"What kind of utter madness is this, Rayden?" she exclaimed with a baffled expression as she swung open the gate in the evening. I had assured her that I would fetch her for the Lovestruck kickoff, accompanied by the ten roses I had carefully selected during the pilot episode. Why her out of all those roses? Well, I had a myriad of reasons, one of which was to finally oust that pesky Carson Villegas.
I couldn't fathom why she seemed instantly irked when she faced me, yet beamed and shared laughter with Carson. I wasn't your typical suave and charming guy; in fact, I was bred to be a jester, not some comedic accessory. I, a Henares, was brought up to command a vast assembly of individuals. Trained to lead. Making people laugh wasn't a bullet point on my resume.
"I distinctly mentioned I'd come to pick you up, didn't I? Or should I make it a memorably redundant promise?" I inquired, my casual stance against my Porsche Panamera. I arched an eyebrow slightly, but her stoic demeanor remained unshaken. This girl truly had an aura about her. While others might quiver in my presence, she seemed to sport an invisible barrier, shielding herself from my impact. Well, maybe she could be affected, but not positively. It was as though I were a bacteria on her skin, causing some sort of irritable itch.
She shot me an unimpressed look and responded, her enthusiasm non-existent, "Apologies, I was inattentive. Carson is en route. We'll catch up."
I detested being brushed off and left hanging. Only she dared to do so to me. I let out a disgruntled grunt before I raced after her. I seized her wrist and drew her closer. She pivoted, nearly stumbling into my chest due to my assertive pull. Her cheek grazed my torso, and her right hand accidentally brushed against my arm.
Perhaps my opulent cologne was affecting her. I could feel her warm breath against my chest, owing to my thin white V-neck t-shirt. A sly victory grin tugged at my lips. No woman could resist the allure of my cologne. She'd be ensnared by its aroma! Even Sidney Pencer wouldn't stand a chance; she'd fall under its intoxicating spell.
When she seemingly returned to her senses, her hand that clutched my arm began to move. It glided along my arm, coming to a halt on my chest. Her touch lingered there as she raised her gaze. She gave my chest a gentle squeeze, her touch teasingly tickling me, though I maintained my impassive facade. Her stare bore into me with an intensity that left me wondering whether she was entranced by my cologne or harbored some other, covert motive. I feigned nonchalance and jested, "Impressed by it?" prodding her.
She nodded, a mischievous smile dancing on her lips. Ah, the smile I couldn't take at face value. "Impressive chest," she commented.
I was poised to respond when her fingers grazed my left nipple. My eyes widened as she pinched it, twirling it as though it were some sort of unraveling thread. A strangled cry escaped my lips. I spewed a string of curses, my eyes almost brimming with tears due to the intense pain resonating from my most sensitive region. Oh, my poor cherry part!
She erupted into laughter and shoved me with considerable force. Stunned, I clutched my chest, gasping for breath, watching her saunter away with a wicked grin. What a witch! My mind screamed in exasperation as I witnessed her disappear into her house. I was drenched in sweat from her antics. My cheek and throat burned as if set ablaze. I muttered a litany of curses under my breath, then decided to return to my car, patiently awaiting the audacious Amazon who appeared to have no qualms about toying with my suffering.
I flipped on some music and attempted to unwind. I was on the cusp of dozing off when a Mercedes Benz Hybrid parked behind my vehicle. I recognized the ensemble – khaki pants and a white V-neck shirt; it was Carson. An exasperated realization dawned on me – he was dressed eerily similar to me. I engaged in an internal clothing comparison, thumping my hand on the steering wheel in vexation.
Oh, splendid! Someone's trying to torpedo my finely orchestrated spectacle in Sidney Pencer's presence. Here I was, decked out in my best finery, only to have an imitator spring forth! Everything had gone awry. Now, I had to brainstorm an impromptu plan B.
I sighed in sheer frustration, observing Sidney's emergence. She exchanged a wave with Carson, who loitered by the gate. My jaw clenched and my fingers tightened around the steering wheel. With an unthinking impulse, I stomped on the gas pedal. My car surged onto the South Luzon Expressway (SLEX), hurtling toward the location of the promotional photoshoot. I had no clue how many minutes it took to sprint from Magallanes to Tanza, Cavite. My consciousness was momentarily eclipsed by the bustling crew of Lovestruck, readying the set for the photoshoot and promotional videos scheduled for release on Saturday. An all-night photoshoot was slated after the day's filming – a grueling prospect that promised a night spent observing the Amazon and that mimicking rascal prance about. Drat it all!
My assistant, Bob, had been rapping at my car window for a stretch, but my mind was ensnared in a labyrinth of thoughts, so it took me a few additional heartbeats to register his presence. Hastily, I disembarked, greeted by the visages of the women I believed I had singled out during the pilot episode.
True to form, the ten roses were separated into trios. Sylvia and Sidney shared the same cluster once more, a strategic choice by the producers, I wagered. They anticipated fireworks and sparring between them in the ensuing episodes, hence their perpetual proximity. Sylvia could metamorphose into a world-class antagonist. It wasn't that I was trembling over what she might do to Sidney, rather it was the fear of what Sidney might orchestrate against her and the show as a whole. One solitary eruption, and both Lovestruck and Cloud TV would be sunk.
As Nestora, the makeup artist, worked her magic on me, Sidney materialized with her companion, the counterfeit. I glimpsed her as she opened the car door, a smile of such magnitude that it seemed to stretch to her ears. She was draped in a white floral dress, a fitting ensemble. She and Sidney exchanged a glance, and I swiftly averted my gaze, pretending obliviousness.
