Eileen Sarmienta And Allan Gomez

I came to Calauan to help set up a literacy program for farmworkers’ kids. On my first day, Mayor Antonio Sanchez showed up at our makeshift classroom, his smile broad and his eyes fixed on me like I was the only person in the room.

“You’re new here,” he said, stepping close enough that I could see the gold watch on his wrist glinting in the sun. “Such a pretty face in our little town. I’m Antonio—everyone calls me Mayor Tony.”

I thanked him for his welcome and tried to explain our program, but he barely listened. Instead, he asked where I was staying, what I liked to eat, if I had family back home. When I answered with short, polite words, he just nodded and said, “I’ll make sure you’re well looked after here.”

After that, there was no escaping him. His car would be parked outside the classroom when we finished for the day. He’d send baskets of mangoes and lechon to where I was boarding. Once, I found a diamond pendant wrapped in silk on my pillow—with a note that read “For the jewel of Calauan.”

I returned the pendant to his office with a clear message: I was here to work, not to be courted. His face hardened for just a moment before the smile came back. “You don’t understand yet,” he said quietly. “In this town, what I want, I get.”

The stares from locals grew heavier after that. They’d look at me, then glance away quickly. One morning, I found my bike tires slashed and a note under the seat: “He cares about you. Don’t push him away.”

I started planning to leave, to move our program to another town. But that night, as I packed my bags, there was a knock at my door. Through the window, I saw Mayor Sanchez standing there alone, his hands in his pockets, looking up at my room with an expression that made my skin crawl—not anger, not sadness, but a twisted kind of devotion that scared me more than anything.