The air at the Royal Philippine Commonwealth University (RPCU) felt different. It was heavy, not with humidity, but with the subtle, potent pressure of legacy and expectation. Every footstep echoed on the polished marble floors of the Main Academic Hall, a sound that seemed to whisper the names of senators, tycoons, and national artists who had walked those very halls before.
It wasn't just a school, it was an institution built on old money, political dynasties, and the relentless pursuit of perfection.
The iconic centerpiece, the Quadrangle, lay bathed in soft morning light. The Quad was flanked by the imposing columns of the College of Law and the intricately carved facade of the College of Business and Finance. Every archway, every perfectly manicured bush, spoke of wealth so generational it had become foundational. Scientia et Servitium Patriae—Knowledge and Service to the Nation—the motto was engraved in Latin above the main rotunda, a constant, silent command to its privileged student body.
Amethyst Rayne Mendoza, a second-year student in the College of Culinary Arts and Hospitality Management (CCA), often found herself rushing through the periphery of this historical heart. She wasn't one of the Illustrados, the inheritors of the oldest money whose names were plastered on corporate headquarters. But her family's wealth was undeniable, new money built on a successful real estate portfolio, enough to afford the exorbitant ₱650,000 per semester for her specialized culinary program. She was here, and that was all that mattered.
The students at RPCU were easy to classify. The girls wore designer bags not as accessories, but as status signals. Hermès was common, Chanel was routine. The boys drove imported cars with tinted windows, perpetually engaged in deep, serious discussions about stocks and succession plans. They were polished, poised, and intimidatingly purposeful.
"Don't let the grandeur intimidate you, Amethyst. You belong here," she would remind herself, clutching the strap of her culinary school bag. But even for Amethyst, who loved a good challenge, the RPCU pressure cooker was intense. Everyone here was destined for something massive. The question was, what was her massive thing?
Right now, her massive thing was lunch.
The College of Culinary Arts and Hospitality Management (CCA) building was one of RPCU's few modern architectural statements. Unlike the neo-classical structures in The Quad, the CCA was sleek, steel and glass, designed for maximum efficiency, hygiene, and most importantly, air circulation. It smelled perpetually of yeast, caramelizing sugar, and occasionally, a thrilling blast of truffle oil.
Amethyst loved the CCA. It was her sanctuary.
She navigated the bustling lower-ground floor, where professional kitchens hummed with activity. Unlike the main campus where everything was a performance, here, it was all about the process. The rhythmic thud of a cleaver against a butcher block, the hiss of onions hitting hot oil, those were the real status symbols here.
"Rayne, your apron's crooked. Major offense, Chef Anton will kill you," said Bea, Amethyst's classmate, wiping her hands on a pristine white towel.
Amethyst smoothed the crease in her checkered chef pants. "I know, I know! I was rushing. I have a very important reservation today."
Bea raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Who? The new Dean of Tourism? Or that super cute exchange student from France?"
Amethyst simply smiled, a secret blooming in her chest. "Someone more important than both, actually. Someone... essential."
She headed straight for Kitchen Lab 4, a private, state-of-the-art prep room usually reserved for faculty recipe testing or final plating examinations. She had begged her aunt, who happened to be a major donor to the CCA, for exclusive use of the lab for one special afternoon.
This wasn't just lunch. This was a culinary confession. Her plan was to confess her feelings through this meal.
The reason behind this high stakes cooking session was a man, or rather, named Whisley Joao Chua.
Whisley was a second-year student in the College of Nursing (CON), a department located on the complete opposite side of the campus, a world away from the glamorous pretense of the CCA.
Amethyst had first seen him during their freshman orientation week, a chaotic, humid day in the crowded Central Canteen. She was juggling a tray of fried chicken and rice when she saw him standing by the condiment station.
He wasn't an Illustrado, the largest demographic on campus that consisted of the scions of the country's most prominent families. These were the children of senators, congressmen, governors, real estate magnates, major industrialist family heads, and owners of multinational corporations. Whisley Joao had no bespoke suit or signet ring. He wore simple, clean clothes, and his energy was calm and focused. He was tall, but not aggressively so, with an easy smile that somehow managed to be both bright and gentle. His eyes, though… My God, his eyes. They were a warm, dark brown, framed by thick lashes. He was talking animatedly to a friend about study habits, and the earnestness in his voice struck Amethyst like lightning.
Love at first sight. Literally. Straight out of a cinematic scene, no exaggeration.Lord, if You still don't know who's meant for me, well, I already do. Please, just give him to me.
