There were exactly fourteen clocks in the De Vera household, and not a single one ticked in peace.
In the drawing room, a French pendulum beat time with aristocratic disdain; in the gallery hall, a grandfather clock solemnly chimed the hour, though no one ever paused to listen. Even the servants' quarters had a modest wall piece that clicked like a nervous guest at a debutante ball. All fourteen, each curated by Elena's mother herself, synchronized not to the standard time of the Philippines, but to her own unforgiving sense of punctuality.
Elena De Vera stood before the mirror in her upstairs chamber, dressed like a hostage at a fashion show. The gown was a fragile shade of ivory, embroidered with lilies, her mother's favorite flower-a detail that made Elena itch more than the lace itself. She adjusted her neckline, her gloves, her sighs.
She was seventeen, lovely, and distinctly miserable.
A curl of black hair tumbled down her shoulder, undone by her fidgeting. She tucked it back behind her ear, then let it fall again. There was little else she could control in this house; her hair, at least, might listen.
"Elena, stand straight. You're slouching like a kitchen maid."
The voice was her mother's-Aurora De Vera, as formidable as her name suggested. She stood at the doorway, not entering but inspecting, as one might inspect a statue moments before unveiling it to a foreign dignitary. She was tall, elegant, and coiffed to within an inch of perfection. Her pearl choker sat tightly across her throat, as if even her accessories were too disciplined to slip.
Her eyes, sharp and dark, skimmed over Elena like a tax auditor.
"That dress was flown in from Milan. If you ruin it by wrinkling the bodice, I will have you sewn into it."
"Is that legal?" Elena murmured.
"Is that sarcasm?" her mother replied, stepping fully into the room.
Behind her, Don Roberto De Vera, Elena's father, emerged like a shadow from a painting. He was a man who wore his suits as though he had been born in them-pressed, serious, and expensive. Grey hair framed his temples with a kind of cinematic dignity, and he moved with the quiet certainty of someone used to being the wealthiest man in most rooms.
"Elena," he said, nodding once. "I've arranged for you to be introduced to the Flores boy. He just returned from Paris."
"That seems to be going around," Elena replied. "Is there some sort of buy-one-get-one-free flight?"
Her mother pursed her lips. "Must you always speak like a schoolteacher in a satire?"
"Yes. Otherwise, I might have to speak like a debutante in a cage."
"Elena," her father said gently-his voice always calm, as if he were addressing an unstable investor. "You're a De Vera. Appearances matter."
Behind them, Nanny Liling shuffled in with a clipboard too large for her frame. She had worked in the household since Elena was in diapers and had a permanent aura of weary affection. Her eyes were soft, but her posture was crooked from years of chasing after Elena's whims and her parents' expectations.
She clucked her tongue. "She hasn't eaten, sir. Again."
"I'm not hungry," Elena said.
"Nonsense," her mother replied, glancing at her husband. "We cannot have her fainting in public. It would look rehearsed."
Elena didn't roll her eyes-but only because she'd been taught early on that it creased the skin.
Somewhere downstairs, a bell rang-the third time that morning. In a house like this, time didn't pass; it announced itself.
"Elena, the car is ready," said her father. "Julian's waiting."
Ah yes-Julian, the driver, square-faced and mild-mannered, whose sole passion in life appeared to be polishing the car mirrors and pretending not to hear the family's arguments. If ever a man was built to drive others through traffic and turmoil alike, it was Julian.
"I trust you remember the plan?" her father continued.
"Go to the gallery, smile at Miguel Flores, pretend to know what cubism is," Elena recited, already stepping toward the door.
"And do not vanish," her mother added. "Not like last time with the protest rally and that awful bookstore."
"I assure you, Mama," Elena said, lifting her chin with what dignity she had left, "no bookstores today."
Which was a lie.
A beautiful, well-dressed lie.
Because somewhere across Manila, Adrian Blake-the man whose writing once made her cry into her afternoon tea-was signing books for the public.
And she had no intention of missing him.
Not even if it meant running from her family, her name, and the fourteen clocks that ticked around her like prison bars.
