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Aiah Arienza woke up from what she could only describe as a pretty decent coma. Her last coherent memory was of a late-night intervention she and her best friends, Maloi and Jhoanna, had affectionately dubbed "Lambanog Night." The booze had been a fantastic sleeping pill, but now her head was a jackhammer, trying to break its way out of her skull. She felt like she'd been run over by a truck, then set on fire for good measure. They weren't even supposed to get wasted. The plan was "tipsy, not tragic." It was just meant to be a chill drink-and-chat session, enough to get them all relaxed and call it a night. But honestly, after a brutal week drowning in workload at the publishing house, Aiah knew she’d earned the right to be a little tragic. She was practically suffocating with everything going on in her life, and getting a little silly with her friends definitely helped melt away some of the stress she'd been carrying for years.

Even with her head pounding like it wanted to explode, not to mention that her stomach felt like it hadn't digested everything she consumed last night yet, Aiah had a genuinely great time. It was always like that with Maloi and Jhoanna. Never a dull moment, always a good time. So yeah, she absolutely deserved a bit of fun now and then. The night had been a blast. So much of a blast, in fact, that she had this faint, unsettling memory of… kissing. 

Wait. What?

Aiah's eyes flew open, her face scrunching up in pure confusion as she tried to piece together last night. Her mind did a frantic mental scan, but the files were all corrupted by booze. Kissing? No, no, no, not kissing. Definitely a dream. A very, very weird dream. 

Fuck.

Who did she even kiss?! Maloi? Or... was it... Jho? No way.

Shaking her aching head, Aiah was pretty damn sure it was just her brain trying to make sense of the alcohol fumes. It had to be. Kissing her two best friends made zero sense. But if it was just a dream, it was the most vivid, wildly inappropriate dream she'd had in a while.

Yep. Just a weird dream. She decided to shove that crazy idea into a box and throw it into the deepest, darkest corner of her throbbing mind.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, squinting as a little sunbeam peeked through her window. It felt like a peaceful, beautiful Sunday morning. The kind of morning that promised fresh coffee, some toast, and a good book. Plus, a soup of pork nilaga for the inevitable hangover. She would have loved to have her friends over to share it, but after that bizarre dream, she figured maybe a brief period of total isolation was a better call.

But ahhh, Sunday. Her absolute favorite day. The kind of Sunday where she doesn't have to work for a boss who thinks her only job is to torment her. The one day she finally got to herself, to do whatever she wanted, on her own time. Aiah smiled, soaking in the knowledge that she had a whole precious 24 hours before diving back into hell tomorrow. And by hell, she meant the publishing house, where she works as secretary slash personal assistant to Satan's mistress.

No Satan’s mistress today.

She massaged her temple and reached for her phone. The day and time on the screen made her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.

MONDAY 7:56 AM

Her heart dropped to her stomach, right next to whatever undigested horror she had consumed the night before.

There had to be a mistake. They never do Lambanog Night on a Sunday. It was a sacred Saturday tradition.

Panic set in. Aiah scrambled out of bed and sprinted to the full-length mirror, convinced this was some kind of messed-up hallucination. But what she saw in the mirror proved her otherwise. Her reflection stared back, and there, on her neck, was the proof.

Her eyes widened in horror as she frantically examined the highly visible red mark on her neck.

A real, actual hickey. The kind someone gets from some serious sucking. Her brain, still half-asleep and smelling of cheap liquor, decided to replay that blurry, panicked memory of her friends.

Nothing. She was totally wasted last night.

She stared at her phone, wishing once more that she could just wake up from this nightmare and the date on the screen would magically change.

But it didn't.

The screen went dark from inactivity and then suddenly the phone blared to life again with the Bini song "Shagidi," startling her so badly she almost dropped it. And of course, it was Maloi.

"Loi... I.. I'm.. Last night… What—"

"OMG! You overslept, did you?!"

Aiah has to pull the phone away from her ears because of Maloi’s loud voice.

"Girlie, you have to get your ass up and hurry or your boss will kill you! Literally this time."

