Chapter Text
CLAIRE VERGARA – THE VOICE OF THE GENERATION
Cameras flashed outside the recording studio in Quezon City as Claire Vergara stepped out of her black van, wearing a loose white blouse tucked into light-washed jeans and she wore no makeup—but to her fans, she was already glowing.
The guards opened the gate as the small crowd of fans behind the barricades began calling out.
“She’s so pretty in person,” one girl whispered, holding up her phone with shaking hands.
“I love your last song, Claire!” another shouted. “It helped me through a breakup!”
Claire smiled. She raised a hand and waved gently, not rushing, making sure to meet a few eyes and nod in thanks.
“Stay safe, ha?” she said kindly before heading inside.
Once the doors shut behind her, the noise faded. The familiar comfort of being in the studio settled in her chest — this was her sanctuary.
Inside the recording booth, her team was already waiting. Her producer and a longtime collaborator, Sir TJ, gave her a wide grin. “Claire, your fans outside are just wow! You still make them cry with just your voice.”
Claire laughed, placing her tumbler on the table. “I don’t mean to make anyone cry.”
He gestured to the mic. “This song? It’s going to wreck people—in the best way.”
She nodded and stepped into the booth, adjusting the headphones and closing her eyes as the track began to play.
Her voice was steady and soft, filling the room. The song was simple, a quiet kind of sadness—the kind that stayed with you.
When she finished the take, there was a moment of silence before the control room burst into applause.
“That’s it,” Sir TJ said, clapping. “We’re keeping that version. No need for another.”
Claire stepped out, wiping the corner of her eye with her sleeve. “Let’s hope it makes people feel something.”
The team admired her not just for her talent, but for her warmth. She never yelled, never acted like a diva. She brought snacks to night rehearsals and remembered birthdays.
Outside the studio, her posters filled malls and bus stops. Her voice played in taxi radios, tricycle rides, sari-sari stores. She wasn’t just a star—she was a part of people’s everyday lives.
She was the voice of heartbreak—and healing.
____
Later that evening, Claire stood backstage at a popular primetime talk show. A stylist made last-minute touches on her outfit, adjusting the soft sleeves and smoothing the fabric. Everything about her was gentle, elegant, and easy to love.
From the stage, the host’s voice boomed:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the top-charting OPM artist, our one and only—Claire Vergara!”
The lights shifted. Claire stepped out slowly, waving to the crowd with her trademark shy smile. The audience screamed and clapped, some rising from their seats just to get a better look.
She sat down on the couch beside the host, her legs crossed politely, hands folded on her lap.
“You’re still topping the charts,” the host began. “How does it feel to be the Claire Vergara?”
Claire smiled. “I don’t know about being ‘the Claire Vergara’. I’m just… grateful people still listen to the songs I write.”
The host laughed. “Ang humble naman! Imagine, sold-out shows, viral songs, millions of fans—and she still says grateful!”
The audience clapped again, some yelling her name. A video montage played showing her singing on stage, signing autographs, wiping away tears while performing live.
“She makes me cry every time,” one fan in the video said. “Her songs saved me.”
The segment ended with Claire performing a stripped-down acoustic version of her newest single. The stage was lit in warm golds. She sang with her eyes closed, like no one else was in the room.
By the time the show ended, she was already trending:
“Claire Vergara is a national treasure.”
“How can someone be so talented and so kind?”
“We don’t deserve Claire, pero thank you, Lord, we have her.”
She was beloved. Untouchable. A symbol of grace under the spotlight.
_____
After a long day of recording and interviews, Claire finally arrived home—her quiet corner unit on the 35th floor of a high-rise in Ayala. It's a unit with floor-to-ceiling glass windows surrounded the living area, giving a full view of Makati’s glittering skyline.
The condo was calm. Minimalist, but warm. Neutral colors, soft wood, clean lines. A few plants. A record player. Bookshelves. A guitar stand by the window.
“Home,” she whispered, locking the door behind her.
Two cats ran to greet her. The orange one meowed loudly—Sinta. The gray one purred and rubbed against her leg—Hirang.
“There you are,” Claire smiled, dropping her bag and crouching to pet them. “Were you good for Maxene today?”
Maxene is her closest friend. She’s a musician / music professor at a known university. She lives in the unit next door and had two cats of her own.
