The question hung in the super-chilled, sterile air of the penthouse, a baited hook shimmering between them.
Is that fear, or is it just the realization that you've finally walked into the only room in Manila where your poverty doesn't matter... because you have nothing left to lose?
Yanna stood rooted to the polished concrete floor. Her mind, usually a frantic calculator of jeepney fares and canteen budgets, had gone completely silent. The number—₱850,000—was no longer a statistic. It was a physical presence in the room, a third entity standing beside them, cold and immense and waiting to be fed.
She looked at Camille. The woman was still glistening with sweat, the scent of her exertion cutting through the expensive, filtered air like a knife. It was a raw, copper smell, the scent of biology and violence, utterly at odds with the minimalist perfection of the room. It was the smell of a predator that had hunted, eaten, and was now contemplating the bones.
"I…" Yanna's voice was a dry husk. She swallowed, the sound loud in the vacuum of the room. "I don't have the money."
Camille didn't blink. She simply watched, her amber eyes tracking the micro-tremors in Yanna's hands.
"I didn't ask if you had the money," Camille said. Her voice was low, a smooth contralto that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. "I know you don't have the money. I have seen your bank records. I have seen your mother's employment history. I know that you possess exactly three hundred and forty pesos in your wallet right now, and that one of those bills is taped together at the corner."
The specificity of the violation hit Yanna like a physical blow. She felt naked. Skinned.
"Then why?" Yanna whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor, unable to bear the weight of that analytical stare. "Why bring me here?"
Camille tossed the black towel onto the leather bench with a wet slap. She walked past Yanna, moving toward a sleek, black bar built seamlessly into the white wall. She moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, the muscles of her back shifting under her skin like pressurized hydraulics.
"Because," Camille said, pouring water into a crystal glass, "liquidation is a boring process. It involves lawyers, garnishments, and the slow, pathetic dismantling of a life. It yields very little return on investment. I prefer... creative asset management."
She drank. She set the glass down. The click of crystal on stone echoed like a gunshot.
"Follow."
She didn't wait. She turned and strode toward a hallway Yanna hadn't noticed before—a seamless slit in the white wall. Yanna's feet moved on their own, drawn into the wake of Camille's gravity.
The hallway was an ordeal. It was unnervingly long, blindingly white, and perfectly symmetrical. There were no family photos. No art. No signs of life. It felt less like a home and more like the corridor of a high-tech vivisection lab. Yanna's cheap shoes squeaked faintly on the floor, the sound obscene and clumsy in the silence. With every step, she felt she was walking further away from the sun, from the noise of the street, from the messy, chaotic, free life she had known.
They arrived at a set of double doors made of frosted glass. They slid open silently as Camille approached.
The office was a command center.
If the living room was a gallery, this was the engine room. The walls were lined with screens displaying a silent, flowing river of data—stock tickers, news feeds, surveillance grids. The view from the window was even more commanding than the one in the living area; it looked down on the lesser towers of BGC as if they were children's toys scattered on a carpet.
But the centerpiece was the desk. It was a massive slab of black volcanic rock, rough-hewn on the sides but polished to a mirror sheen on top. Behind it sat a throne of chrome and black leather.
And opposite it, placed at a calculated distance, was the visitor's chair.
It was a masterpiece of hostile design. It was lower than the desk. Smaller. The back was straight and rigid, offering no comfort. It was a chair designed to make its occupant feel like a child called to the principal's office, or a suspect in an interrogation room.
"Sit," Camille said.
She moved around the desk and settled into her throne. She didn't slump; she reclined, her powerful frame occupying the space with absolute entitlement.
Yanna sat. The chair was cold. Her feet rested flat on the floor, but the angle forced her to look up, craning her neck to meet Camille's eyes. It was a subtle, physical submission before a word had even been spoken.
Camille steepled her fingers. She stared at Yanna for a long, agonizing minute. She was dissecting her. She was peeling back the layers of Yanna's panic to see the utility underneath.
"My family," Camille began, her voice devoid of emotion, "is a shark tank. We do not have dinners; we have negotiations. We do not have relationships; we have alliances."
Yanna stared, confused. Why was she telling her this?
"My father is currently maneuvering," Camille continued. "He perceives me as too… independent. Too sharp. He believes that a woman without a partner is a loose cannon, a liability to the board. He is plotting to shackle me. He intends to arrange a marriage between myself and a scion of the Tan banking dynasty to 'soften' my image. To domesticate me."