"Wait, I don’t understand. It doesn't make sense. It was Lambanog Night last night and it was Saturday."

"Dumbass. You have totally lost track of days and time overworking yourself with that manuscript and that secretarial job of yours, huh?"

"What?"

"Remember last Saturday when you said we couldn't do Lambanog Night because of that manuscript you had to send to your boss? Well, you moved it to last night. Jho even reminded you that you had to work today, and you said you could handle it."

"Shit.", Aiah muttered, biting her lower lip. "Look. About last night. I'm not really sure what happened but—."

"Oh, for God's sake, Aiah. We all agreed it was no big deal. It was just for fun. Stop acting weird. We can talk about it later. Right now, you should hurry up or you can kiss that dream promotion goodbye."

Aiah wonders if Jhoanna also agreed to whatever they agreed upon last night. It felt like something only Maloi would pull.

But Maloi was right, though. That whole confusing dream-kissing, hickey-producing nightmare needed to be the absolute last thing on her mind. Right now, her one mission was getting to the publishing house on time. Being late was simply not an option, especially with her boss.

Aiah had never been late in her two years on the job because she needed the boss to see her as utterly reliable. She wanted to earn as many good points as humanly possible so the boss can finally realize Aiah was worth promoting into something more. Tardiness, in the boss's world, equates to disappointment, and Aiah refused to let everything she'd worked so hard for, and everything she'd sacrificed just go down the drain.

Her future as an editor in New York depended on proving herself to the human iceberg she called a boss, no matter how much her head pounded or how awkward last night's memories felt. 

Aiah let out a heavy sigh. "Fine. Let’s talk later."

"Don't forget to drop by the café. I'll prepare the usual for you and the boss."

Luckily for Aiah, her apartment was just a quick 10-minute hop from the publishing house, and Maloi and Jho’s café was conveniently on the way. She could still make it before 9 AM. She could drop by the café, pick up the coffees, and then dash to the publishing building.

She had to be there before the boss. The woman already tormented her with loads of work, and Aiah didn't want to give the witch another reason to be pissed off. She probably had been pissed off her whole life already.

Glancing at her wristwatch, it was already 8:46. If she hadn't spent so much time deciding what to wear to conceal the hickey on her neck, she wouldn't be in such a rush now. A scarf in this weather would just scream, “I DID SOMETHING STUPID.", and would just make her look like she was a part of some weird, winter-themed cult. So she finally settled on a Band-Aid, hoping it would look like she had some sort of accidental, self-inflicted paper cut. Yes, it was too lame, but she didn’t really have much options.

Facing Maloi and Jhoanna was another issue entirely. Why the hell did they do that? She vaguely remembered Maloi teasing her about not getting laid for a long time and her mischievous friend wanting her to remember what a kiss felt like. The alcohol in her system must have made her agree to that. But a kiss doesn't leave a hickey. That required some serious, vacuum-level suction.

Aiah shudders at the thought.

That was so Maloi. Jhoanna would never. …Or did she?

UGH.

Aiah groaned and wasted no time swinging open the door to her best friends’ café. There was no time to contemplate whether she'd grab that coffee or not. It shouldn't even be a question. She absolutely had to get that coffee. Her evil, heartless boss needed her coffee.

It was a long line to the counter, but she saw Maloi approaching with two cups already in hand.

"Uh. Hi," she said awkwardly, panting like crazy. She also eyed Jhoanna behind the counter, tending to customers, and gave her friend an awkward wave.

"Dumbass," Maloi rolled her eyes. "Stop making things awkward when they don't have to be."

"Well, hello? Can you really blame me?" Aiah defended.

"That's not really important right now. What matters is your ass getting there on time. Here are your usual coffees. One for the boss and one for her super cute secretary." Maloi playfully smiled and did a quick survey of Aiah from head to toe. She gave Aiah a playful wink after checking her out.

"Stop it with your flirting!" Aiah blushed.

“Fine.”

"Lunch later?"

"Yeah. Whatever. Get out of here," Maloi said, shooing her away.

