Manila in 1896 was a city of whispers. You could hear them beneath the clip-clop of horse-drawn kalesas rolling down the dusty streets, behind the forced laughter at Spanish social clubs, and in the silent, resentful glances of Filipino servants as they poured wine for their masters. It was a world of stark, unforgiving lines: between the powerful and the powerless, the colonizer and the colonized. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the scent of sampaguita blossoms, salt from the harbor, and the constant, unspoken tension of a people straining under the boot of an empire that had been here for over three hundred years.
And my family, the Villa-Reals, lived precariously on the line itself. We were ilustrados—educated, wealthy, and privileged enough to be tolerated by the Spanish elite, but never truly considered one of them. Our blood was a mix they found convenient but contemptible. My father's Filipino ancestry was the reason a Spanish governor would never let his daughter marry my brother, no matter how rich we were. We were useful, but we would always be outsiders.
My name is Ines Alvaro de Villa-Real. Outwardly, I am the picture of that privileged life. But inside, I am screaming. Because I remember another world. A world of skyscrapers and instant communication, where a woman could build an empire with her own two hands. A world I left behind when I died, only to wake up here, in the body of a child, with all the memories of a woman named Sol intact.
The morning sun streamed through the intricate capiz shell windows of the breakfast room, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the polished silver service. I pushed a piece of sweet mango around my fine china plate, my stomach in knots. The opulence felt like a betrayal.
Note to self: reincarnation is vastly overrated. Especially when you're served frustration for breakfast instead of coffee. Real coffee.
"You are not eating, Ines," my mother, Doña Clara, observed. Her voice was like the chime of a delicate bell, perfectly modulated. She was a vision in her morning dress of pale blue linen, every dark hair swept into an impeccable chignon. She was the epitome of the life she had mastered. "You must keep your strength. The fittings for your presentation gown will be long and tedious. The French modiste has finally arrived from Paris with the most exquisite lace, but the woman is a tyrant with the pins. A true artist, but a tyrant."
"Yes, Mama," I said, my voice barely a whisper. My mind wasn't on lace or pins. It was on the ledger books in my father's study, on the numbers that never seemed to add up for the farmers who grew the sugar that paid for all this… this lace.
Priorities, Mama. Some of us are worried about economic exploitation. Others about pin-related injuries. It's a real divide.
"Think of it, mija," she pressed, her eyes sparkling with a vision I couldn't share. She reached across the table, her hand soft and perfumed. "The Governor-General himself will be there. All the best families—the De Santoses, the Castillos, the Alonzos. This is your moment to shine. To secure your future." Her meaning was clear. My future, in her eyes, was a wealthy Spanish husband who would elevate our family's status. A life of parties, children, and managing a large household. A beautiful, gilded cage, just like the one she inhabited.
Ah, yes. The future. Also known as 'Project: Find a Husband Who Won't Mind That I Occasionally Solve His Business Problems While Disguised as a Boy'.
"Clara, let the girl breathe," my father, Don Rafael, said from behind his newspaper, El Comercio. He lowered it, his sharp, intelligent eyes meeting mine over the rim. His face was weathered from a life spent managing our vast sugar haciendas and navigating the treacherous, duplicitous waters of colonial politics. He was a man of quiet intensity who valued substance over show. "She is thinking. A rare and dangerous pastime for a woman in this city, I know."
My mother let out a delicate, exasperated sigh. "Rafael, por favor, do not encourage her. No man of good standing wants a wife who thinks too much. They want a jewel. Beautiful, polished, and quiet." She said it not with malice, but with a firm, unshakable belief that this was simply the way of the world, the unbreakable rule of survival and advancement in our society.
"Perhaps," Father said, a cryptic smile playing on his lips as he folded his paper and set it aside. "But sometimes a jewel with a sharp, unseen edge is the most valuable one in the vault. Ines, I will need you in my study in an hour. The accounts from our Pampanga hacienda are a disaster. That fool Mendoza cannot add two numbers together without creating a third, fictional number."
My mother pressed her lips into a thin line. "Rafael, it is unseemly. A young lady on the eve of her presentation should not be bothered with such… vulgar things. She should be focusing on her poetry and her embroidery."
Poetry? I'm more likely to write an angry manifesto about the price of sugar. With charts.
"And yet," he replied, his voice taking on a tone of finality that even my mother wouldn't challenge, "she has a better head for numbers and logistics than Señor Mendoza will ever have. One hour, Ines. Do not be late."
This was the daily dance. My mother, clinging to the strict social codes that gave her status and security in a world designed to keep her in her place. My father, a pragmatist who valued intelligence above all else, even in a daughter, and was willing to bend the rules to use it.
An hour later, I entered his study. The air here was different—serious, masculine, smelling of rich leather, cigar smoke, and old paper. It was the air of business and real power.
Ah, the old 'man-scent'. Smells like… problems I can actually solve.
"Close the door," he said without looking up from a document. I did, leaning against the heavy, dark wood for a moment, savoring the silence.
"The new abaca export taxes," he began, tossing the paper down on the desk in a gesture of pure frustration. "It is robbery. They are trying to bleed us dry in Madrid. The local growers will starve, their families will suffer, and the fat officials in their comfortable offices will get richer. It is infuriating."
I walked to the smaller desk in the corner. On it lay a stack of leather-bound ledgers and a neatly folded, simple, masculine set of clothes—trousers, a white cotton shirt, a vest.
Time for the daily transformation. Wonder Woman has nothing on me. All she does is spin. I have to change my entire social class.
"We could propose a compromise," I said, my voice already changing, becoming lower, more measured and direct. I began to carefully unpin my hair.
"Oh?" Father leaned back in his large leather chair, steepling his fingers. He watched me, not with judgment, but with a quiet fascination. This was part of our ritual. "And what brilliant solution does my secretary have today?"
"The friars are worried about hunger causing rebellion in the provinces. The officials in Madrid simply want money. So, we propose using a part of the new tax revenue to improve the port facilities here in Manila." I shook my hair out, letting it fall down my back, and started buttoning the stiff cotton shirt. "The officials get their modern port, which makes trade more efficient and makes them look good. The Church sees a project that provides jobs and keeps the peace. It's not a rejection, it's a negotiation. It makes them feel in control while giving them something they want. They'll like that."
I tucked my hair under the cap and looked up. The transformation was complete. I was no longer Ines, the debutante. I was Iñigo, my father's secretary. A clever, unassuming young mestizo whose opinions could be voiced in this room without shocking anyone.
My father's stern face broke into a rare, genuine smile. "They'll like that," he repeated, a clear note of pride in his voice. "Draft the letter. Make the argument persuasive but humble. You have a way with words… Iñigo."
I sat down, pulling the heavy ledger toward me. For a few precious hours, I could breathe. I could think. I could be useful. This was my second secret. The first was my past life as Sol, a knowledge I kept locked tight in my heart. The second was Iñigo, the boy who gave my modern mind a voice in this ancient world.
As my pen began to scratch across the expensive paper, I allowed myself a small, secret smile. My mother thought my future was a husband. My father thought it was as his hidden advisor.
Little do they know, I thought, my fingers brushing the hidden lump of my locket under the rough cotton shirt. I'm aiming for 'ghost in the machine'.