Keifer's pov:
London air feels colder than Manila.
Not the kind that bites your skin — the kind that settles heavy in your lungs, like a warning.
I step out of the airport, bag over my shoulder, collar up. Too many people. Too much noise.
I just need three days here. Handle business. Come back to Jay.
A black car is already waiting — courtesy of someone Uncle Keir arranged.
The driver opens the door without a word.
Driver: "Mr. Watson. Hapipi Suites Hotel. CEO arrived earlier. Security's tight today."
I nod.
Hapipi Suites? Never heard of it.
Must be some random luxury chain. London is full of them.
THE HOTEL
Marble floors reflect the ceiling like glass.
Gold accents. Crystal chandeliers.
A pianist plays something soft in the corner, and every employee bows like we're royalty.
This place doesn't feel like a hotel.
It feels like someone's ego in architecture form.
At the reception, a man slides me a key card.
Receptionist: "Welcome back, sir. The CEO has just returned from a board meeting. If you need anything, press #0."
CEO this, CEO that.
Everyone's whispering about their CEO like a myth — like a ghost in the walls.
I don't care.
I need a shower and sleep.
Hot water hits my back and all I see is Jay's face when she ran off last night.
The way she hid my eyes from Angelo and Ion like she was trying to protect me…
Protect me from what, Jay?
I dry off.
Change into a shirt and dark slacks.
Fix my hair.
Uncle Keir texted to meet in the VIP lounge.
I take the back lift — carpet feels so soft it silences footstep echoes.
VIP LOUNGE
Dim lights. Old money perfume. Velvet curtains.
This place is only for clients who don't check price tags.
Uncle Keir waves me over.
Uncle Keir: "Business first. The one handling our end here is that man — Mantansty. Avoid him. We're not involved with him today. He's here for something bigger. The CEO's deal."
I follow his gaze.
A man in a silver suit — Mr. Mantansty — laughing with a champagne glass.
He drips power like sweat.
Female workers pass by, serving drinks.
Their hands tremble when Mantansty looks at them.
Something's wrong here.
Uncle Keir continues talking about documents — but then—
The female servant walks by with a tray.
Mantansty "accidentally" brushes his hand against her hip.
She flinches.
I stand halfway.
Uncle Keir (low): "Sit. Not our business."
He does it again. This time grabbing her wrist.
Female Servant: "Sir—please, let me go."
No one moves.
No one breathes.
Then, in a flash, she slaps him.
CRACK — loud enough to cut the music.
Gasps.
The pianist stops.
Mantansty turns red.
Mantansty: "Your CEO will crawl here and apologize to me. You're done."
His voice echoes.
And then—
Footsteps.
Not rushed.
Not panicked.
Controlled.
The CEO walks in.
I can't see their face — corner of the room, shadows, bodyguards forming walls.
All I see is posture.
Straight spine.
Chin up.
Danger in stillness.
The CEO approaches.
A woman's voice — calm, velvet wrapped around steel:
CEO: "I apologize on behalf of my employee, Mr. Mantansty."
Everyone exhales.
Wait— a woman?
The CEO is a girl?
Mantansty smirks like he won.
But then—
CEO (sharply towards the servant): "Do you truly think that a single slap is enough for men like him?"
The room freezes.
I straighten.
What?
The servant stares in shock.
Mantansty: "Watch your mouth. You need my money."
He raises his hand — to hit her.
In less than a heartbeat, she catches his wrist.
Twists.
His knees buckle.
CEO: "According to hotel rules, guests are equal to God."
She leans forward, voice lethal.
CEO: "So tell me… what happens when a God forgets how to behave?"
Manager rushes in, sweating.
Manager: "C-CEO, please— he's an investor— the deal—"
She smiles.
A smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
CEO: "I don't want this man near any part of my empire. Escort Mr. God out. Permanently. Our company does not shelter pests."
Gasps ripple like thunder.
Mantansty tries to stand — bodyguards drag him out like trash.
The servant starts crying — she kneels — but the CEO lifts her chin.
CEO: "A company exists because of its people. Not because of men like him. Report to HR. You're getting a raise."
The room erupts in whispers.
I'm stunned.
And then I remember — Uncle said that deal was huge.