Finally inside the Bloom Publishing building, Aiah practically sprinted for the elevator. She almost missed it, but thankfully, there was just enough room for one more person to squeeze in.

"You're cutting it close, Ms. Arienza," the floor receptionist chirped as Aiah finally made it to their floor.

"Yeah, one of those mornings. Good morning to you too, Ms. Obvious," Aiah muttered, ready to roll her eyes. Before she could though, she bumped into something, or rather, someone, earning a few gasps from the handful of employees who witnessed the little disaster.

"Oh God," she whispered, watching as one of the coffees went down the front of her white shirt. Seriously, nothing was going her way today. Aiah wasn't usually one to curse or confront people over small mishaps, but the universe was really pushing her patience to its limit.

She looked up at the clumsy culprit and saw it was the old messenger guy, pushing his cart piled high with documents and envelopes. Instantly, she couldn't stay frustrated anymore. She took a deep breath, trying to convince herself the old man probably hadn't meant it.

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Arienza. I did not see you," he said, his gaze tired and apologetic.

"It's okay, Mr. Jones," she replied, offering a soft smile. "Just be careful next time, you might get hurt."

Aiah genuinely wanted to help Mr. Jones, but there was zero time for chit-chat. Instead, she quickly called over the janitor to clean up the mess and asked him to give the old man a hand with his things.

Then, she beelined for a colleague's cubicle.

"Debbie, I need your cardigan. Now," she demanded, no question mark implied. A coffee-stained shirt was not how you showed up for the boss. Not when Aiah was trying to prove she was reliable, polished, and ready for bigger things. Every single detail mattered if she ever wanted to escape secretary hell. She had to look presentable on the outside, even if internally, her stomach is doing a nauseating gymnastics routine and threatening to relive last night's drinking session at any moment.

The girl looked up at Aiah, eyes furrowing as she inspected the coffee-soaked shirt. "You're kidding, right?"

"I'll pay for your lunch for a week." Aiah didn't even blink.

Debbie paused, clearly mulling over the generous offer. "Anything I want? No price limit?"

"Anything you want." Aiah was confident. Debbie's "anything" was limited to three cafeteria specials. A week of that? Totally within budget.

"Wait. Let me think about this mo—"

"You only have five seconds to decide. Five, four, three—"

Debbie, defeated, handed over the cardigan. Aiah immediately pulled it on, grateful for the way it hid the incriminating stains on her blouse. She grabbed a tiny mirror from Debbie's desk, checking her reflection and wiping away the last bits of sweat from her impromptu dash across what felt like all of New York. She looked like a hot, sweaty mess, but at least she wasn't coffee-stained anymore.

Just then, Aiah noticed Debbie’s computer screen light up. A notification from the employee group chat flashed: "IT'S HERE." That was all Aiah needed to see to get her ass moving.

The air on the floor had suddenly shifted, crackling with an almost palpable tension. It was like a silent alarm had gone off, sending everyone into a frenzy of panic-driven productivity. The gentle hum of the office was now suddenly replaced by the rapid-fire clack-clack-clack of keyboards and the hushed whispers of invented phone calls.

The queen of the underworld, the editor-in-chief, had finally arrived.

Across the floor, Aiah could see everyone scrambling. Some snapped back to their stations, just desperate to avoid any interaction with the witch. Others dropped whatever sneaky snack they were munching on, tossing it aside like it was contraband. People were suddenly typing at a million miles per hour, acting like they were the most productive employees on the planet. Just like that, the entire office was a hive of frantic, fake productivity.

Even Debbie, usually so laid-back, was now hammering away at her keyboard, acting completely engrossed in her screen, clearly wanting zero attention from the woman everyone in the company lived in fear of.

Aiah found herself instinctively quickening her pace too, falling in line with the urgent, unspoken command that now dominates every corner of the Bloom Publishing floor.

