The heavy, velvet curtains of the Royal Suite in the Grand Imperial Hotel did more than just block out the sun; they muffled the very existence of the world outside.
For Jake, they were the fabric walls of a tomb. At twenty-five, his life was a meticulously curated series of ribbon-cuttings, diplomatic nods, and a future marriage alliance that felt more like a merger than a romance. His reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror showed a man dressed in a suit that cost more than a small car, yet his eyes held the hollow exhaustion of a prisoner.
"Your Highness, the motorcade is ready for the gala," a voice called through the door. It was his lead equerry, a man whose job was essentially to be Jake's shadow.
Jake didn't answer. Instead, he gripped the handle of a nondescript black duffel bag stuffed with a few changes of clothes, a burner phone, and a passport that didn't bear his royal title.
This was it. The culmination of months of secret correspondence with Kian Sandoval, a Filipino businessman he'd met at a global summit two years prior. Kian was the only person who hadn't looked at Jake with awe or greed, but with the weary camaraderie of someone who also understood the weight of a family legacy.
Jake moved with a sudden, frantic grace. He slipped out of the service entrance, a route he'd spent weeks memorizing from architectural blueprints. The humid air of the city hit him like a physical blow, a stark contrast to the sterilized, recycled air of the palace. By the time the equerry realized the room was empty, Jake was already in the back of a nondescript taxi, heading toward a life he hadn't yet earned.
The flight to the Philippines was a blur of anxiety and adrenaline. He watched the clouds through the small oval window, wondering if his father, the King, had already deployed the intelligence services. But Kian had been thorough. The paper trail ended at a small Mediterranean port; no one expected the Prince to fly commercial to Southeast Asia.
When the plane touched down at Ninoy Aquino International Airport, the heat was the first thing Jake noticed. It was thick, fragrant with the scent of jet fuel and sea salt, and utterly unapologetic. He walked through the terminal, feeling exposed. He was a man who had never stood in a line, never carried his own luggage, and certainly never navigated a crowd without a phalanx of security.
Every bump of a shoulder made him flinch; every loud shout from a vendor made his heart hammer against his ribs.
He pulled out the burner phone. A single message sat there from Kian: "Can't make it to the airport. Emergency meeting with the board. Sending my boy Markus to grab you. Black SUV, Plate # JKM-888. Don't be a diva, he's had a long day."
Jake swallowed hard. He didn't know who "Markus" was, but he hoped the man was discreet. He stepped out into the arrival bay, the chaotic energy of Manila swirling around him. Jeepneys roared past, their chrome bodies gleaming, and the air hummed with a language he didn't understand. He felt small—deliciously, terrifyingly small.
On the other side of the glass, leaning against the hood of a sleek, black SUV, Markus checked his watch and cursed under his breath. He hated the airport. The noise reminded him of the deafening roar of the underground fighting pits, and the crowds reminded him of the suffocating proximity of a prison cell.
At twenty-six, Markus carried himself with the lethal stillness of a predator trying to pass as a civilian. He wore a simple black t-shirt that strained against his shoulders, a testament to the years he'd spent training to survive. His knuckles were scarred, the skin thickened from hitting things harder than himself.
Three years ago, he'd been a rising star in the underground circuit until a politician's greed turned his life into a nightmare. He'd refused to dive in a high-stakes match, and the "punishment" was a framed charge that took three years of his youth.
Now, he was a millionaire. With his father's initial capital and his own relentless, almost desperate drive, he'd built a logistics empire. He didn't need to do favors for Kian Sandoval, but Kian was one of the few people who hadn't looked down on him when he'd walked out of the prison gates with nothing but a trash bag of belongings.
"Where is this guy?" Markus muttered. Kian had described the guest as a 'delicate' friend from overseas who needed "special handling." Markus expected a pampered trust-fund brat.
Then, he saw him.
A blonde man stepped into the sun, looking like he'd been dropped from a different planet. He was pale, his features so symmetrical and fine they looked sculpted from porcelain. He was clutching a bag as if it contained his internal organs, and his eyes—wide and startled—darted around the terminal like a trapped bird.
Markus straightened up. He didn't know the guy was a Prince—Kian had kept that part out for security reasons—but he knew "expensive" when he saw it. The guy looked like he'd never seen a sidewalk before.
"You the one Kian's babysitting?" Markus's voice was a low, gravelly rasp that cut through the noise of the traffic.
The blonde man jumped, nearly dropping his bag. He looked up at Markus, and for a second, their eyes locked. Jake saw a man who looked like he'd been carved out of granite—dark, brooding, and dangerously handsome in a way that made Jake's stomach do a strange, uncomfortable flip. Markus, meanwhile, saw a man who looked like he'd never done a day's work in his life.
"I... I am Jake," the Prince said, his accent refined and hesitant.
Markus let out a short, dry laugh, his lips curling into a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Right. Well, 'Jake,' let's get you out of the sun before you melt. You look like you've never washed a plate in your life."
Jake bristled, his royal pride stinging. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"Sure you are," Markus said, grabbing the duffel bag from Jake's hand before the Prince could protest. "That's why you're standing in the middle of a loading zone looking like you're about to cry."
He tossed the bag into the back seat and gestured for Jake to get in. As Jake slid into the cool, leather interior of the SUV, he felt a strange sensation. For the first time, someone had looked at him and seen a nuisance rather than a title. It was insulting. It was rude. And to Jake's utter confusion, it was the most refreshing thing he'd ever experienced.