She froze, tray tilting precariously. Her fried chicken tumbled off the plate and landed, tragically, on the floor right beside his expensive-looking sneakers.
Amethyst, normally quick-witted and composed, was mortified. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I'll clean that up, wait—"
Whisley simply smiled, that real smile that made her heart stop. "No worries. It happens. Are you okay? Don't stress, it's just chicken." He bent down, picked up the offending piece with a napkin, and handed the napkin to her before she could even process it. "I'm a nursing student. Don't worry about germs, I'm used to worse."
That was it. That moment of calm kindness amid her clumsiness sealed her fate. From that day on, Amethyst knew. Whisley Joao Chua was the one. No detours, no hesitation. He was it for her.
For two semesters, she admired him from afar. In the library. Occasionally in the gym. Often in the Nursing building's foyer, where she loitered under the pretense of waiting for a "friend" she'd invented. But today, after months of agonizing over the perfect approach, she had finally cornered him.
She hadn't asked him out. She had presented him with an invitation for a private, custom-catered menu tasting in the CCA, citing a requirement for her advanced plating module. It was a thinly veiled ruse, but Whisley, bless his earnest, oblivious heart, had accepted readily.
He was coming in thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to make him fall in love, one bite at a time. With the way she cooked, there was no way he wouldn't fall. Great food, gorgeous chef, solid game plan. Jackpot.
Amethyst worked with the intense focus of a surgeon. The lab was immaculate, stainless steel gleamed, and the enormous industrial ventilation hood hummed softly.
She had chosen the menu carefully. A dish that was complex, rooted in Filipino tradition, yet elevated with French culinary techniques. The very essence of RPCU's CCA philosophy.
The Dish: Adobo con Confite. The Heirloom Adobo.
This wasn't the usual soy-sauce-and-vinegar stew. This was heritage.
First, the centerpiece: Pork Belly Confit.
She placed the skin-on pork belly slices into a deep pan. Instead of duck fat, which felt too heavy and too European, she covered them in a delicate blend of rendered pig's leaf fat infused with bay leaves, crushed peppercorns, and thin slices of garlic. She used a rare, dark coconut sap vinegar known as coconut vinegar and a light-colored aged soy sauce to achieve maximum depth without overpowering the flavor.
"Okay, Amethyst. You are not just preserving meat, you are preserving your sanity," she muttered to herself, her hands moving with fluid precision.
"The tenderness has to be perfect. When he eats this, he should think, perfect wife material. The texture should feel like a first kiss. It can't be tough, it has to melt in his mouth, just like my heart when he smiles," she thought, giddy.
She slid the pan into the combi-oven set to a low, slow temperature, letting the fat gently permeate the pork, promising skin that would later shatter into crisp perfection.
Next, the Adobo Reduction.
This was the heart of the dish, where her secret ingredient came into play.
In a separate, smaller saucepan, she combined more of the aged sukang tuba, a dash of muscovado sugar for that deep, molasses sweetness, and the rendered fat from the pork. As the mixture simmered and reduced, the familiar, comforting aroma of adobo filled the lab, but this was refined, almost perfume-like.
Amethyst picked up a small container from her private kit. Inside was finely grated calamansi zest, a pinch of toasted black sesame seeds, and a single, tiny, perfectly formed dried sampaguita petal.
The sampaguita was the national flower, a symbol of purity, devotion, and the intense sweetness of true love. No one, not even Chef Anton, would ever know it was there. It was her signature, her subtle offering.
"This is the secret recipe, Whisley. It's not just herbs and spices. It's my entire love for you, dried and added. I'm not kidding, if this dish doesn't make him feel something, then I need to change my major," she whispered in her mind, eyes fixed on the sampaguita like a woman possessed.
She stirred the reduction slowly, her movements deliberate. The sauce thickened into a beautiful, glossy mahogany glaze.
The pace accelerated. Amethyst checked her timer. Twenty minutes left.
The elements came together, one by one.
She plated a dome of Adlai, also known as Job's Tears, a healthier, nuttier grain she'd chosen specifically because she once overheard Whisley mention he was trying to eat less white rice. Details mattered. Oh, she had this in the bag. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
For garnish, she scattered crispy garlic chips and microgreens with precision, then drizzled the Adobo Reduction in a delicate arc.
For the confit, she retrieved the pork belly from the oven. The skin was pale gold. She carefully patted it dry and gave it a quick, high-heat flash under the broiler, causing the skin to blister and crackle dramatically.
