The agency lobby felt colder than usual. Not in temperature, but in silence. Eyes darted away as soon as mine met them. Some whispered. Others pretended i didn't exist.
I used to fill this place with laughter. The team would greet me with coffee and hugs. Now, it felt like i was walking into a courtroom with no jury, only executioners.
"Ms. Zobel," the receptionist said gently, almost apologetically. "They're waiting for you inside."
I swallowed, nodded, and walked through the glass doors into the boardroom.
Bianca was already there, arms folded, jaw tight. Two executives sat across the table, people i once did product launches with, drank champagne with.
They couldn't even look me in the eye.
"We've received formal requests from the brands you're currently endorsing," one of them began. "All of them are choosing to suspend or terminate their contracts until further notice."
My heart dropped.
"What?" I said, my voice small. "They—no one even knows what really happened yet."
"They don't care," Bianca said quietly. "They're protecting themselves."
My throat burned. "He was my friend. Luis was my *friend.*"
One of the execs sighed. "And yet, the last image of him alive, he was with you. You were seen leaving. People talk, Aurora. The narrative is already out there."
Narrative.
That word again.
Like my life was some scripted drama i no longer had a say in.
"You need to hire a lawyer," Bianca said, more gently this time. "Not a company attorney. A real defense lawyer. Just in case this becomes bigger than we thought."
"I didn't do anything," I said again. I had said it so many times it had lost meaning in my own ears. "I left before anything happened. I swear I—"
Bianca reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. "I believe you. But belief won't be enough in court."
I couldn't breathe.
Luis was gone.
My career was collapsing.
And now i had to defend myself like a criminal.
I don't remember walking out of that building. Only the moment i sat in my car, and my body broke into sobs.
It was ugly crying. Gut-wrenching, chest-heaving, mascara-streaked kind of crying. I didn't care. No one believed me. No one wanted to hear me.
I had nothing left.
The wake was tonight.
I wanted to go. I wanted to say goodbye. But how could i walk in when the world was already screaming i was the one who killed him?
What if his parents threw me out? What if his fans attacked me? What if i cried and they called it a performance?
Bianca texted me an address.
"This is Lance Montenegro. Lawyer. Former football star. He's handled public defense cases. He doesn't do media. Call him."
I stared at the name.
Lance Montenegro.
I'd heard of him. Who hadn't? He was once the golden boy of Filipino football, until an injury ended his career.
Then he vanished.
Resurfaced a few years later as a trial lawyer, built a reputation for being cold, calm, and devastatingly good.
He rarely took celebrity cases.
But i had no one else.
The office was simple. Not a flashy law firm in BGC. Just a quiet building tucked into a narrow street. Private. Discreet.
The secretary led me in.
And there he was.
Lance Montenegro.
Taller than i expected. Sharp suit. Hair neatly pushed back. Eyes that looked like they could tear you apart or save your life, depending on how you answered.
He didn't offer a smile.
"Ms. Zobel," he said, gesturing to the seat. "Please."
I sat down, suddenly very aware of how red my eyes were.
He opened a folder on his desk. "I've read the early reports. You were at Luis Padilla's celebration party. You left before his death."
I nodded. "Yes."
"What time did you leave?"
"Before midnight," I said. "I—I wasn't feeling well. I didn't want to get drunk."
"Were you intoxicated when you left?"
"No."
"Were you with anyone?"
"No," I said again, a little more forcefully. "I left alone."
He looked at me.
Long enough to make me feel like i was being X-rayed.
"Why are there no photos of you leaving?" he asked.
I blinked. "What?"
"I looked through all public footage. Fan cams. CCTVs from outside the bar. There's nothing that clearly shows you exiting."
My hands turned cold. "That's impossible. I left."
"I'm not saying you didn't," Lance said calmly. "I'm asking what happened in the gaps."
I shook my head. "I don't remember everything. I started feeling dizzy, so i asked someone to call me a car—"
"Who?"
"I don't remember."
He sat back. "That's a problem."
My eyes stung again.
He watched me carefully. "Why did you agree to meet me if you knew i'd ask you things you don't want to answer?"
"Because i don't have anyone else," I whispered.
And then it broke.
The dam inside me.
"I lost my friend. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Now people are calling me a murderer, and I haven't even— I haven't even seen his family. They probably hate me. Everyone hates me."
My voice cracked, tears streaming.
"I didn't do anything, and yet… and yet…" I gasped. "Even you don't believe me."
Lance stayed quiet for a moment.
Then: "I didn't say i didn't believe you."
I looked up.
"I said we need to fill in the gaps," he added. "If you want me to defend you, I need the truth. All of it. Even the parts that are messy. Especially those."
I nodded slowly.
"I want to help you," he said.
And somehow, those five words meant more than anything else i'd heard all day.