I woke up in a place that was utterly foreign. My gaze swept the room, searching for some anchor of familiarity, some hidden detail I might have overlooked, but my brow only furrowed deeper as the truth settled in: I had no idea where I was.
I stood and approached the floor-to-ceiling window beside the bed. As I drew back the heavy velvet curtains, a gasp escaped my lips. I was high up—soaring within the glass skin of a skyscraper.
Where am I?
I retreated to the edge of the bed, dropping my head into my hands, elbows propped against my knees. Had I been that exhausted last night? Had I blacked out? My memory was a void, a blank canvas where the journey to this room should have been. And whose room was this? It was far too opulent, too curated, to belong to someone like me.
Determined to find a clue, I began to pace the suite. On the nightstand, a silver picture frame caught the light. I froze. It was my face—but not a version of myself I recognized. The girl in the photo wore a wide, radiant grin, a look of sheer, unburdened confidence I had never once felt. Her clothes were designer brand; her hair swept into a sophisticated low bun.
Is... is this really me?
The sudden, rhythmic trill of a phone startled me. A sleek, high-end smartphone sat on the silk duvet.
Felisse calling...
The name meant nothing to me. Should I answer? If this place didn't belong to me, neither did the phone. Perhaps it belonged to the owner—the person I was inadvertently trespassing on.
I ventured out of the bedroom and realized I was in a sprawling, ultra-luxurious penthouse. I wandered through the open-concept space, clutching the black phone that refused to stop ringing. Suddenly, the heavy front door swung open.
A woman stepped inside. She had flawless, porcelain skin and chestnut hair styled into tight, perfect curls that bounced at her shoulders. Her outfit screamed "Old Money"—a tailored ensemble that wore its brand like a coat of arms.
Prada.
I recognized the label. It was the kind of thing Sage and the others would window-shop for when we ventured into the city.
"P-please, I'm sorry," I stammered, backing toward the door. "I don't know how I got here." My heart hammered against my ribs; I had visions of her calling the police, of me being hauled away for a crime I couldn't explain.
What would happen to my scholarship? My dreams? My parents? They had no one else to lean on.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Serafina! Why haven't you been answering my calls?" The woman sighed in exasperation, tossing her bag onto the marble coffee table and collapsing onto the sofa. "And where exactly do you think you're going? You're talking nonsense."
She knew me. Was this a trap? Had someone tipped her off?
Then it clicked: this was Felisse.
"Are... are you here to arrest me? I haven't done anything—"
She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow and stood back up, scanning me from head to toe with a look of pure bewilderment.
"What on earth are you talking about, Serafina Ensley Dela Merced? Did you have too much to drink last night? You're even wearing the same clothes!" She massaged her temples, pointing at my reflection.
I looked down. I was wearing a shimmering red cocktail dress, the kind that caught the light with every movement. One of the delicate spaghetti straps had slipped down my shoulder. I caught a glimpse of a label: LV.
What had she said? That we had been at a bar? I had never set foot in a club in my life. But the most jarring part was that she spoke to me with the intimacy of a lifelong friend.
"I'm sorry, miss, but... I've never been to a bar in my entire life."
"Stop joking, Ensley. You're practically the queen of the nightlife! That's why you own the most exclusive bar in BGC!"
I owned a business? Since when? I knew how to brew milk tea and balance a scholarship budget, not manage a high-end lounge.
Overwhelmed, I drifted toward the kitchen. "May I... may I have some water?" I asked, my voice small. I felt like I was on the verge of a total psychological collapse.
"Go ahead! It's your kitchen, why are you asking me?"
So, it was all mine. Every polished surface, every piece of designer furniture. But how? My mind was a storm of questions, and I turned back to her, taking a steadying breath.
"What... what brings you here today?" I asked, trying to steady my voice as I sat on the edge of the sofa opposite her.
"Are you finally sober?" she asked, not waiting for an answer. "Anyway, we're meeting Penelope and Stacey. They want a private session at your bar later. Stacey just got back from her mother's place in the States—she says her throat is parched from all that dry California air!"
I nodded blankly, the names Penelope and Stacey floating past me like ghosts.
xxx
By the time Felisse and I arrived at the bar, the sun had begun to dip, though my sense of time was completely warped. The establishment was called The Rebel.
"Good afternoon, Ma'am!" a young man greeted me, pausing his task of polishing the mahogany tables.
I gave him a tentative smile and a nod, following Felisse up a sweeping staircase. She slid open a heavy glass door, leading us into a sanctuary of leather and low lighting. This was clearly the VIP lounge.
"Girl! Finally!" a handsome man cried out. His movements were flamboyant, his energy infectious. "I am bone-dry! Water alone cannot fix this!"
"He's been fuming all afternoon," Penelope remarked. She was a striking woman with long, bone-straight black hair. "I think he's planning to empty your entire cellar, Ensley."
They both greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. I gathered that the man was Stacey—or rather, a very vibrant version of the name—and the poised woman was Penelope.
"I'll have the staff close the doors to the public tonight," I heard myself say. "We'll have our private party."
Felisse and Stacey erupted into cheers, dancing in the middle of the room despite the lack of music. I sat beside Penelope, who watched them with a knowing smirk. Through our conversation, I pieced together their lives: Felisse owned a high-end salon, Penelope was a high-flying CPA, and Stacey was a flight attendant. They were beautiful, successful, and apparently, my best friends.
I played my part as best I could, offering vague answers whenever they pressed me for details about my life. I felt like an actress who had missed rehearsals for the lead role.
xxx
Later, after Stacey and Penelope had departed to prepare for the evening, Felisse dropped me back at my building.