Camille's eyes narrowed, just a fraction. It was the only sign of the rage burning beneath the ice.
"I require a shield," she said. "I require a partner. Someone public. Someone visible. Someone who presents the illusion of stability and domesticity, so that my father's maneuvering becomes politically impossible. If I am in a committed, long-term cohabitation arrangement, he cannot force a merger without looking like a tyrant. He values his public image more than his blood."
Yanna's mind reeled. "You want… a girlfriend?"
"I want a void," Camille corrected coldly. "I do not want a partner with opinions. I do not want a partner with ambition, or social standing, or a family that will ask questions. I want a vessel. I want someone whose life is so thoroughly ruined, so devoid of options, that they will belong to me completely. Someone I can mold. Someone who will stand where I tell them to stand, smile when I tell them to smile, and disappear when I close the door."
She leaned forward. The amber eyes locked onto Yanna's.
"I looked at you in that gallery, Yanna. I saw the cheap shoes. I saw the hunger. I saw the terror. And I saw the perfect emptiness. You are a hollow thing waiting to be filled. And I have a use for you."
With a smooth, deliberate motion, Camille slid a thick, black leather folder across the volcanic desk. It stopped inches from Yanna's hand.
"This," Camille said, "is the Acquisition Agreement."
Yanna stared at the folder. The leather was textured, grainy, like reptile skin. It radiated a cold menace. Her hand trembled as she reached out. She opened it.
The paper inside was thick, cream-colored, and heavy. It smelled of ink and money. The text was dense, justified, and printed in a severe serif font. It wasn't just a contract; it was a tome.
COMPANIONSHIP AND DEBT RESTRUCTURING AGREEMENT
Yanna's eyes skittered over the words. Liquidated damages. Asset forfeiture. Biometric compliance.
"You do not need to read the legalese," Camille said softly. "I will translate the architecture of your new life for you."
She stood up and walked around the desk. She leaned against the edge, towering over Yanna, blocking out the light from the window.
"Clause One: The Term," Camille recited from memory. "The duration of this contract is twenty-four months. Two years. During this time, the debt of eight hundred and fifty thousand pesos is frozen. It does not accrue interest. It is amortized through your service."
"Service," Yanna whispered.
"Clause Four: Residency," Camille continued. "You will live here. You will not leave this penthouse without my express permission or my physical presence. Your phone will be monitored. Your communications restricted. You are, for all intents and purposes, a resident of this facility."
Yanna felt the walls of the room closing in. The air felt thin.
"Clause Seven: Public Performance," Camille said, her voice taking on a hypnotic rhythm. "In public, you are my beloved. You will hold my hand. You will look at me with adoration. You will wear the clothes I buy you, eat the food I order for you, and speak the lines I give you. You will be the perfect, doting ornament."
Camille leaned down, bracing her hands on the arms of Yanna's chair, trapping her. Her face was inches away. Yanna could smell the soap she used, clean and sharp.
"And finally," Camille whispered, "Clause Twelve. Private Conduct and Asset Management."
She paused. The silence stretched until it hummed.
"When the door closes, the performance ends. In private, you are not my girlfriend. You are my property. Your obedience to my commands will be absolute. Immediate. Unquestioning. There will be no debate. If I tell you to sit, you sit. If I tell you to kneel, you kneel. If I tell you to strip, you strip. Any hesitation, any defiance, any… messiness… will be considered a breach of contract."
"A breach?" Yanna breathed.
"A breach results in a Penalty," Camille said, the word caressing her lips. "Financial penalties added to your principal debt. Or, if I am feeling generous, somatic penalties. Corporal correction. Pain is an excellent teacher, Yanna. It creates focus. And judging by the scars on your wrist..."
She reached out and brushed her thumb over the yellowing bruise on Yanna's arm. The touch was electric.
"...you already know that, don't you?"
Something inside Yanna snapped. The cable of her fear pulled too tight and finally broke, replaced by a surge of hysterical, blinding indignation. She shoved Camille's hand away. She shot to her feet, the chair scraping loudly against the concrete.
"No," Yanna gasped, backing away until she hit the cold glass of the window. "No. This is sick. You're crazy."
She gestured wildly at the contract.
"You're talking about slavery. You're talking about… owning a person." Her voice rose, shrill and desperate. "I'm a scholarship student. I have a 1.25 GPA. I'm a human being! I'm not… I'm not a prostitute!"
The silence that followed was absolute.
Camille didn't get angry. She didn't shout. She didn't even frown.