"She's blossoming... I mean, truly blossoming. I thought her well of beauty had run dry," Nestora confided in a whisper to her neighboring gay assistant, while another contestant – if my memory served me well, Isabel – a slight figure with an angelic countenance and not so lofty a stature, underwent her cosmetic transformation.
"Word on the grapevine is she's quite the sensation on their batch's Twitter!" Nestora's eyes grew wider as she shared this tidbit, then redirected her attention to me, gauging my reaction. I scanned the vicinity to ensure we weren't under auditory surveillance, the clandestine air palpable between us.
"Indeed, isn't Sidney exquisite?" I queried Nestora, my tone conspiratorial. She grasped my drift in an instant.
"Yes, Sir Rayden. She's the one who's held your gaze, and her allure only seems to heighten." She rejoined with a sly grin, dabbing something onto my visage. "Her companion, too, is quite the handsome devil. Positively celebrity material! A feast for the eyes," Nestora pivoted back to me, her gaze lingering with a playful nudge. "But, of course, you are."
The cascade of compliments from the makeup artist finally ebbed, and with an almost magical swiftness, the curtain rose on the Lovestruck poster photoshoot. It was a whirlwind of group snapshots and solitary poses. Each frame featured me alongside various girls. Sylvia stormed in first, her embrace so tight around my neck that I could barely breathe. Then, like a parade of hazy memories, eight more girls followed, their names dangling just beyond the reach of my memory. I was determined to crack the code, to unravel the identity puzzle that was each of them.
But then came Sidney's turn in the spotlight. Carson shared a conspiratorial grin with her before she sauntered onto the set. A microscopic flare of curiosity ignited within me, a spark of inquiry into the depth of their connection. Yet, as always, I chose the path of tranquil indifference. Why let the riddles of the heart besiege my peace?
"Let your eyes lock!" bellowed Roman, our gray-haired, fifty-something photography director. "Imitate the glow of newlyweds!" he urged with even more enthusiasm.
The scene was set atop a hill adorned with a kaleidoscope of blossoms, meticulously arranged for this occasion. The lamps encircling us strove to mimic the ambiance of dawn, defying the reality of a clock past 7 PM. The twin light modifiers flanked us, while an assistant stood at a distance, brandishing a reflective disc like a conductor guiding the symphony of illumination.
"Next stance! I'm not sensing any spark!" Roman complained once more, a tinge of vexation seeping through as his camera's memory cards remained devoid of the magic that Sidney and I should conjure.
Sylvia's laughter rang like tinkling bells as Roman highlighted our apparent lack of chemistry. Amidst the mirth, I observed a twitch of irritation on Sidney's features, a storm cloud brewing behind her gaze.
A heavy sigh escaped Roman's lips; his DSLR retreated, and his voice reclaimed the air, "Rayden, station yourself behind Sidney, arms encircling her waist like a lover's embrace from behind!"
Sidney's eyes expanded, as if she were Sherlock uncovering a covert plot in real time. Our director then chimed in with an impish glint, "Show us your sweet side, Sidney! Doesn't that handsome devil drive you wild?"
Sidney offered no reply. A mix of amusement and exasperation swirled within me at her silence. Most would answer with a resounding yes, and yet here she stood, the exception to the rule. How could she remain impervious?
"Action, director!" I disengaged from Sidney's back, edging closer. Her form faced away, an enigma locked in place. My arms wound around her waist, my presence pressed against her contours. My breath, warm and conspiratorial, brushed against her nape. Her statue-like posture betrayed a singular, unforeseen detail—the slight curvature of her lips betraying a suppressed chuckle. In that moment, I couldn't resist but drop a playful whisper into her ear, "Consider this retribution for the pinched nipple incident." And I reeled her in, just a bit closer.
"Sidney, loosen up! Nestle against Rayden's chest, evoke a fresher sentiment! This isn't a statue pose!" interjected Roman's assistant, a twinkle in his eye.
A grin etched itself across my features, mirroring the approval I felt for Roman's directive. Sidney might have sensed my every contour, but such intimacies were par for the course. It was all part of my grand scheme, a symphony of calculated gestures, and I had every faith it was unfolding as intended. A triumphant smile curved my lips as Sidney nestled her head against my chest, and the shutter's staccato clicks performed their orchestral duties.
"Now, let's elevate the intensity," Roman commanded, an authoritative wave of his hand heralding his decree. "As Rayden holds you from behind, Sidney, gaze at him as though on the precipice of a kiss!"
A flicker of resistance danced in Sidney's eyes, her internal conflict unveiling itself in the delicate quiver of her form. A charge, an unspoken response to Roman's summons, surged through her. "What?" she murmured, taken aback by the scenario.
"About to kiss, Sidney! Let's not leap to conclusions!" intervened the director's effervescent assistant, his voice dripping with vivacity as he erupted in laughter.
And oh, how I joined him, my laughter a harmonious counterpoint to the serenade of amusement that was Sidney's. Yet, our embrace endured, her slight annoyance merged with my unwavering grip. She glanced at me with a glint of mischief, a storm of intentions brewing. "Amusing?" she inquired, mischief dancing in her eyes.
"Only an impending kiss, nothing more. Fancy a rehearsal?" I countered, my laughter a duet with the jest that rested between my words.
A delicious parting of her lips ensued, a tantalizing vision of allure. I stood on the precipice of kissing a girl who, in the grand tapestry of fate, was not my girl at all.