Whenever Claire was away for work or out of town, Maxene came over to feed Sinta and Hirang, clean the litter box, take them outside with her cats, and sometimes even stayed the night if Claire would be gone longer.
A small sticky note on the kitchen counter read:
“Refilled their food bowls. Water’s clean. Your plants are still alive! – M”
Claire chuckled. She stuck the note on her fridge, where dozens of Maxene’s tiny notes already lived like a collection.
Her place was always tidy. Not just clean—but organized down to the last drawer. Her studio was no exception.
Down the short hallway was a soundproof room with dim yellow lighting, wooden panels, and soft rugs. A grand digital keyboard sat in the middle. A desk with a laptop, audio interface, and mixer faced the window. Guitars lined the wall.
This was where Claire wrote her songs. Alone. Quietly. No pressure.
She sat on the small couch and had a notebook in hand. Hirang jumped beside her and laid down like a loaf.
She scribbled ideas slowly. A phrase. A line. A memory.
She hummed something under her breath. Picked up the guitar. Tried a chord. Then another. She stopped. Adjusted.
There was no audience here. No lights. No camera. Just Claire and her music.
Sometimes the songs came in waves. Other times, it took days. But she didn’t mind. She loved the stillness. The way everything slowed down. How she could feel each word.
Claire wasn’t one for parties or big groups. Fame never made her crave noise. What she wanted was honesty—in lyrics, in melody, and in life.
____
A soft knock echoed from Claire’s front door just past 9 p.m.
She peeked through the security monitor. No surprise—it was Maxene, in an oversized hoodie, holding a small container of tea-infused brownies.
Claire opened the door with a smile. “Come in.”
Maxene stepped inside without hesitation. She brought her cats with her, Haru and Nezu who followed closely behind on a leash.
“You brought the whole family,” Claire said, laughing as Sinta and Hirang trotted over to sniff the guests.
“I figured it’s one of those nights.” Maxene placed the brownies on the kitchen counter. “Also, I made you a version with less sugar. Don’t say I never take care of you.”
Claire grinned. “You spoil me.”
The two sat in the living room, their cats lounging on cushions and floor rugs.
Claire played an unfinished track she had been struggling with.
“Listen to this, Max. Can you help me? I’m stuck on the middle part,” Claire said, gesturing toward the studio room. “I know how I want it to feel, but I can’t seem to connect it.”
Maxene nodded. “Let me hear it.”
They moved into the studio. Claire played the rough cut. Maxene stood beside the keyboard, fingers tapping the air as she listened.
After a moment, Maxene stepped forward and played a set of chords, adjusting the rhythm slightly. Then another layer—subtle, textured, almost like a heartbeat.
Claire watched. “That’s it. That’s exactly what I couldn’t find.”
Maxene smirked. “You always leave the weird parts to me.”
“You like the weird parts,” Claire teased.
“That’s why we work.”
They shared a look. Comfortable. Familiar. No need to explain anything else.
______
When their free days aligned—something that didn’t happen often—they’d pack a weekend bag, load all four cats into carriers, and leave the city behind.
Sometimes they drove north to Baguio or south to Batangas. Other times, they booked quiet beach cottages in Zambales or found hidden cabins in Tanay.
On one trip, they ended up in a wooden hut by a waterfall.
Claire sat on a mossy rock, strumming her guitar barefoot while Maxene sketched melodies in a notebook nearby.
“This is the sound I want for the next album,” Claire murmured. “It needs to breathe.”
Maxene nodded without looking up. “Then we’ll give it air.”
The cats roamed safely around the area, sniffing leaves, chasing bugs. Nezu climbed up Maxene’s shoulder, while Sinta watched the stream with quiet curiosity.
Later, they roasted marshmallows over a small fire pit and shared stories about the times music nearly broke them—and the times it saved them.
Maxene was more than a friend. She was the one person who knew Claire completely—who understood how fame could be suffocating even when it looked beautiful. Who never asked for anything in return.
“I’m not sure who I’d be without music,” Claire admitted one night under the stars.
Maxene looked at her and said quietly, “You’d still be you.”
_________________________________________________
ANYA ARCETA – THE YOUNG CEO WHO HAS IT ALL
Anya’s office was on the top floor of Arceta Tower, with tall glass windows overlooking Bonifacio Global City. It was sleek and minimal—clean lines, gray marble desk, and a large abstract painting that once won a national award.
