The office smelled of burnt coffee and stale air. Bianca Rodriguez sat at her desk, eyes locked on the glowing spreadsheet in front of her, though her fingers hadn't moved for minutes. The cursor blinked like a heartbeat—steady, impatient, alive—almost mocking her for not getting on with her work.
She was usually quick to get lost in numbers. She liked the clean logic of them, how they told stories without words, how they didn't lie. But today the columns and rows swam in her vision, blurring into a haze of exhaustion and disgust.
Her phone buzzed.
Boss: In my office. Now.
Bianca swallowed, pushing her chair back. She knew that tone—it was the same tone he used the first time, two months ago, when he'd "offered" her an after-work dinner that wasn't about work at all. She'd brushed him off politely, thinking that would be enough. But it wasn't.
When she stepped inside his glass-walled office, the blinds were already drawn. He was sitting back in his leather chair, a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.
"Bianca," he said, in a voice that tried to sound gentle but only managed to slither. "You've been doing excellent work. Really… exceptional."
Her grip on her folder tightened. "Thank you, sir."
"I'm sure you've noticed how much I value you." He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Which is why I'd like us to spend more… quality time together."
The room went cold. "I'm not interested," she said, her voice even.
His smile flattened. "Think carefully. You're one of our highest-paid employees. Fifty thousand pesos a month isn't easy to find elsewhere. You wouldn't want to lose that over something so… minor."
Minor.
The word sliced through her like glass.
She thought of the rent due in two weeks. The bills stacked on her kitchen counter. The groceries she'd promised to send her mother in Batangas. But then she thought of something else: the feeling in her chest when she was eight years old and her great-grandfather, Lolo Berto, had lifted her onto his knee, handed her a mango fresh from the tree, and said, "Anak, always keep your head high."
She straightened her back. "Then I guess I'll have to lose it."
His eyes narrowed. "You're making a mistake."
"No," she said, and for the first time in months, her voice felt like her own. "I'm making a choice."
---
By the time Bianca left the building, the Manila sun was sinking, washing the streets in orange. She should have been terrified—jobless, with no safety net, no plan. Instead, she felt something unexpected blooming in her chest. Freedom.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't her ex-boss.
Mama: Anak… it's Lolo Berto. He passed away this morning.
The world tilted. She stood frozen on the sidewalk as the message blurred through her tears.
---
The wake in Batangas was quiet but heavy with grief. Bianca arrived two days later, her hair still smelling faintly of the city, and was met with the warm scent of sampaguita and the murmur of relatives she hadn't seen in years.
She touched her great-grandfather's hand one last time—it was cold, but she imagined the warmth that had always been there when he held hers. Memories flooded her: running barefoot through the mango orchards, helping him feed the chickens, watching him carve wooden toys for the village children.
He had been her safe place in a world that could be sharp and cruel. And now he was gone.
---
End of Chapter 1