The De Vera estate was built like a museum, and like all museums, it was better admired from the outside. Elena had studied its exits the way a schoolboy might study the map to buried treasure-except her treasure was a book signing, and the dragons were her parents.
She glided down the marble steps with the composure of a girl raised to be paraded. At her side, Nanny Liling hovered protectively, dabbing a nonexistent stain from Elena's glove as they reached the foyer.
"My dear," Nanny Liling whispered, tugging discreetly on her sleeve. "If you must run away today, please be careful. And don't climb the back fence again. The roses haven't recovered from last time."
Elena gave her an innocent look. "Run away? I'm simply going to gaze at post-modern brushstrokes with Mama's preferred future son-in-law."
Nanny Liling snorted in the only way a well-trained nanny can: politely.
Julian, the driver, stood outside the front door, tall and unmoving, like a bored statue in a barong. He opened the car door with a nod.
"Miss."
"Julian," she greeted, smoothing the folds of her gown and stepping into the backseat with all the grace expected of a De Vera. But as the door shut and the tinted world enveloped her, she exhaled, removing a tiny clip from her hair.
Inside the bun, folded with perfect symmetry, was a slim sheet of paper. A fake invitation to a "Youth Philanthropy Panel" at the Manila Bay Cultural Pavilion. Untraceable. Entirely fabricated.
Julian started the engine.
"Gallery in Makati?" he asked, shifting into gear.
"No," Elena replied, leaning forward. "New drop. We're taking the scenic route today."
Julian hesitated. He was not a man of many expressions, but his eyebrows twitched.
"Elena-"
"I'll tip you extra."
"You don't pay me."
"I'll write your name in my will."
A sigh. "Where to?"
"The old church on Remedios Street. Near the fountain. You can drop me there. I'll take it from there."
Julian stared at her in the rearview mirror for a long moment. Then he turned the car left instead of right, away from Makati's smooth galleries and toward the tangled arteries of old Manila.
The gown was stifling. Every inch of lace itched like it held a grudge.
Reaching into her clutch, Elena pulled out a black jacket-light but structured-and wrapped it over the bodice. Then came the final piece: a pair of glasses and a hat she just happened to lay her hands on while she was snooping through Julian's car.
From gown to girl-on-a-mission in sixty seconds.
As they pulled into the fringes of Ermita, the scenery began to shift. Steel and glass gave way to iron balconies and tangled electrical wires. Street vendors called out in rhythm, the air a heady mix of fried bananas, old smoke, and city dust. It was louder, less rehearsed-and Elena felt her heartbeat catch with something close to joy.
Julian slowed beside the stone walls of a centuries-old chapel. The fountain gurgled nearby, its water moss-stained but still romantic. Church bells clanged in the distance-less precise than the ones at home, but more honest.
"Will you be alright?" he asked, not turning around.
"I always am," Elena said, fixing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"And if your parents ask-?"
"You dropped me at the gallery, I posed beside a painting of something incomprehensible, and I looked expensive doing it."
A pause.
Then, with something suspiciously like a smirk, Julian nodded. "Godspeed, Miss."
Elena stepped out onto the cobbled path. The air was warm. Somewhere in a plaza not far from here, Adrian Blake was signing books, entirely unaware that a girl in a borrowed dress and borrowed name was coming to meet him.
But if fate was kind-and she rarely was-he'd know her soon enough.
The bookstore was smaller than she imagined. No grand hall, no velvet ropes, no security with earpieces. Just warm yellow lighting, creaking floorboards, and a long snaking line of readers buzzing with chatter and coffee breath.
Elena stood at the entrance, blinking like a dazed deer. Her eyes caught the poster taped haphazardly to the glass door:
"Adrian Blake - Scoundrel Book Tour: One Day Only!"
The font was bold. The laminate was peeling.
She stepped inside and was immediately hit by the mingled scent of overbrewed espresso and body heat. Dozens of fans were already queued up, many cradling dog-eared copies of Scoundrel, some dressed in cosplay - a girl with a feathered cape, a guy with a plastic sword slung across his back. Elena instinctively touched her pearl earrings, as if they could protect her.
Her heels clacked awkwardly on the wooden floor. She tried to find where the line began, only to be corrected by a polite but firm teenager wearing a lanyard:
"Sorry, miss - the end of the line's back near the cookbooks."
