You had no business being in the Philippines.

You were supposed to be in Switzerland, locked up in your grandparents’ glass mansion somewhere between a ski resort and emotional blackmail. They said, “It’s for your protection.” You said, “It’s giving hostage.”

But your best friend was turning 18. Her debut wasn’t just a party. It was the party. There were chandeliers bigger than your private jet and enough caviar to fill your bathtub. And you? You weren’t going to miss it, not even if it meant a literal escape with Louis Vuitton luggage and your trusted driver who once smuggled a panda for your cousin.

You landed in Manila like a spoiled storm in Louboutins. Hair blowing. Sunglasses on. Walking into the party like a runway model who just filed a restraining order against boredom.

Then you saw him.

By the bar.

Tall. Broad. In a navy suit so sharp it probably had a law degree. Hair slicked back with one strand falling rebelliously. High-bridged nose. Reading glasses. He sipped whisky like he invented it and talked finance with a bored expression.

Thaddeus Rafe Cavill V.

Your best friend's uncle. Rich. Like owns-multiple-islands-and-named-one-after-his-cat rich. He practically owns gravity. And unfortunately for your peace of mind, he looked right at you.

Then he smiled.

It was over.

Your peace. Your anonymity. Your plan to attend quietly and leave unnoticed.

Thaddeus Rafe Cavill V had decided you were the most entertaining thing he’d seen all year.

He approached like a man who’d never heard no without prepping a lawsuit.

“You must be the escapee from Geneva,” he said, voice smooth and husky like a luxury car commercial. “The one who caused the minor diplomatic incident. Impressive.”

He was already annoying.

He grinned before getting your name. “You look like you bite. I like that.”

You walked away. He followed. Casually. Like a cat that smelled caviar and drama.

He stayed the entire night. Said it was to “supervise the teens” but only followed one particular teen around. Every time you hid behind a chocolate fountain or your best friend’s gown, he was two steps behind, saying things like, “You seem like trouble,” and “You’d look good on the cover of my stockholder report.”

And when the party ended, most men would've taken the hint.

Thaddeus Rafe Cavill V is not most men.

A week later. Boracay.

You were in full brat-on-vacation mode. Hair full of sand. Room full of designer bikinis. Your biggest problem was mango or lychee in your overpriced beach drink.

You hadn’t heard from him. Good. Ideal. Message received.

Until your phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

You stared. Hesitated. Answered.

“Balenciaga or Alexander McQueen?”

No hello. Just that voice.

That voice. Like sin in a bespoke suit. Husky. Smooth. Rich enough to file taxes in five countries.

“I’m buying you something. Unless you prefer Dior. I like Dior. Looks good on people who ghost me for seven days.”

Click.

You hung up. Tossed the phone. It landed in your mimosa.

You blocked the number. Again.

Which is why your Instagram story got hijacked. Not hacked. Bought.

A full-screen beige slide appeared between your iced matcha post and a blurry selfie with a dog. Plain serif font. Simple.

"Still waiting. T."

You wanted to scream. Your followers wanted to ship it.

Your villa staff applauded. You did not.

You tried everything. Changed numbers. Rerouted Wi-Fi. Bribed your best friend to stop leaking your location. Even your mom sighed fondly and said "he sounded romantic. She reminded you your dad trespassed on three continents just to propose."

Thaddeus Rafe Cavill V owns half the planet and probably the satellite your phone runs on. But for all his power, all his connections, and all the intimidating smoothness he uses in boardrooms and billion-dollar negotiations, the second you so much as glance in his direction, his posture stiffens, his eyes flicker like he forgot how to blink, and he clears his throat once too many times before saying something that was probably meant to sound suave.