The air inside the Watson mansion didn't just feel cold; it felt sterile, as if the very oxygen had been filtered through several layers of wealth and expectation before it reached Jayjay's lungs. It was 6:00 PM, the hour when the Manila sun began its slow, bruised descent into the bay, casting long, jagged shadows across the Carrara marble floors of the grand foyer.
Jayjay stood at the top of the winding staircase, her hand resting lightly on the cold wrought-iron railing. She was dressed in a simple, high-necked silk blouse and tailored trousers—the "Watson Uniform," as she silently called it. Since moving in with Keifer, she had learned that elegance wasn't just a choice; it was a survival tactic.
Below her, the house staff moved like ghosts—silent, efficient, and entirely invisible unless summoned. They were preparing the dining hall for a dinner that would likely be silent, save for the clinking of heavy silver against fine bone china.
"You're overthinking again."
The voice was low, a rich baritone that vibrated through the floorboards before she even heard it with her ears. Jayjay didn't need to turn around to know Keifer was behind her. She could smell him—the scent of sandalwood, expensive ink, and the crisp, ozone smell of the outdoors that always clung to his tailored blazers.
Keifer stepped into her space, his presence an overwhelming force that seemed to pull the very air out of the room. He didn't touch her yet. He stood just close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"The board meeting went long," he murmured, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. "I saw your car arrive at 4:30. Why haven't you started your prep for the mock exams?"
Jayjay turned slowly, meeting his gaze. Keifer's eyes were like molten gold behind his thin-rimmed glasses—sharp, predatory, and devastatingly intelligent.
"I was reading," Jayjay replied, her voice steady despite the way her heart hammered against her ribs. "And I was thinking about the gap."
Keifer's expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed. "The 1.9% gap."
"It feels bigger than 1.9, Keifer. When I'm in this house, when I see how you operate, how you breathe in these complex theories like they're nothing... that gap feels like a canyon. I feel like if I don't close it, I'm going to fall in."
Keifer finally reached out. His fingers were long and calloused, tracing the line of her jaw with a reverence that felt almost painful. "You think these grades make you my equal? Jay, I didn't bring you here to be a student. I brought you here to be a Queen. But if the 1.9% is what haunts you, then we solve it. We don't sleep until it's gone."
The Midnight Siege
By 11:00 PM, the mansion had settled into a heavy, oppressive silence. In the grand library—a room filled with thousands of leather-bound books that smelled of history and dust—Jayjay sat at a massive mahogany desk. A single green-shaded lamp illuminated her workspace, leaving the rest of the room in cavernous shadow.
Her eyes were burning. She had been staring at Advanced Macroeconomics for five hours. Beside her, a stack of handwritten notes had grown into a small mountain.
Keifer sat opposite her. He wasn't studying; he was working. He was reviewing the Watson Empire's quarterly logistics, his pen scratching against paper with a rhythmic, hypnotic sound. He didn't speak. He was a silent sentinel, a reminder of the standard she had to meet.
Jayjay felt a drop of cold sweat slide down her spine. Her head throbbed—a dull, rhythmic drumming behind her temples. She reached for her coffee, but the cup was empty, the dregs cold and bitter.
"Section four," Keifer said suddenly, not looking up from his ledger. "The elasticity of demand in emerging markets. You've been on that page for twenty-two minutes. You're circulating the same thought. Break the loop, Jayjay."
Jayjay's pen snapped in her hand. The plastic shard bit into her palm, a small bloom of red appearing against her skin. "I can't break the loop if the loop is all I see, Keifer! Not everyone is a machine like you!"
The scratching of his pen stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. Keifer stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. He walked around the desk, the shadows clinging to his tall frame. He took the broken pen from her hand and looked at the small cut on her palm.
He didn't pull away. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing the wound. The sting of the salt and the heat of his breath made Jayjay gasp.
"You're pushing because you're afraid," Keifer whispered. "You think that if you aren't the best, you're nothing. But you're already the best thing in this house. You're just too tired to see it."
"I have to be better than Section E," she choked out, the tears she had been holding back finally spilling over. "I have to be better than the girl who just got lucky. If I don't get that 99%, I'm just a distraction in your life."
Keifer's grip on her waist tightened. He lifted her easily, seating her on the edge of the mahogany desk, scattering her notes to the floor. "You are the only thing that isn't a distraction. Everything else—this house, the company, the ranks—that is the noise. You are the signal."
He kissed her then, a kiss that tasted of caffeine and desperation. It was a spicy, heavy moment that briefly eclipsed the stress of the exams, a reminder that their relationship was built on a foundation of intense passion and even more intense pressure.
The Descent into Fever
But the passion couldn't mask the physical toll.
For the next three days, Jayjay existed on a diet of black coffee and sheer willpower. She began to see spots in the margins of her textbooks. Her skin, usually glowing, turned a sickly, translucent pale.
She began to hide her condition. When Keifer entered the room, she would pinch her cheeks to bring back the color. She used heavy concealer to mask the grey hollows beneath her eyes. She was a master of the "Watson Mask" now.
On the final night before the mock results were released, the temperature in Manila plummeted as a storm rolled in. Jayjay sat in the library, the windows rattling in their frames. She felt cold—not just a chill, but a deep, bone-deep freezing that made her teeth chatter.
She stood up to get a blanket, but the room didn't follow her. The floor seemed to tilt at a forty-five-degree angle. The shelves of books looked like they were leaning in to crush her.
"Keifer?" she called out, but her voice was nothing more than a raspy whisper.
She saw the door open. She saw the silhouette of the man she loved, his face blurring into a dark smear. She felt her knees hit the marble, the impact distant and dull.
"Jayjay!"
The roar of his voice was the last thing she heard before the 102.9-degree fever finally claimed her, dragging her down into a world of white noise and golden shadows.