Lia's POV
If you'd told me three months ago I'd be back in Manila—wrapped in silk and expectation, not just sweat—I would've laughed in your face and poured another cup of Earl Grey.
Yet here I am.
The rain welcomed us like an old enemy, relentless and cold. Sheets of water hammered against the private jet's windows as it touched down, blurring the world outside into a gray smear. The tarmac gleamed like a slick mirror, reflecting the storm in my chest.
I used to live here. I was born here. But then London happened—tea rooms, tight smiles, sharper tongues. Now? I've returned. A stranger wearing a crown no one asked me to claim.
The Martinez family. A name spoken in hushed tones behind manicured hands, dipped in power and poison. My family.
The wheels stopped. Engines cut. Silence fell heavy, broken only by the tap of rain on metal.
My reflection caught my eye in the jet's window: tangled hair, tired eyes, skin pulled tight from too many restless nights. I didn't recognize myself.
The knock came like a summons.
Dragging myself out of the cramped seat, I grabbed my bag and stepped into the storm.
The black SUV waited. Tailored and cold, like an armor piece. I slid inside, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the weight of what awaited.
The drive was a blur of dripping streets and neon signs smeared by rain.
When we pulled into the Martinez estate, the gates loomed like silent guards. The mansion rose above the storm, ancient and unforgiving. Its windows glowed with a pale light, casting long shadows on the slick driveway.
Inside, the air smelled of jasmine and old money. The grand hallway swallowed me whole, its marble floors reflecting chandeliers that sparkled like stars stolen from a midnight sky.
A knock broke the hum of the storm—and my restless sleep.
Dragging myself out of bed, hair a chaotic crown, I opened the door. There stood Mom. Regal even at dawn. Silk robe. Emerald earrings. Unbothered by the weather or my visible exhaustion.
"Good morning, Lia," she said, voice smooth as glass.
"Morning, Mom," I croaked, caught between dreamland and duty.
"Breakfast is ready. Everyone is waiting. It's your first day—don't be late."
"Yes, mom." The words fell out automatically, an old script.
I shut the door and moved to the bathroom. Shower. Brush. Stare in the mirror. Not to question my existence—oh no. To remind myself:
You are a Martinez. Act like one.
Stepping out, I nearly bumped into Kalix—my twin, two minutes younger—hoodie thrown over expensive sleepwear, hair artfully disheveled. Rich boy rebellion at its finest.
"Good morning, Kalix," I said, voice sweetened just enough.
""My morning would've been better if I didn't see your drama face first thing." he muttered, smirking.
Ah, twin love. Layered with barbs and loyalty.
"Sleep well?" I asked, poking at him for sport.
No answer. He was already heading down the grand staircase.
"Coming or just gonna practice your royal wave all day, big sis?" he called over his shoulder.
Tss. No invite. Just expectation.
I followed.
The dining room was as grand as ever—long table, crystal chandeliers, art older than most European monarchs.
Mom sat like a queen, every inch the sovereign of this fractured kingdom. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, didn't miss a thing. Dad, silent power at her side, radiated a cold authority that could freeze fire.
Aunt Jean wore a polite smile that never reached her eyes—like a knife wrapped in velvet. Our cousin David, future politician in the making, scrolled through his phone with casual arrogance, the kind that was taught, not earned.
Kalix took his seat with lazy grace. I slid into mine, spine straight, expression unreadable.
The maids served pan de sal, garlic rice, and eggs. Simplicity layered with legacy.
"The rain continues," Mom remarked, voice smooth but tense. "How will you two get to school? Its your first day in the collage. The drivers cannot navigate this weather."
"We'll drive," Kalix and I said in eerie unison—the first and last time we agreed all day.
Mom looked ready to argue. "It's not safe—"
We turned to Dad. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't have to.
"Sara," he said calmly, "they're capable. Let them go."
Mom sighed, lips pressed thin. "Fine."
As breakfast ended, the adults drifted away like ghosts, leaving us alone with the echo of chandeliers and the weight of unspoken demands.
Kalix stretched, cracking his knuckles. "I'll be waiting, big empress. Don't forget your umbrella—maybe a leash too, so you don't fly away in the wind."
He vanished upstairs before I could respond.
I finished the last bite of garlic rice like a soldier preparing for battle. Kalix hated to wait.
Minutes later, after a wardrobe speed-run, I grabbed my bag and umbrella, heading to the garage.
There he was. Leaning against a sleek black SUV, looking every bit the heir to an empire.
"Which one, slowpoke turtle?" he asked, lazily.
"Black SUV, brother turtle," I shot back, matching his tone.
A suited staff member stepped forward with the keys. The cars? Identical. Because of course they were. Martinez tradition: if you must flaunt wealth, do it in coordinated style.
I took the keys
I tossed Kalix's car keys towards him. "Care to race?"
"Always."
We slid into our matching machines. Engines purred—a sound of power we'd both grown up with.
Pulling out onto the driveway, Kalix smirked.
"On three," he said.
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
We hit the gas.
The rain blurred the world beyond our windshields, but it didn't matter.
Martinez heirs don't flinch. We race through storms.
Let the games begin.