The question hung in the air, a guillotine blade that refused to drop. Do you have any idea what you've done?
Camille Navarro's thumb dug into Yanna's radial artery, a point of searing, deliberate pressure. It wasn't a question. It was an autopsy. Yanna felt her pulse fluttering against that thumb like a trapped moth, frantic and pathetic. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't look away from those amber eyes, which held no anger, only a terrifying, arctic curiosity.
"I asked you a question."
Camille's voice was a low hum, vibrating through Yanna's bones. When Yanna failed to answer—her throat paralyzed by a terror so absolute it felt like drowning—Camille sighed. It was a small, bored sound.
"But then again," Camille murmured, her gaze dropping to Yanna's trembling mouth, then dismissing her entirely. "I don't expect an answer. People like you don't think. You just… occupy space. Messily."
Messily.
The word was a scalpel. It sliced through Yanna's self-perception, dissecting her entire life in three syllables. The frantic jeepney rides, the sweating over coins, the jagged nails, the secret pain—all of it, just a stain on someone else's silk.
Then, the pressure vanished.
Camille released her. The absence of the grip was more jarring than the violence of it. Yanna's arm fell to her side, dead weight. Camille didn't look at her again. She turned her back, wiping her hand on a napkin with slow, methodical precision, as if she had just touched something rotton.
"Manager."
Mrs. Reyes, the agency supervisor, materialized from the crowd. She wasn't angry. She was gray. Her skin had taken on the texture of wet ash. She didn't look at Yanna; she couldn't. Her eyes were fixed on the ruined Tom Ford suit, her breathing shallow and rapid.
"Ma'am Navarro. I am—I cannot express—"
"Stop," Camille cut her off softly. She gestured vaguely behind her, a flick of the wrist. "Remove it. And send the bill to your agency."
"Yes. Yes, Ma'am. Immediately."
"And Reyes?" Camille paused, her head tilting slightly. "If I ever see this... unprofessionalism... in my gallery again, I will have your contract shredded before lunch. Do we understand each other?"
Mrs. Reyes looked like she might vomit. "Perfectly, Ma'am."
Camille walked away. She didn't stomp. She didn't storm. She simply flowed back into the party, the crowd parting for her like water, leaving Yanna standing in the wreckage of her own life.
The walk to the service corridors was a blur of vertigo. Mrs. Reyes didn't drag her. She steered her with a trembling hand on Yanna's shoulder, walking fast, her nails digging into Yanna's flesh not out of malice, but out of a desperate need to eject the contamination before it killed them both.
They burst into the locker room. The silence of the gallery was replaced by the hum of the ventilation and the harsh, stinging scent of bleach.
Mrs. Reyes didn't scream. She didn't yell "You idiot!" or call her names. She slumped against the metal lockers, clutching her chest, her eyes wide and unseeing.
"Get changed," Mrs. Reyes whispered. Her voice was thin, reedy.
Yanna stood frozen. "Ma'am, I—"
"Get out!" Mrs. Reyes hissed, pushing off the locker. She wasn't looking at Yanna; she was looking through her, seeing financial ruin. "Leave the uniform. Leave the ID. Get out of the building. If security sees you, if She sees you..."
"Am I fired?" Yanna asked, the question absurd even to her own ears.
Mrs. Reyes let out a high, hysterical sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Fired? Girl, you just destroyed a suit worth more than my car. You're not just fired. You're erased. I'm scrubbing your name from the database. You were never here."
She grabbed Yanna's bag from the bench and shoved it into her chest.
"Go. The back exit. Don't speak to anyone. If anyone asks, you don't work for Elite Catering. You don't know me."
Mrs. Reyes turned her back, her hands shaking as she pulled out her phone, frantically dialing a number—probably a lawyer, or a priest. Yanna was dismissed. She was a liability, a radioactive isotope that had to be disposed of.
Yanna changed in the corner, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. She left the stiff black uniform in a pile on the floor—a shed skin. She pulled on her own worn t-shirt and jeans. They felt flimsy. Unsafe.
She pushed open the heavy steel door to the alleyway. The Manila heat hit her like a physical blow, thick with the smell of exhaust and rotting garbage. It was a comfort. It was the smell of the world she belonged to.
"Yanna?"
She froze. Ria was standing by the employee gate, smoking a cigarette with a shaking hand. She had evidently slipped out during the chaos. She took one look at Yanna's face and threw the cigarette down, crushing it with her heel.
"Yanna," Ria breathed, rushing over. She didn't ask if she was okay. She gripped Yanna's shoulders, searching her eyes. "I saw the suit. I saw the tattoo."
"I was fired," Yanna said dully.
"Forget the job," Ria said, her voice dropping to a whisper. Her face was pale under the streetlights. "Do you know who that was? That wasn't just a rich client, Yanna. That was Camille Navarro."
"I know."
"No, you don't know." Ria shook her head; her usual optimism was gone, replaced by a grim, street-level pragmatism. "My cousin worked security at one of their warehouses in the port area. He said people who cross the Navarros don't get sued. They get buried. Financially, legally... sometimes literally."
"It was an accident," Yanna said. "A guy bumped me."
"Doesn't matter," Ria cut in, sharp and brutal. "Gravity doesn't care if you slipped. You still hit the ground. And you just fell from a very high place."
