CHAPTER 1: THE FATEFUL AUDITION
March 1996 – Viva Films Studios, Quezon City
The morning sun glared off the freshly waxed black Mercedes-Benz as it slid past the gates of Viva Films Studios. The lot was already alive with its usual bustle—stylists crisscrossed with rolling racks, production runners shouted updates into walkie-talkies, and the clink of scaffolding echoed from the set under construction nearby.
Inside the car, Bella Santiago inhaled slowly, letting the air-conditioner hum against the tension in her chest. Her manicured fingers reached for her oversized sunglasses, which she slid into place like armor. She had faced a thousand cameras before, and today's audition should have been just another scene. But this one was different. This wasn't a product launch or a made-for-TV cameo. This was a lead role in Hearts on Fire, Viva's flagship romantic drama for the year. A career-defining opportunity.
She stepped out of the car, heels tapping smartly on the pavement, and adjusted the belt of her tailored trench coat. Her bag, slung over one shoulder, was packed with annotated scripts, two bottles of mineral water, a stash of lozenges, and a small notebook filled with handwritten character notes. Her face, painted in soft neutrals, looked camera-ready—but the unease behind her eyes was real. This wasn't just about landing a role. This was about stepping out from the shadow of her lineage.
Her mother, Elena Santiago, had been the queen of the 1980s primetime scene, and her grandmother, Josefina Santiago, had starred in some of the most iconic films of the post-war era. People expected Bella to follow the same golden path. What they didn't know was that sometimes, legacy felt more like a leash.
As Bella entered the casting building, she caught sight of herself in a wall mirror—tall, poised, and polished. But beneath the surface, her nerves prickled. She took a deep breath and marched toward Studio B.
At the other end of the lot, Enzo Rivera weaved through a maze of parked production trucks, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, the strap soaked with sweat from the basketball scrimmage he'd left early. He had barely thirty minutes to make it across the city after receiving the call.
"You're shortlisted," the assistant director had said. "Just come in. Cold read. It's for Hearts on Fire."
The title had sounded vaguely familiar. Probably one of those drama series his aunt never missed. Still, he'd said yes before he could overthink it.
Enzo had never done a screen test. His experience was mostly in TVCs—running on beaches, laughing with strangers pretending to be his friends, holding energy drinks with exaggerated grins. He didn't even own a proper headshot. His acting résumé? Nonexistent. But something about the voice on the phone, urgent and certain, had made him take a chance.
Inside the studio, the air buzzed with fluorescent heat and anxiety. Young actors lined the hallway, some reciting lines under their breath, others pacing or checking their reflections in their phone screens. Enzo, in his creased shirt and basketball sneakers, stuck out like a sore thumb. But he didn't care. He was used to not fitting in.
When his name was called, he walked in without expectation. Then he saw her.
Bella Santiago.
Sitting alone beneath a row of suspended lights, her script open in her lap, mouthing lines with quiet intensity. Her aura was magnetic, impossible to ignore. For a second, Enzo forgot why he was there.
She looked up—and their eyes met.
The room didn't fall silent, not literally, but in that moment, the noise faded. Something in her gaze unsettled him. Not fear, not curiosity, but recognition. Like two pieces of a story that hadn't yet been written.
The casting director, a gruff man in his late fifties named Ramon Ventura, paused his search through a pile of portfolios and looked up. He studied them both for a long moment, then muttered, "That's the kind of chemistry you pray for."
"Bella Santiago, Enzo Rivera," he said, beckoning them forward. "You'll read together."
The stage was simple. Two wooden chairs. A backdrop painted to resemble a bus stop. The scene: a chance encounter during a rainstorm. Strangers. Emotional baggage. A conversation that changes everything.
Bella read first. Her delivery was smooth, textured with practiced emotion. But this time, it wasn't just a performance. Opposite her, Enzo responded—not like someone acting, but like someone feeling.
His voice cracked slightly on the third line—not out of nervousness, but because the words hit a nerve he didn't expect. The scene called for restraint. He gave honesty. Raw, untrained, but compelling.
Bella's breath hitched. Her rhythm faltered, just for a second. For the first time in years, someone had thrown her off her center—not by being better, but by being real.
"Cut," Ramon said quietly. He didn't look up from his notes. "We'll be in touch."
Outside, Bella exhaled as soon as the studio doors swung shut. The humid air felt like freedom. She crouched to grab her bag—but Enzo was already reaching for it.
"I've got it," he said, his tone light.
"You really don't have to—"
"I know," he replied with a grin, effortlessly lifting the bag to his shoulder.
She eyed him, a little amused, a little annoyed. "You're lucky I'm not carrying heels in there."
"I've carried worse," he said, holding the door open as two crew members passed with extension cords and light stands.
She noticed then how he acknowledged everyone—nodding at the grip, thanking the assistant adjusting the hallway lights. He moved through the chaos with an ease that didn't demand attention but earned it.
"Most guys would've walked ahead," she said softly.
He shrugged. "Most guys aren't me."
They walked together to the parking lot. The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was suspended. Electric.
"So," he said as they neared her car, "You think we nailed it?"
Bella paused, then smiled. "I think something happened in there. Whether they saw it or not, I did."
Enzo nodded. "Same here."
She opened her car door, hesitating for a moment. "You should get a headshot."
He raised an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment or a suggestion?"
"A little of both," she replied, stepping inside. "See you around, Enzo Rivera."
As the door closed, he stood watching the taillights of her car fade into the traffic.
And somewhere inside both of them, something had shifted. A seed planted. A spark struck.
And sparks, when nurtured, tend to grow into something more.