She lifted the perfectly cubed confit, tender, succulent, and glistening, and placed it artfully beside the Adlai dome. She then spooned a final, tiny drop of the sampaguita-infused reduction over the crisp skin.
The plate was minimalist, sophisticated, and smelled heavenly. It wasn't just food. It was a conversation starter. Exactly as it should be.
Amethyst stepped back, inspecting the finished dish. Her culinary love letter.
"You got this, Amethyst. You're a Mendoza. You're a second-year student at RPCU. You can conquer pork belly confit, you can conquer the world, and you can definitely conquer one very handsome nursing student," she told herself, as if her entire happiness rested on Whisley.
The only problem was her hands were shaking. All the professional composure she'd maintained while handling a nine-step confit preparation vanished the moment she heard the faint click of the lab door being unlocked.
This was it. The fate of Amethyst Rayne Mendoza's heart rested on a piece of high-end adobo.
The door clicked, and Amethyst gasped, forgetting to breathe.
Whisley Joao Chua stepped into the industrial elegance of Kitchen Lab 4. He was even more magnetic in person than in her frantic canteen daydreams. He wore a simple, dark blue shirt that spoke of functionality over fashion, and his backpack suggested he'd just come from a grueling lecture on anatomy or pharmacology. He carried the easy, non-threatening confidence of someone who truly didn't care about RPCU's status games—a quiet strength that made him easy to be around.
"Hi, Amethyst. I hope I'm not late," he said, his voice a low, melodic rhythm that immediately calmed her frantic heart rate. He glanced around the pristine lab, his eyes sweeping over the gleaming equipment and complex machinery. "Wow, the atmosphere… so serious. The smell is making me hungry. I've only ever been in the Nursing lab, and trust me, it smells way less appealing."
Amethyst finally exhaled, managing a small, shaky laugh. Breathe, Rayne. Act professional. Focus.
"Not at all, Whisley. Right on time, in fact," she said, trying to keep her tone cool and collected, like Chef Anton. "Please, take a seat. I hope you don't mind the ambiance. This is actually Lab 4, usually reserved for advanced testing."
He sat down at the small tasting table she had set up: crisp linen napkin, silver flatware, and a single, delicate orchid centerpiece. His relaxed posture instantly made the clinical lab feel less intimidating, more intimate.
The plate of Adobo con Confite sat before him, the glossy reduction catching the overhead lighting, a beacon of her secret intention.
His eyes widened slightly as he took in the presentation. He didn't just see food; he seemed to analyze the effort. "I didn't expect module tastings to be this grand. This looks incredible, Amethyst. So detailed."
The compliment was like a shot of adrenaline. "Thank you. I took a lot of care with the plating. Please, before anything, I need your honest, objective critique. Remember, this is for academic credit," she fibbed gracefully, the lie heavy on her tongue.
Whisley, the perceptive person he was, didn't seem entirely convinced by the "academic" part, but he accepted the premise without question. He picked up the fork, focusing entirely on the dish with the earnest dedication of a Nursing student analyzing a medical chart. He raised the fork, poised to break the perfect, crackling skin of the pork belly.
Just one bite. That's all I need, Lord. One bite.
And then, the moment of truth was violently derailed.
The lab door slammed open with a force that made the stainless-steel counters rattle. The air immediately turned frigid, the scent of sukang tuba and Sampaguita suddenly fighting a losing battle against the sharp, expensive scent of designer perfume.
"Oh, what a touching little scene," a voice dripped with pure poison, laced with familiar, high-society derision.
It belonged to Seraphina "Seffy" Villareal, the undisputed queen bee of the Illustrados. She was the heiress to the massive Villareal Conglomerate, a fourth-generation RPCU legacy, and currently an overly confident, underachieving student in the College of Fine Arts. Seraphina was beautiful in a sharp, intimidating way, dressed in expensive clothes that looked like they cost Amethyst's monthly tuition. Her eyes rarely smiled, and her posture declared ownership of every room she entered. She was flanked by two equally intimidating friends, ready to film or witness a public execution.
Amethyst felt the blood drain from her face. Seraphina. The one person who loved seeing her stumble.
Whisley slowly lowered his fork, his expression shifting from focused appreciation to a cool, controlled annoyance characteristic of his calm nature. He was rarely ruffled, and Seraphina's brashness clearly irritated his quiet spirit.
"What charade, Seraphina? I was invited for a culinary tasting. And you just interrupted an academic requirement," Whisley stated, his tone flat and level, lacking heat.