Yanna looked at her friend. She wanted Ria to say it would be okay. She wanted Ria to say they could file a complaint, or that the agency had insurance. But Ria was looking at her like she was a ghost. Ria knew the math of the city better than anyone: The poor pay for accidents with their lives. The rich pay with someone else's.
"Go home, Yans," Ria whispered, releasing her. "Lock your door. Lay low. Maybe... maybe she'll forget. She's busy, right? She has an empire. Maybe you're too small to notice."
Too small to notice.
Yanna nodded, turning away. But as she walked toward the bus stop, feeling the phantom pressure on her wrist, she knew Ria was wrong.
Camille had noticed. Camille had seen her.
The next three days were a fever dream of silence and stagnation.
Yanna didn't leave her boarding house room. The air grew stale, heavy with the heat and the smell of her own anxiety. She lay on her thin mattress, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, waiting for the police, or a lawsuit, or the sky to fall.
But nothing happened. The world outside continued. Jeepneys roared, neighbors shouted, the sun rose and set. The silence was worse than a threat. It was the silence of a predator waiting for the prey to tire itself out.
Yanna's world shrank down to a single point: her right wrist.
The bruise had bloomed by the second morning. It was ugly and magnificent. Four distinct crescents where the fingers had gripped, and a dark, violent plum-colored oval over her pulse point where the thumb had crushed down.
It throbbed. A dull, heavy ache that synchronized with her heartbeat.
She found herself cradling it. When she washed her face, she was careful not to scrub it. When she slept, she curled her body around it. It was a mark of ownership. It was proof that for ten seconds, she had been important.
On the third night, the bruise began to fade, turning a sickly yellow-green at the edges. Yanna felt a spike of panic. It was healing. The connection was fading.
She sat up in the dark, the streetlights casting long, prison-bar shadows across her bed. She raised her wrist to her lips. She traced the shape of the thumbprint with her tongue, tasting the salt of her own skin. Then, with a trembling hand, she placed her own left thumb over the dark spot.
She pressed.
It hurt. A sharp, stinging spike of pain that made her breath hitch. But it wasn't enough. Her own grip was weak, hesitant. It lacked the cold, mechanical certainty of Camille's touch. She pressed harder, digging her nail in, trying to recreate the sensation of being held, of being caught, of being known.
She closed her eyes and let the pain wash over the shame. In the dark, she could almost pretend it was Her. She could almost feel the phantom weight of the silk suit, the smell of expensive perfume and cold rage.
Messily.
"I'm not a mess," Yanna whispered to the empty room, pressing until her arm shook. "I'm yours."
On the fourth morning, the knock came.
It was three sharp raps. Precise. Authoritative. Not a neighbor borrowing sugar. Not the landlady asking for rent.
Yanna knew before she opened the door.
She stood up, her legs feeling like water. She smoothed her t-shirt, a ridiculous, reflexive gesture of tidiness. She opened the door.
A man in a black courier uniform filled the frame. He didn't sweat, despite the heat of the hallway. He held a sleek, matte-black tablet and a thick envelope.
"Yanna Rivera?"
"Yes."
He held out the tablet. "Biometric signature required."
She pressed her thumb against the glass. The screen flashed green. He handed her the envelope. It was heavy, made of textured cardstock that felt like fabric. There was no stamp. No return address. Just a silver embossed logo in the corner: CN.
The courier turned and left without a word. The sound of his boots on the stairs was rhythmic, militaristic.
Yanna closed the door. The envelope felt cold in her hands. She sat on the edge of her bed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She ran her thumb under the seal and tore it open.
There was no letter. No legal threats in dense paragraphs. Just a single sheet of cream-colored paper, thick enough to be a wedding invitation.
It was an invoice.
INVOICE #CN-77B4
Bill to: Yanna Rivera
Regarding: Incident at Navarro Gallery, Main Hall.
Itemization:
Bespoke Tom Ford Silk Suit (Midnight Blue, Vintage Collection) - Irreparable chemical damage.Professional Cleaning & Restoration Services - Attempted/Failed.
TOTAL AMOUNT DUE:
₱ 850,000.00
The number sat there, bold and black. Eight hundred and fifty thousand.
Yanna stared at it. She didn't cry. She didn't panic. The number was too big for panic. It was beyond money. It was a monolith. It was a life sentence. Her family's debt was a hill; this was a mountain. She could work every day for the next twenty years and barely touch the interest.
She felt a strange, lightheaded detachment. It was over. Her life, her plans, her degree—gone.
She was about to crumple the paper, to let the despair finally take her, when she saw the footnote. It was printed at the very bottom, in a smaller, elegant serif font. It looked less like a legal warning and more like a whisper.
Payment is expected in full within thirty (30) days. Legal action involving immediate asset seizure and garnishment will be pursued upon non-compliance.
Alternatively, if financial liquidity is unavailable, you may discuss a personalized repayment plan.
Come to the Penthouse. Tonight. 8:00 PM. Do not be late.
Yanna lowered the paper. Her eyes moved to her wrist, to the fading yellow bruise. The fear was there, cold and sharp. But beneath it, curling in her gut like smoke, was something else.
An invitation.
She wasn't being sued. She was being summoned.