Millions.
Gone.
Just like that.
I turn to him.
Me: "She just threw away millions for a servant?"
He sips his wine.
Uncle: "That's Hapipi Enterprises. They don't flinch at millions. They build empires. And that—"
he nods toward the CEO
"—is the child who owns it. Learn something."
The hallway outside my suite smells faintly of fresh lilies and expensive cologne. Soft music hums from somewhere, maybe the bar downstairs. Everything about London feels too polished, too still. I'm tired, but sleep won't come.
I step out, planning to walk a bit. The carpet swallows my footsteps.
Halfway down the corridor, someone waves.
"Yo… Keifer?"
I stop. My eyes focus. He steps closer, and the lights hit his face.
Recognition snaps like a rubber band.
"Mikhail?" I blink.
We met months ago at the Watson party—my distant cousin. We barely talked then.
He smiles, casual. "Didn't expect to see you here."
We fall into step, walking slowly toward the lounge area. No rush.
"Business here?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Work."
No extra details. Classic.
"You? Vacation?"
"Just… needed a change of air," I answer. And to get my head away from her. But I don't say that part.
We walk. The hallway windows show London's skyline—millions of lights blinking.
Silence isn't awkward. Just quiet.
I shove my hands into my pockets. "You looked busy earlier."
He huffs a laugh. "I'm always busy."
"Doing what exactly?"
He stops at the elevator, presses the down button.
"I'm assisting someone."
Vague. He's not giving anything for free.
The elevator door opens. We step inside. Mirrors on all sides.
It's like being trapped in a jewelry box.
"Assisting who?" I ask again.
His eyes meet mine through the reflection.
Not tense. Just measuring me.
"The CEO." He finally answers.
A beat.
"…Of this hotel?"
He nods once. "And some other things. Depends."
The elevator dings. We exit. The golden lounge spreads out, empty now except for a few dim lamps.
I lean against a pillar. "So… today. That scene with Mr. Mantansty."
He tilts his head, waiting.
"Why?" I ask.
Mikhail adjusts his glasses. "Why what?"
"Why let go of a deal like that? Over a servant?"
He gives a soft exhale. Not annoyed—just… unsurprised.
"Because she doesn't see them as 'just servants'."
His tone is simple. Matter-of-fact.
I frown. "Still. That deal must've been worth millions—"
"Billions," he corrects quietly.
My chest tightens. "…You're kidding."
"No."
I study him. He isn't bragging. He isn't trying to impress me.
He's just stating a fact.
"So she walks away from billions like it's spare change?"
He thinks before answering.
"She walks away from anything that costs her self-respect or her people's dignity. That's the currency she values."
Silence again.
I glance around. The chandeliers, the marble, the sheer size of this place.
Suddenly, it feels too small to fit the weight of what I just learned.
"This hotel… all hers?" I ask carefully.
He pauses, then shrugs.
"This?" He gestures lightly. "This is nothing. Just a… branch."
I wait for more. He doesn't continue.
I push anyway. "How much does she have?"
He gives a half-smile. "Nobody counts. People try, they fail."
"You must know something."
He taps his finger against the table absently. "Look, I know my role. I know enough to do my job. But her world?"
His voice lowers.
"It's layered. What you see is one floor of a building without a roof."
I stare.
He looks up, eyes sharp now.
"If you ever cross paths with her… don't assume you've seen the whole picture. No one ever has."
A chill crawls up my spine.
He stretches, preparing to leave.
"Anyway," he says lightly, like we didn't just talk about empires hidden in shadows, "good to see you. Try the blueberry waffles at breakfast. Worth it."
He turns to go.
I call out, impulsive—
"Mikhail."
He stops, but doesn't turn fully.
"…She cares that much? About her employees?"
He finally looks at me.
His eyes aren't sharp anymore. They're warm.
"The company exists because of them. That's what she says."
A small smile.
"And she never treats a sweeper like an outsider."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes.
Edrix: Elara absent again today.
My heartbeat stutters.
The timing feels like a joke. Or a warning.
As Mikhail walks away, I whisper to myself—
"…Elara."
And for the first time,
she doesn't feel like just another student in my orbit.
She feels like a horizon.