Seraphina let out a sharp, theatrical laugh that echoed in the sterile lab. "Oh, academic requirement? Please. Be real, Whisley. This is Amethyst Rayne Mendoza. She doesn't need to do a plating module in a private lab. She could probably buy the entire CCA building if she wanted to, you know that." She gestured wildly at Amethyst. "This is a confession, darling, not a critique."
Amethyst felt her carefully constructed façade shatter. Her heart was now a painful, frantic drummer in her chest. I hate this. I hate her.
"Seraphina, get out. This is a private lab. I will report you to Chef Anton," Amethyst finally managed, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound firm. She clutched the edge of the stainless steel counter, fighting the urge to run.
"Report me? Go ahead, Rayne. But let's make sure Whisley knows what he's being served today. It's not just pork and Adlai. It's desperation," Seraphina sneered, leaning conspiratorially toward Whisley. "She doesn't have a module, Whisley. She's had a massive, pathetic crush on you since freshman year. She arranged this entire, expensive set-up just to force you into a date. She's obsessed, so don't let yourself be fooled."
Whisley remained seated, his gaze steady on Amethyst, searching for a denial. Amethyst couldn't look him in the eye. The humiliation was crushing. In what chapter does this girl die?
Just then, Bea burst into the lab, flushed and furious. She must have followed Seraphina. "Seraphina, enough! For someone so pretty, your attitude is ugly! Leave Amethyst alone. And so what if she likes him? At least she has the guts to try, unlike you, who just watches everyone from your pedestal!"
Seraphina's perfect lip curled. "Guts? Or calculated manipulation? Let's ask her bestie, Bea. Because here's the evidence," she declared triumphantly, pulling a gold-plated phone from her pocket and tapping her screen. She smirked, fully enjoying the moment of maximum cruelty.
A voice… Amethyst's voice.
"I don't care about the modules anymore, Bea. This is the only way for him to notice me. I'm making him the best dish I can, the one I poured my whole heart into. I'm going to use my aunt's connections to corner him. He is going to be mine, Bea. No matter what it takes. I promise, when he eats the adobo, he will be mine. Who wouldn't fall for someone who can cook well, is pretty, and smart like me? We're the perfect match."
The recording stopped. The silence in Kitchen Lab 4 was deafening, broken only by the quiet hum of the ventilation. Amethyst stared at the stainless-steel floor, wishing the earth would open up and swallow her whole. Her words, so private and emotional, sounded utterly mercenary played back in the cold, public space. The phrase "He is going to be mine" hung in the air like poison.
She had no defense. Because she had said those words.
Whisley didn't speak immediately. His expression wasn't angry... worse, it was unreadable. Detached. Observing.
Seraphina smiled, a cruel, satisfied victory curving her lips. "See, Whisley? Calculated. She used your kindness and your academic integrity against you. She's just another rich girl who thinks she can buy people, even Nursing students who clearly belong somewhere else."
She raised her hand, palm open, intending to deliver a sharp, final slap, not to Amethyst's cheek but to the pristine white plating station, a symbolic destruction of Amethyst's pride and the beautiful Adobo.
But before her hand could land, a large, warm hand shot out and clamped down on Seraphina's wrist.
It was Whisley.
His touch was firm, stopping Seraphina mid-motion. His eyes, usually so gentle, were narrowed with a cold disapproval Amethyst had never imagined he possessed. It was not anger, it was the quiet, steely resolve of a man who detests unnecessary cruelty.
"That is enough, Seraphina," Whisley stated, his voice low and devoid of all the previous pleasantness. "You are done."
He released Seraphina's wrist, and she stumbled back, rubbing the spot where his fingers had pressed. She was shocked that the mild-mannered Nursing student had dared to touch her, the Illustrado queen.
Whisley turned back to the table, completely ignoring Seraphina's gaping, angry face. He looked at Amethyst, whose eyes were still fixed on the floor, tears threatening to fall. The raw honesty of the situation was terrifying.
"Amethyst," he said softly, his voice cutting through her panic. "Look at me."
She slowly raised her head. His expression was not angry, nor was it pity. It was simply the thoughtful focus of someone who looks past the noise to the truth underneath.
He picked up the fork again, carefully cut a piece of the pork belly, ensuring he got a good portion of the crisp skin and the tender meat, and ate it. He did this not aggressively, but with the measured calm of someone deciding that the food was more important than the drama.
Amethyst watched, heart pounding a painful rhythm against her ribs. Please. Please, let it be good. If this fails, I have nothing left.
