PLARIDEL BUSINESS Club remained a shrouded mystery. No companies under its name. No clear leaders. Just a private non-profit of doctors, lawyers, accountants, media tech experts, and a handful of small-time business owners. A perfect façade. Stranger still, it had been established only five years ago.
So Cynthia Ang tread more carefully.
Her pride had bristled when Prof. Frias refused to use that girl, but she wasn't a fool. That was why she sat now in the villa of the Borza clan—the family that ruled the Chamber.
A maid entered with a tray, setting it on the table.
Cynthia eyed the handleless glass cup, water brimming with minted tea. The heat pricked her fingers as she forced herself to hold it. Steam curled, dampening her palm with sweat. She raised it just enough to touch her lips, then set it down.
Across from her sat the man representing Borza. Dark green suit. An executive director, simply called Bourbon.
"Plaridel is a front," Cynthia said firmly.
Bourbon smiled faintly, sipping.
"Every institution is a front, Madam."
He placed the cup back.
"If this is about Plaridel's leadership, the young heir of the Arsenio clan is part of it. Let's just say… Arsenio is active now. And Borza will not destroy that alliance."
Cynthia's eyes widened. Arsenio? Another of the six great clans.
"The Chamber will forget this impulsiveness. It owes the Angs gratitude. But no next time, Madam. Forget Plaridel."
His voice was calm, but steely.
"We've assigned another student to take the exam. No failures this time. But—" He let it hang. "Get rid of Frias. Soon."
He sipped again.
"Please, drink more."
Cynthia pressed her nails into her palm, hand trembling against the hot cup.
"Yes, thank you," she said, forcing a thin smile.
Later, as Madam Cynthia's car rolled from the villa, a curtain on the second floor lifted. Bourbon stood there. Behind him, another curtain concealed a lit lamp casting the silhouette of a wheelchair and a broad man seated in it.
"Why did you say it was the Arsenio clan?" the man asked.
"My best bet," Bourbon murmured. "But who knows? Our alliance with Arsenio is delicate. They may be testing us. Besides, there's evidence enough they're part of Plaridel."
The man said no more.
...
IYANA READ the news: Prof. Frias found dead in his cell. Suicide, they said. Overdose pills. A story staged to look like guilt had suddenly crushed him—a man who saw the light, wept, and could no longer bear it.
It trended online for a while. Then it didn't.
Twenty years of teaching erased, as if good things never counted.
Iyana accepted it—not because he deserved it, but because she had accepted life as it was. Back in the province, people died over almost anything. A quarrel over five pennies. A child in the river. Her late grandfather used to say people died because they drowned in soup, or simply forgot to breathe.
Her heart ached at the memory of him.
But Frias hadn't simply forgotten to breathe. The Angs may have killed him. Her lips curved. No wonder people cowered before the Chamber.
A week passed. Then came the rumors.
And one thing about rumors: they forced people to take sides. Believe or not believe—it was always the same. Like soap at a store. The chemicals didn't matter. What mattered was the packaging, the model's smile, the bold letters, the seal of some fake health association. People bought not because they believed, but because they wanted to.
In this case, she wasn't selling soap. She was the soap. Not in a box, but as a love affair so far-fetched it sounded like a soap opera.
On campus, silence. Online, the noise was everywhere. Threads and posts that treated her like sport.
The headline: Pretty Girl Turned Out to Be a Fake Top Student Who Had a Relationship With a Scandalous Professor.
She never read the comments.
Solen did, and fought them.
Days later, after class, the class president, Anya Gaia Seryu, approached, frowning.
"Iyana, this rumor is damaging the department's reputation. Aren't you going to do anything?"
Iyana gave a wry smile. Anya never liked her.
"No one will believe me if I defend myself. But if you defend me, that might change things."
"What's that got to do with me?" Anya snapped. "Arrogant, isn't it?"
"The point is, if it bothers you that much, then defend me."
Anya scoffed.
"You call that a solution—making me involved?"
Iyana shrugged faintly.
"You're the class president."
That stunned Anya. She laughed coldly.
"So you think you know my job? Actually, I do. We've decided not to include you in the retreat this Sunday. We don't want negative energy there."
Iyana deepened her smile. The seniors' retreat—to the steel factory city up north. She never cared for steel.
"Good. More time for my paper," she said, and walked away.
In the hallway, she spotted Lyron among his friends. She veered into another corridor.
She was starting to hate it all.
Hate it so much.
Students on benches looked her up and down. But they only looked. Because in the College of Science & Engineering, they all knew—even with surprise exams—she would still come out on top.