Aiah totally understands why everyone acted that way. It wasn't anything new, just another Monday inside the publishing house. Their infamous editor-in-chief was a walking, breathing nightmare: pushy, mean, arrogant, and utterly devoid of anything resembling empathy. Basically, everyone in the company pretty much loathed her. Aiah herself couldn't figure out how she'd managed to put up with the woman’s bitchy attitude for so long. The chief was a human iceberg, always cold and aloof, constantly laser-focused on business and work as if absolutely nothing else in life mattered.

Aiah had been her secretary and personal assistant for almost two years now, yet she'd never once managed to penetrate, or even chip, the chief's thick, impenetrable walls. Rumor had it that before Aiah was hired, no secretary had lasted longer than a month, because they couldn't handle the pressure of the chief's relentless demands. 

Aiah waited inside the chief's office, standing by the door, clutching the remaining coffee cup with her hand. She quickly smoothed down her skirt, then ran a nervous finger through her hair, desperate to look as presentable as possible.

Even though she practically loathed the woman, Aiah knew deep down that this boss, the one who made her life a daily hell, might still be the key to unlocking her dream job. So, she stood there, trying to be calm and collected, but internally bracing herself because the hangover was still pounding her head.

Aiah took a deep breath.

"Good morning, boss," she greeted, holding out the steaming coffee cup. Her eyes lingered for just a moment too long on the woman who took it.

Mikha Lucero, the editor-in-chief of Bloom Publishing House, barely glanced up as she took the coffee and headed straight for her massive oak table. She was beautiful, a fact Aiah knew no one in the office could ever deny. But it wasn’t the kind of beauty that welcomed you in. It was sharp, commanding, the kind that screamed money and success. Every detail about her seemed calculated: the impeccably tailored suit, the perfectly styled hair, the aura of control that clung to her like perfume. Aiah’s gaze lingered on the sculpted lines of her face, the jaw that looked sharp enough to cut glass, and those striking eyes that seemed to analyze every single person and every detail in the room. Under that gaze, Aiah’s lungs forgot how to work, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

Mikha’s presence filled the room like a force field, radiating untouchable competence. She was the kind of stunning that made you look away, not because you wanted to, but because meeting her eyes too long felt like tempting fate. That power, though, wasn’t warm; it was cold, distant, a beauty designed to keep people at arm’s length. To Aiah, she looked like a Greek goddess who’d smite anyone for daring to look at her wrong. And that was exactly what Mikha was: art to admire from afar, dangerous to touch. Because Aiah knew all too well that one step over the invisible line meant risking a verbal evisceration, and she doubted she’d come out of it unscathed.

"You have a conference call in 30 minutes," Aiah started, getting straight to business.

"Yes. About the marketing strategy for the Golden Arrow Books. I know," Mikha answered nonchalantly, already scanning files on her table, her focus immediate and intense.

"Budget meeting at 9 AM."

"Did you send an invitation to the finance head? I want him to be there."

"Yes, I did. He confirmed his attendance. Also, your immigration lawyer called. She said it's urgent and that you need—"

"Call her and let her know I'll write her a check. Tell her to continue with what she's being paid for." Mikha's tone was dismissive, as if immigration lawyers were simply cogs in a machine, easily bought and directed.

Aiah let out a sigh, trying her best to keep it silent. "Copy that," she said, handing over a stack of important documents for the chief to sign.

"Also, get in touch with the PR team and have them start drafting a press release for the launch of Born to Win. We've confirmed an official release date." Mikha rattled off instructions without missing a beat, her mind clearly already five steps ahead.

Aiah's brain finally registered what she'd just heard: Born to Win. The book itself was a full-blown crisis, a logistical nightmare that had been stuck in development hell for months. Getting a launch date was like pulling off a heist. The book was a constant source of frustration for everyone. So even though her boss was a certified villain, Aiah had to admit Mikha was the only one crazy enough to make it happen. Aiah couldn't help but give her credit. Mikha was a whirlwind of dedication, a force of nature who kept everything running under her tight, almost suffocating management, but she’s the only one capable of bending reality to her will when it came to a project as stubborn as this one.

"Wow, nice work with that," Aiah murmured, almost to herself, genuinely impressed by the sheer efficiency.

