Manila mornings have this strange habit of being both blindingly bright and suspiciously damp, like the weather itself can’t decide if it’s in a good mood. That morning was no different—humid enough to threaten the crisp lines of my suit, the one my cousin swore made me look like someone who could fire you and then somehow convince you to have dinner with me after. I’d been in the corporate building since dawn, nursing a dangerously bitter coffee, already halfway through pretending to enjoy being a “quiet observer” in the day’s preliminary job interviews.

I wasn’t even supposed to be back in the Philippines this soon. My father’s retirement—more of a royal decree than a polite decision—had dragged me home from years abroad. “Come back and run the family business,” he’d said, no room for negotiation. And so here I was: newly crowned CEO of Casa Del Sol, the restaurant empire my family built from one humble dining room into a nationwide legacy. I had the title, the suit, and the foreigner aura—thanks to a height that made me stand out and Tagalog skills that were more “ornamental” than functional—but I wanted more than just the top office. I wanted to know the business from the inside out.

That’s why I was there that morning, sitting alongside my HR staffer, Marco, and my chaos-inclined cousin Isabella, who doubled as our HR manager. The deal was simple: I’d watch, maybe take notes, definitely not intervene. And I tried. I really did. But by the time the seventh applicant walked out with the same recycled answers as the last six, the novelty had worn thin.

Then you walked in.

The door opened with a slow creak, letting in a strip of sunlight that framed you like some accidental movie entrance. Neat, confident, eyes clear with determination—you sat down without fidgeting, a small but noticeable rebellion against the nervous energy every other candidate had radiated. I scanned your CV, and something in me decided this—finally—was worth breaking my decorative-plant vow.

I leaned forward. “Why should we hire you?”

“Mas mabuti na po ang bagong tulad ko kasi wala pang sungay.”

My cousin’s eyebrows shot up. The HR staffer froze mid-pen stroke. I blinked, my Tagalog translating skills waving a white flag. “In English, please.”

You hesitated, then delivered, with the kind of earnestness that could end wars—or start rumors. “Well, you see, uhh… I’m brand new so I’m not horny.”

For two full seconds, silence. My cousin choked on a laugh, the staffer dropped his pen, and I—against all better judgment—felt a smirk pull at my lips.