Whisley chewed slowly, deliberately, his eyes closing for a moment as he processed the flavors. The movement was almost meditative. Seraphina stood rigid, her entourage whispering behind their hands, desperate to see him spit it out.
He swallowed, then took a scoop of the Adlai rice, ensuring it was coated with the reduction. He ate that too.
Finally, he set the fork down and leaned back in his chair, meeting Amethyst's terrified gaze.
"Okay," he began, his voice analytical, like a doctor giving a prognosis, no filter, just truth. "The Pork Belly Confit itself is technically perfect. The low and slow fat rendering worked beautifully. It achieved a tenderness that is truly unexpected in a cut this lean. It melts but still has body. The crisping on the skin is fantastic, a great balance of texture. It is not tough, but it is not soggy either. It has that perfect crunch."
Amethyst's breath hitched. He saw the effort. He understood the technique. Ahhh, I'm swooning. Damn, I'm swooning so hard.
"Now, the reduction," Whisley continued, his focus laser sharp. "The balance of sweet, sour, and savory is complicated. You used coconut vinegar. I can taste the subtle coconut notes, which add a clean depth. The Muscovado gives it that dark, caramelized sweetness, but it does not overwhelm the saltiness of the soy. It is complex. It is an evolved adobo."
He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips, a small flicker of approval. "But here's the interesting part. There is a flavor here... it's extremely subtle. It's floral. I thought it was jasmine, but no, it's brighter. Sampaguita. Was that intentional?"
Amethyst's eyes went wide. No one, not even her aunt, knew about the Sampaguita. Only he noticed. That meant he was paying attention not just to the flavor but to the feeling of the dish.
"Y-yes. It's... it's a finishing aromatic," she whispered, utterly exposed, her heart soaring higher than the RPCU tower.
Whisley nodded slowly, his smile finally reaching his eyes, the genuine, warm, heart-stopping smile she remembered from the canteen. The smile that made her fall even more. "It's brilliant. It ties the dish back to its Filipino roots, beyond just the vinegar, and gives it a light, almost ethereal finish. It keeps the dish from being heavy. It makes the dish feel... hopeful."
He looked directly at her, his voice softening again, the kindness radiating from him. "Amethyst, this isn't just 'academic credit.' This is passion. This is high-level cooking. I don't know what your professors are teaching you, but you definitely did this way too well."
He reached out a hand, not to hold hers, but to gently ruffle the hair under her chef's toque. The simple, kind gesture hit her with the force of a thousand swoon-worthy moments. Her cheeks instantly burned hot. He ruffled my hair so gently. Damn. My fine man. I might faint.
He then lowered his voice, making sure only she could hear, a clear indication of his reserved yet reassuring character. "I'm very busy with a lot of things going on in the Nursing Department, Amethyst. My schedule is serious, I lack sleep, and I have a lot to study. My clinical rotations are intense," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "If you truly need my help, if you genuinely need a test subject for a new recipe or feedback on a catering plan, I'm willing to help. Just DM me first. But if it's not really that important, just contact me when I'm not busy. Okay?"
He said those words softly, his eyes holding hers, reassuring her that he was not mad, was not disgusted by the recording, and was not rejecting her, just setting a necessary, honest boundary. He had validated her skill, acknowledged her heart, and simultaneously put the entire messy crush situation gently back in its place. He gave her a lifeline, but one that required her to respect his reality.
He stood up, turning to face Seraphina, who was still fuming, expecting him to join her in condemning Amethyst.
"And you, Seraphina," Whisley said, his voice dropping to a serious, commanding register that belied his calm demeanor. "Your behavior is unacceptable. Using private recordings to publicly humiliate another student, especially someone who clearly put so much thought and effort into something, regardless of the reason, is petty and beneath what RPCU stands for. Scientia et Servitium Patriae? Knowledge and Service to the Nation. Where is the service in that? Fix your attitude. I suggest you focus on whatever you need to learn instead of trying to control other people's feelings."
He did not wait for her to respond, leaving the Illustrado queen speechless for the first time in her life. He gave Amethyst one last, quick, genuine smile, a flash of warmth in the sterile lab. "Thank you for the wonderful lunch, Amethyst. It was delicious. And please, clean up well, Nurse's orders."
Then, Whisley Joao Chua, the future nurse with the beautiful soul, grabbed his bag and walked calmly out of Kitchen Lab 4, leaving Amethyst Rayne Mendoza, the rich girl who thought she could buy time but not heart, standing in the wreckage of her plan, her hair slightly messed up, and the sweet, lingering taste of victory and quiet heartbreak on her lips.