"If I want your praise, I'll ask for it," Mikha shot back, her voice sharper than a freshly sharpened pencil.

Aiah immediately took back the compliment in her head, mentally retracting every other nice thought she'd ever had about her boss. She clenched her jaw, trying with all her might not to roll her eyes at the chief's signature snarkiness. This was classic Mikha, all business, no pleasantries, and definitely no uninvited praise. Aiah was reminded once again that her boss would always be a heartless witch.

The brunette decided to exit her boss's office to tackle her endless stack of paperwork at her own station when Mikha's voice stopped her cold.

"Uh, who's Maloi?" Mikha asked, holding up the cup of coffee Aiah had bought for her. "And why does she want me to call her?" Mikha turned the cup around, showing Aiah the side where Maloi had scribbled, "CALL ME" next to a teasing wink emoticon.

Maloiiiiiiii!

Aiah's mind raced. The note was probably a playful jab about last night, but she hadn't even noticed it before. And of course, she hadn’t also noticed that the cup that was spilled was Mikha’s.

"Uhm, she's my... She's my be–"

"Is she the one who marked you?" Mikha cut in, her gaze eyeing the Band-Aid on Aiah's neck.

A faint pink crept onto Aiah's cheeks. It was absolutely none of the chief's business, but it wasn't like she could just tell her to fuck off. Mikha was still waiting, her expression unreadable.

"This... this is... I scratched myself pretty badly... It... It bled," Aiah stammered out. She quickly added, "And that was originally my cup."

"And I'm drinking your coffee, why?"

"Because your coffee spilled."

"Hmmmm," Mikha said, taking a slow sip from the cup. "So, you always drink a white chocolate mocha with whipped cream?"

How did she even know that from just a taste?

"Yes," Aiah said defensively. "The taste is phenomenal." At least for me.

"Hmm. You're lucky it suits my taste."

Oh? It does?

Mikha's coffee was always black. As in, dark as her soul and just as bitter. No sugar, no cream, no fun. It was the liquid embodiment of her "get things done and don't even think about smiling" policy.

Which was why Aiah's brain short-circuited when Mikha, a living, breathing human form of a storm cloud, actually liked a white chocolate mocha, a drink that was essentially a dessert in a cup. It was like discovering a hidden kitten video collection on a supervillain's hard drive, a contradiction that defied the very laws of the universe. It honestly made Aiah wonder if she'd been wrong about Mikha all along.

Could it be? Was this a sign? A tiny little crack in the seemingly impenetrable fortress that was Mikha Lucero? Aiah briefly wondered if this sugary transgression meant there was a human being hiding beneath the power suits and laser-beam stare. Maybe, just maybe, there was a rom-com heroine lurking under that editor-in-chief exterior, just waiting for the right oversized coffee mug. The thought was almost enough to make Aiah forget her pounding headache. Almost.

Aiah was about to deliver a perfectly sassy comeback to the chief's comment when Mikha's office telephone started ringing, providing the perfect interruption. It was a literal ringtone of salvation, saving her from saying something that would definitely get Mikha annoyed. Aiah snatched the phone, relieved to have an excuse to focus on something, anything, other than the overwhelming chaos of her morning. She needed to get her head back in the game, away from the mental whiplash of last night's recklessness and the utterly baffling discovery that her icy boss secretly had a sweet tooth. The whole confusing mess was making her headache pound even harder. She just needed a minute to breathe and pretend none of it was happening.

"Good morning. This is Ms. Lucero's office... Oh, hey, Ms... Okay, please wait a second," Aiah said, cupping the microphone with her hand so the caller couldn't hear. She glanced at Mikha. "It's Sophia."

"Tell her we're on our way to her office," Mikha instructed.

Aiah blinked in confusion. "Actually, we're headed to your office right now... Yes... Okay." She hung up the phone. "Boss, why are we going to Ms. Lacorteza's office?"

"You'll see."

Mikha tidied up her desk and stood, grabbing the coffee cup. "Let's go."

