapped in a suit. Billionaire. Dangerous. Stupidly hot. Rumored to break hearts for sport and turn women into poems.

And tonight? Word on the street is, he’s drinking somewhere nearby. Somewhere close. Maybe even one elevator ride away.

So yeah, screw the writing for now. I’ve got... curiosity to feed.

I’m already slipping into something slightly illegal-looking when Xanthia steps out from the bedroom, raising a brow like the mind-reader she’s always been.

"Are we going out?" she asks, smirking like she already knows the answer.

I look at her, lips curving into that devilish grin that only ever means one thing.

I nod.

She laughs... soft, knowing, dangerous. The kind of laugh only best friends share when they’re about to do something wildly unnecessary but incredibly thrilling.

She knows exactly what’s running through my mind. We’re not just going out. We’re going hunting.

"Well, if we’re heading out, then let’s go. I’m ready," she said, folding her arms with a smirk that was equal parts mockery and loyalty. "Looks like we’re going to be chasing after that man again. Honestly, you’re completely obsessed with that Knox guy, even though it’s obvious he couldn’t care less about you. But hey, I’ll play along with your madness... who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll fall right into your lap. Stranger things have happened."

I shot her a grin as I slipped into my heels. "You say that like you won’t be right there with me, scanning the crowd like an MI6 agent."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, grabbing her bag. "I’m just here to document your descent into full-blown Knox-induced delusion."

The city was electric. Manila at night doesn’t whisper... it roars. The clubs were alive, music pulsing through concrete, neon lights flickering like promises. We hit every hotspot within a five-kilometer radius. A-list lounges. Rooftop bars. The kind of speakeasies only insiders knew about. We leaned on charm, flirted with bartenders for intel, and even bribed a valet for a list of luxury cars parked out front.

But Knox? He was a ghost.

Three hours passed like one long tease. Each time the elevator doors dinged, my heart jumped, hoping he would step out, all suit and sin, eyes locking with mine like fate had finally decided to stop playing coy.

Instead? Drunk finance bros. Influencers pretending not to take selfies. Some guy who looked like Knox, for exactly three seconds, until he opened his mouth and ruined the illusion.

Xanthia was a trooper. She kept the jokes coming, danced with me in one of the clubs just to shake off the irritation, and even swore she’d tackle Knox to the ground if he showed up just to get my attention.

But by the time we hit the last rooftop bar on our list, the high had faded. My phone buzzed with the time... past midnight, and the glow in my chest started to dim.

Outside, the air was warm but heavy, like it was holding back tears on my behalf.

Xanthia kicked off her heels and leaned against the railing, looking out over the city lights. "Well. That was anticlimactic."

I exhaled, loud and dramatic. "He’s like Bigfoot. Everyone talks about him, but no one ever really sees him."

"Except unlike Bigfoot, this one’s apparently hot enough to break your common sense in half."

"I write characters with more availability than this man," I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. She grinned.

"Maybe he’s just a character too. A figment. One sexy hallucination in your steamy writer's brain."

"Don’t tempt me. I’ll give him a twin brother and write them both into a threesome scene just to cope."

We both burst out laughing... loud, tipsy, and absolutely done with the night.

By the time we got back to my condo, we were dragging our feet. Xanthia flopped onto the couch like she’d just finished a triathlon. I peeled off my heels like they were instruments of pain designed by someone who hates women and fashion.

"Well," she said, stretching like a cat, "another night of chasing a man who probably spent the evening counting his millions in a secret lair or whatever billionaires do."

I stood by the window, staring out into the velvet dark of the city, searching the skyline like maybe... just maybe... he’d appear out of nowhere, looking up, sensing me.

He didn’t.

"Next time," I whispered. Xanthia snorted.

"That’s what you said last time."

I smiled faintly, my fingers already itching for the keyboard. If I couldn’t have him in real life... I’d just keep writing the version of him who craves me, who’s obsessed with every inch of me, his mouth buried between my thighs like he never wants to come up for air. Gosh... just the thought of it is making me wet.