"I still don't get why you refuse to drive, Ensley. You have a BMW sitting right there!" she teased, gesturing to a sleek, black silhouette in the parking garage.
A BMW. Another piece of a life I didn't remember building.
"I'm just... not in the right headspace to drive," I muttered.
She walked me to the elevator, bid me a cheerful goodbye, and left. I stepped into the lift, feeling the weight of a dozen eyes on me. I thought they were looking at me, but the hushed whispers told a different story.
"OMG! Is that Perseus?"
I looked at the mirrored doors of the elevator. Standing behind me was a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite. He was watching my reflection with a dark, intense gaze.
Perseus? I remember that name, that is the name from the book that my friends, which not only them, but all of the teenage to adult population has been obsessed over. Maybe I am just thinking too much tonight.
"Can I have a peaceful lift? Thank you," the man said, his voice a deep, irritated rumble. The two girls who had been whispering immediately withered, bowing their heads in shame.
When the doors opened, they practically bolted.
"Which floor?" the man asked, his eyes locking onto mine. My heart skipped a beat. He looked like he was reading my very soul, searching for the crack in my facade.
"The... the 40th," I managed to say.
He nodded and pressed the button. The silence between us was heavy, suffocating. Before we reached my floor, the doors opened again.
"If it isn't Perseus Villamor!" a man in his early twenties shouted, grinning as he stepped in and threw an arm around the brooding man's shoulders.
Perseus Villamor. The protagonist of the novel. It couldn't be a coincidence.
"Drop it, Kiefer. I just got off work," Perseus muttered, rubbing his temples.
"Why? Did you have a rough court hearing today?" Kiefer asked, then turned his gaze to me, winking at my reflection.
I didn't smile back. I kept my expression as cold and empty as the marble floors.
"No, I was at the firm."
The elevator chimed. My floor.
"Wait, hold on, miss," Kiefer said, hitting the door-hold button. "You look familiar. What's your name?"
I arched an eyebrow and turned to face them. I could feel Perseus's gaze burning into me from behind his friend.
"Serafina Dela Merced," I said, my voice steady despite the riot in my chest. I didn't offer my hand.
"Oh! The owner of The Rebel! The hottest spot in BGC!" Kiefer snapped his fingers and extended his hand.
I took it briefly, nodding. A sharp exhale came from Perseus; he was clearly losing patience with the delay.
"Well, I should go," I said, stepping back and giving a small, polite nod before retreating to my unit.
Once inside, I lunged for my bag and pulled out the phone. I had to call my parents. I had to call Sage. I had to find a way back to the world where I was a poor scholar, not a socialite bar owner.
I dialed Sage's number. The number you have dialed does not exist.
I tried my parents. Invalid number.
"What the...?" I gripped my hair, pacing the living room. How was this possible?
A few hours passed in a blur of panic and confusion until the doorbell rang. I froze. Was it the "real" Serafina? Or the police?
It was Felisse, already changed into a new outfit. She burst in, scolding me for not being ready. Apparently, I was always the first one dressed for a party. In this world, I was a social butterfly—the polar opposite of the girl who preferred libraries to lounges.
She pushed me into the bathroom and then into a walk-in closet the size of my old bedroom. She handed me a black dress, sat me down, and began applying my makeup and blowing out my hair. She kept asking why I was acting so strange, but I remained silent.
When we finally left the penthouse, I was shocked to see it was night. I had only been sitting on the sofa for an hour—it was 4:00 PM when I last checked. Now, my gold watch read 8:00 PM. Time was moving differently here.
xxx
The Rebel was pulsing with life. I was greeted by dozens of people I didn't know, answering every "How are you?" with a practiced, "I'm fine." It felt like the safest lie.
We found Penelope and Stacey at a corner table.
"Thank God for my best friend the bar owner!" Stacey laughed, waving a cocktail glass.
I sat down, sipping a golden, bubbly drink. My silence was only broken when Stacey nudged me hard, pointing toward the entrance. A man walked in, wearing a white long-sleeved polo with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked clean, sharp, and dangerously handsome.
"There he is! Perseus! I heard you two live in the same building, Serafina!"
"Yes," I said quietly, taking a sip of my drink. "We shared an elevator earlier."
"Did he make a move? I know you've had a crush on him forever!" Stacey squealed.
I choked slightly on my drink. Me? Crush on a man like that? He was too high, too distant. Even in this world where I had money, he felt like a different species.
"Crush? No, not at all," I denied.
The table went silent. They looked at me as if I'd just grown a second head.
"Really? You're over him? Is there someone else?" Felisse leaned in, searching my face.
You idiot, Ensley, I thought. They're asking their friend, not you. You should have just said yes.
"Oh, leave her alone," Penelope said calmly, winking at me. "She's only human. Everyone gets bored eventually."
The conversation shifted, but soon Stacey was waving the men over. Kiefer and Perseus approached our table. I kept my head down, staring at the bubbles in my glass, trying to hide the fact that my hands were trembling.
Kiefer began telling them about our encounter in the elevator, calling me "snobbish." Perseus stepped forward, looming over me. I had no choice but to look up. His height was intimidating, but it was the mole near his left eye and the sheer gravity of his gaze that trapped me.
"Atty. Perseus Matheo Villamor," he said, his voice a low, silken baritone.
Kiefer and the girls cheered and teased, but Perseus didn't look away. He extended a large, calloused hand toward me, waiting. His jaw tightened as the seconds stretched on. He looked annoyed, his lips pressing into a thin line.
I didn't smile. I didn't blush. I simply looked at his hand, then back at his eyes.
"Serafina," I said shortly, meeting his gaze with a coldness that matched his own. I didn't take his hand.