The Heiress of Winter

CHAPTER 1

(Charlotte's POV)

The humidity in Tondo wasn't just weather; it was a physical weight. It felt like a wet, dirty blanket wrapped around my throat, smelling of stagnant estero water, burnt plastic, and the metallic tang of my own blood.

I huddled in the corner of the kitchen, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My fingers were raw, scrubbing a blackened pot with steel wool until my nails bled. But I couldn't stop. If the pot didn't shine, the belt would talk.

"Charlotte! Bakit hindi pa luto ang kanin?! Bingi ka ba, ha?!" (Why isn't the rice cooked?! Are you deaf?!)

The floorboards didn't just creak; they groaned under the weight of Aling Rosa. She didn't walk; she paced like a predator in a cage that was too small. When she entered the kitchen, the air vanished.

She didn't ask questions. She reached out, her thick fingers tangling in my hair, wrenching my head back so far I heard my neck crack.

"Nay... masakit po..." I whispered. My English was broken, my Tagalog shaky from fear. "Tapos na po ang labada... isasaing na..."

"Nay? Ilang beses ko bang sasabihin sa'yo, huwag mo akong tatawaging Nanay! Hindi kita anak!" (Ma? How many times do I have to tell you, don't call me Mother! You aren't my child!)

She shoved my face toward the reflection in the window. My face was a map of tragedy—high cheekbones and almond eyes that didn't match the hollow, grayish skin of the slums.

"Tingnan mo 'yang mukha mo. Mukha kang swerte, pero malas ka! Pinulot ka lang namin sa basura. Kung hindi dahil sa amin, matagal ka nang pinapakialaman ng mga uod sa kalsada!" (Look at your face. You look like luck, but you're a curse! We picked you up from the trash. If not for us, the maggots would have finished you off long ago!)

The slap didn't just sting; it rang. A high-pitched whistle echoed in my ears as I hit the floor. I didn't cry. I had learned years ago that tears were just fuel for her fire.

By nightfall, the air grew even heavier. The smell of cheap gin preceded the heavy footsteps of Mang Domeng. He slammed his fist on the rickety wooden table where I was trying to sew a torn dress by candlelight.

"The money, Charlotte. Give it to me." His voice was a low, drunken growl.

"Tay... please po... kailangan ko po iyon...pambibili ko ng gamot," I stammered, clutching the small pouch in my pocket. My back was a lattice of half-healed welts, and the fever was starting to burn my brain. "Dahil Masama po... ang pakiramdam ko..."

Domeng laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound that made my skin crawl. "Pang gamot? Nag iinarte ka lang naman ! Akin na 'yan!"

He lunged. I made the mistake of flinching—of pulling back.

His eyes turned pitch black with rage. He reached for the heavy leather belt draped over the chair. "ano Lalaban ka na? Matapang ka na?! HA! Akala mo kung sino kang prinsesa!" (You're fighting back? You're brave now?! You think you're some kind of princess!)

The first strike caught me across the shoulder. The second, my thigh. I curled into a ball, tucking my head between my knees. One. Two. Five. Ten. I counted the strikes because it was the only thing I could control.

I will die here, I thought, as the copper taste of blood filled my mouth. I will die in the dark, and no one will even know my name.

But I had a secret. In a rusted tin box beneath the floorboards, I accidentaly found it months ago:its a passport with my face, but the name written on it sounded like music—Charlotte Gaventi. And I've kept a stack of blue and red bills, peso by peso, stolen from their drunken pockets.