She didn’t like clutter. Every file was in place. Every detail was controlled.
She stood behind her desk as her assistant briefed her on the day’s schedule.
“You have a Zoom call with investors from Singapore at 10, then a walkthrough at the Bulacan site by 1 p.m., and your talk at Ateneo is confirmed for Friday.”
Anya nodded. “Push the Ateneo talk to the afternoon. I want time to review the slides.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned toward her window as her assistant left, arms folded. From up here, everything looked small—clean, organized, far from the noise.
This was the world she built. One decision at a time. One battle after another.
____
That afternoon, Anya dropped by one of Arceta’s community housing projects in Bulacan. The site was still under development, but kids were already attending the weekend mentorship program her company had started for nearby public schools.
She knelt beside a young girl drawing on recycled paper.
“What are you working on?” Anya asked.
The girl smiled shyly. “A dream house. For my family.”
Anya looked at the tiny sketch—three rooms, a garden, a little blue roof.
“You’ll build it someday,” She said with a smile. “And maybe you’ll help others build theirs too.”
A photographer snapped the moment from afar, and it made the rounds online the next day. “CEO with a Heart” trended for hours.
____
That weekend, Anya gave the keynote speech at an international women’s leadership summit. She wore a white tailored suit, hair pulled back, voice strong and sure.
“You don’t have to be loud to lead,” Anya said. “But you have to be clear. And you have to mean what you say.”
The audience gave her a standing ovation. Young professionals swarmed her after the event, asking for advice, selfies, or simply to say, “You’re my inspiration.”
______
Anya lives in a penthouse in Rockwell with floor-to-ceiling glass windows looked out over the city.
She walked barefoot across polished floors, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat on the edge of her leather sofa.
Her laptop was open. Emails from all over the world filled her inbox. Proposals, partnerships, approvals. All waiting on her word.
She answered a few, then leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
She lived alone. Her parents, especially her father—the company founder—trusted her but were rarely around. She liked it that way. It gave her space. Control.
But sometimes, in the silence, the weight of it all sat heavy on her chest.
Still, she never said it out loud. She couldn’t.
Instead, she got up, opened a notebook, and outlined ideas for the next project.
____
The following day, the boardroom was filled with men twice her age. They wore tailored suits, gold watches, and polite smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.
Anya sat at the head of the long table. A digital model of the proposed resort was on the screen behind her.
One of the older directors spoke up. “It’s a bold design, Anya. But maybe we should slow down. Try something safer, more traditional. This project is risky.”
“I understand the risks,” she replied calmly. “But I’ve reviewed the numbers. We won’t grow if we keep playing it safe.”
Another man shifted in his seat. “It’s not just the numbers. It’s your image too. People already see you as… impulsive. We can’t afford mistakes.”
Anya’s jaw tightened, but she kept her expression neutral.
“Let me remind you,” she said slowly, “that the last three ‘risky’ projects I led all beat projections. And I didn’t hear complaints when those profits came in.”
Silence. Someone cleared his throat. Another awkward sip of coffee.
She let the silence stretch for a moment before adding, “If this company wants to stay ahead, we need to start trusting vision. Not just history.”
The room fell quiet. Eventually, they moved to the next item on the agenda.
____
Later that afternoon, Anya had an interview for a magazine.
The journalist smiled politely. “There are people who say you only became CEO because of your last name. How do you respond to that?”
Anya paused, then gave a small, tight smile.
“I’ve learned not to waste energy proving myself to people who already decided not to believe in me,” she said. “I let the results speak. And so far, they have.”
The interviewer blinked, impressed.
_____
Later that night, Anya sat alone on her rooftop garden—her one quiet place. The city lights sparkled around her. Below, traffic moved like slow rivers of red and white.
She leaned back on the lounge chair, fingers rubbing her temples. The voices from the boardroom still echoed in her head.
Impulsive. Risky. Just the chairman’s daughter.
But she didn’t cry. She never did.
Instead, she opened her laptop and stared at the report again, adjusting numbers, revising the pitch.
She wasn’t perfect. But she was determined.
Because if she failed, they’d say, “We told you so.”
And if she succeeded, they’d say, “She got lucky.”
So she worked harder. Every night. Every hour.
Because the world was watching.