She nodded, gave a demure "thank you," and began the slow, humiliating shuffle past fans who had clearly camped hours earlier. A few looked up at her with suspicious eyes, as if she might cut the line with noble entitlement. She didn't dare.
The air was stuffy. Her silk blouse - carefully chosen for its understated elegance - clung to her back like wet tissue. She dabbed at her forehead with a tissue and flinched as someone behind her spritzed a heavy floral perfume. She sneezed. Loudly. Twice.
"Bless you," mumbled someone ahead.
"Sorry," she murmured.
And then, of course, the line moved while she was mid-sneeze. Two people slipped into the gap before she could reclaim her spot. She opened her mouth to protest, but they were already turned away, chatting animatedly about whether Lysander's betrayal in Chapter 34 was justified.
She exhaled sharply. Not the moment.
Minutes passed. Her hair frizzed more with each one. Her foundation had given up somewhere between the self-help section and poetry. She fished through her purse for a compact mirror and accidentally dropped her pen - the one she brought for the signing - only to see it roll beneath a bookshelf.
No VIP seating. No early access. No assistant holding her bag.
Just her, elbow-to-elbow with Manila's bookworms, sweating through her debutante training and praying no one recognized her from a society page.
She glanced at the clock. Almost time.
Somewhere, behind the shelves and makeshift signing table, Adrian Blake was arriving.
She tightened her grip on her copy of Scoundrel.
Next stop: him.
By the time she reached the front of the line, Elena's blouse was a patchwork of sweat and frizz-induced regret. Her fingers cramped slightly around her copy of Scoundrel, the well-worn corners pressed into her palm like rosary beads. She wasn't sure if she was more excited or about to faint. Possibly both.
"Next!" barked a brisk, bespectacled assistant at the table, her voice sharp enough to cut fruit.
Elena stepped forward.
And there he was.
Adrian Blake. In the flesh.
He sat behind the table like it was a stage and he, the aging prince of it all. Mid-fifties, maybe early sixties, though it was the sort of age that wore distinction, not decay. His hair was thick and swept back, streaked with silver like old candle wax left too close to sun. Round spectacles perched low on a slightly crooked nose. His green eyes were clever and distant all at once, the kind of eyes that looked at you and through you at the same time. A charcoal blazer, ink-stained cuffs, leather bracelets on one wrist.
He looked... tired. Not in the obvious way. Not bags-under-the-eyes, but something quieter - like the weariness of someone who had just finished running through a dream and hadn't yet decided whether he made it out or not.
Elena cleared her throat. She didn't trust her voice.
He glanced up, then down at her book. Took it gently. Opened it. Pen poised.
"To whom shall I-?"
"Elena," she said, too quickly. "De Vera."
His pen hovered. Then scratched softly.
To Elena -
He paused again.
"I just wanted to say," she added suddenly, words tumbling, "The line Lysander says to Delphine - about not trusting shadows because they're cast by light - that changed everything. I still think about that."
He looked up. Slowly. Eyes catching hers like they'd stumbled upon something... familiar.
A brief flicker - not recognition, not quite - but something near it. A narrowing of his gaze. A brief softening.
"You remind me of someone," he said, quiet enough that only she could hear it.
"Who?" she asked, leaning in slightly.
His smile curved gently, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Someone who asked too many questions."
She opened her mouth to speak again - but the assistant stepped in.
"Mr. Blake, you're needed at the hotel. They've sent the car."
"Just a moment-"
"They said ten minutes ago."
He looked back at Elena, an apology in his gaze now.
"I'm sorry, my dear. The world spins faster than I do these days."
He handed her back the book - now signed. Their fingers touched for the briefest moment. Warm. Callused. Human.
Then he was up, walking off with the assistant flanking him like a shadow. The door swung shut behind him.
She looked down at her book.
To Elena -
May you never fear the dark.
Adrian Blake
She swallowed.
"Who," she whispered to herself, "was I just reminded of?"
Elena stood there long after he'd gone, the crowd behind her beginning to reform, another round of signing scheduled for the evening. She clutched her signed book like it might vanish if she blinked too hard.
Then she saw it.