She blinked. A slow, genuinely confused blink. Then, a small, dry chuckle escaped her lips. She shook her head, looking at Yanna with a mixture of pity and amusement.
"A prostitute?" Camille repeated.
She walked back around her desk and sat down in her throne. She swiveled slightly, looking at Yanna as one might look at a dog that had tried to walk on its hind legs.
"Oh, darling. You flatter yourself. Do you think I brought you here for sex?"
Camille laughed again, colder this time.
"Sex is cheap, Yanna. Sex is biological friction. I can buy sex on any street corner in this city. I can buy the most beautiful women in Asia for a fraction of what you owe me. Why would I want your body for pleasure?"
She leaned forward, her face hardening into stone.
"I am not buying your body. I am buying your will."
She slammed her hand down on the desk. The sound cracked like a whip.
"I am buying the luxury of never having to explain myself. I am buying the silence in my head when I enter a room and know that one person in it has no choice but to align with my reality. Prostitutes are free, Yanna. They perform a service, they get paid, they leave. You? You are not free. You are an acquisition. You are a tool I am using to streamline my existence."
"I won't do it," Yanna said, though her voice was trembling. "I won't sign. You can't make me."
"I can't make you?"
Camille opened a laptop on her desk. She typed a few keys. The screen glowed, illuminating her face in a harsh blue light.
"Let's see," Camille murmured. "Maya Rivera. Age nineteen. Patient ID: 49902-B at St. Luke's Medical Center."
The air left Yanna's lungs. The room spun.
"Current status: Admitted. Diagnosis: Systemic Lupus Erythematosus with Stage III Nephritis," Camille read, her voice flat and clinical. "Current treatment plan: High-dose intravenous corticosteroids and mycophenolate mofetil. Attending Physician: Dr. Santos."
Camille looked up. Her eyes were dead.
"I have the file open right here, Yanna. I have administrative access to the hospital's billing and treatment authorization system. My father sits on the board. I am a primary donor."
She turned the laptop around. Yanna saw the screen. It was a medical chart. It was Maya's chart.
"If you walk out that door," Camille said softly, "I will reclassify your sister's case. I will mark her account as 'indigent/non-compliant.' I will have Dr. Santos moved to a different rotation. Her medication will be switched to the generic, publicly funded alternative. Effective immediately."
Yanna gripped the edge of the desk. "You wouldn't. That's… she could die."
"She might," Camille agreed. "Without the premium suppressants, renal failure is a statistical probability within three months."
She closed the laptop. The snap of the lid was final.
"So, let's be clear about the transaction. This is not about a suit. This is not about your pride. This is a trade. Your life for hers. Your freedom for her kidneys. It is a very simple equation."
Camille picked up a fountain pen from the desk. It was heavy, black lacquer and platinum. She uncapped it. She placed it next to the leather folder.
"The civil suit is drafted," Camille said. "The garnishment order for your mother's wages is ready to be filed. The order to downgrade your sister's care is one keystroke away."
She leaned back, interlacing her fingers.
"Sign the paper, Yanna. Or go home and watch your sister die. Those are your choices. You have one minute."
Yanna stared at the pen.
The room seemed to tilt. The white walls were closing in, suffocating her. There was a high-pitched ringing in her ears. She looked at the door—the freedom, the heat, the noise of the city. Then she looked at the black laptop that held her sister's life in its circuits.
It wasn't a choice. It was an execution.
Yanna moved. Her legs felt like wood. She walked to the desk. She reached out and took the pen. It was heavy. Cold. It felt like holding a weapon.
She looked at the signature line. The Companion.
She didn't read the text. She didn't look at the clauses. She felt tears hot and stinging in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not cry for herself. She was already dead. The girl who wanted to be a professor, the girl who studied Weber and Marx, the girl who had a 1.25 GPA—she had died the moment she walked into this room.
She pressed the nib to the paper.
The sound of the scratching was loud, ugly, and visceral. It sounded like skin tearing.
Yanna Rivera.
The ink was black and wet. It glistened like an open wound.
She capped the pen. She placed it down.
Camille didn't smile. She didn't gloat. She simply reached out, took the folder, and closed it. The sound of the leather cover slapping shut was the sound of a cell door locking.
"Good," Camille said. She stood up, tall and terrifying and absolute.
"Go home. Pack a bag. Bring nothing that reminds you of who you were. Be back here by 8:00 PM."
She turned away, dismissing Yanna to the void.
"Don't be late."