"Can I ask you something?" Aiah asked, trying not to pant as she power-walked to keep up with Mikha’s brisk, get-out-of-my-way walking pace. She felt like a duckling trying to keep pace with a cheetah.

"You are already asking something."

Aiah's eyes did a quiet, dramatic roll. It was a reflex at this point. "I would just like to know if you'd had a chance to look at the manuscript I sent you?" Aiah already knew the answer. She'd sent it on a Saturday night, Mikha's sacred day off, and the chief probably hadn't even opened the package yet. But the manuscript was important to her, so she had to ask.

"I read a few pages. I wasn't that impressed."

Aiah’s face fell faster than a Jenga tower. She let out a long, theatrical sigh, not even bothering to hide her disheartened expression. She knew it was a huge ask for the almighty Mikha Lucero to read a manuscript from a mere secretary, but she just wanted the editor-in-chief to at least give it a real try.

"Boss, I've read thousands of manuscripts. This is the only one I've ever brought to you. There's an incredible novel in there, the kind of novel you used to publish. Trust me, it's worth a look," she insisted, refusing to let this chance slip away.

Mikha didn't even acknowledge what she said, just kept walking until they reached the door of Sophia Lacorteza's office. Aiah let out a silent, internal scream, reminding herself that strangling her boss, while tempting, would probably not help her career. Why couldn't this woman ever take a suggestion from another human being?

"Remember, you're just a prop in here. Stand in the corner," Mikha instructed Aiah as they stopped in front of Sophia Lacorteza's door.

"I won't even say a word," Aiah replied, opening the door for her boss. What I say or do doesn't even matter anyway, she thought.

The office revealed a lady standing by her desk, a smirk playing on her lips. "Oh! Our fearless leader and her lapdog! Please, come in," Sophia Lacorteza greeted them, her voice dripping with mock sweetness just enough to make Aiah’s teeth literally ache.

Aiah had to bite her tongue to stop herself from talking back. She reminded herself that this was a professional setting, a reminder that felt more like a joke every second. The "lapdog" comment was a new low, even for this place. Sophia wasn't any better than Mikha; in some ways, she was worse. Sure, Mikha might be a cold, heartless boss, but at least her insults were always cloaked in professional jargon. She'd rip you apart with a passive-aggressive memo, not with cheap, playground insults. In Aiah's totally messed-up logic, she actually preferred Mikha's brand of cruelty.

"I'll get straight to the point. I don't want to waste anyone's time here," Mikha announced, standing in the middle of Sophia's office like a queen holding court. She didn't even bother to take a seat, which Aiah knew was a power move that translated to, "I'm not staying long enough for my ass to touch your chair."

"Sure, sure. I called earlier to update you about Born to Win, but I guess you wanted to personally get the details from me," Sophia replied with a smile so smug it should have been illegal. "We could've booked a meeting room. You didn't have to come all the way here."

Aiah could practically see the thunderclouds gathering over Mikha's head. She was not amused. Not even a little bit.

"Sophia," Mikha said, her expression as blank and bored as if she were discussing the weather forecast. "I'm letting you go."

Sophia Lacorteza's face instantly twisted in confusion. She looked like she couldn't process the words, as if they were spoken in a foreign language. "Pardon?"

"I asked you a million times to get a release date for Born To Win, and you didn't do it. So, you're fired."

Even Aiah was taken aback by this. Sophia wasn't just some disgruntled office employee; she held the second-highest ranking editorial position of the publication house, right under Mikha. She was the one in charge whenever the chief was gone, the person trusted to keep everything running. Aiah couldn't help but think it was an incredibly bold, almost insane, move for Mikha to just fire her on the spot. But then again, it was Mikha Lucero they were talking about here. Aiah figured at this point, she shouldn't be surprised by anything.

"Well, if you had allowed me to give you the update first," Sophia said, a desperate edge creeping into her voice, "I would've told you that it's still impossible to get a release date. They're also considering our competitor's offer."

"Well, that's interesting," Mikha said, her expression unchanging. "Because I had an emergency meeting with them just yesterday, and they signed the contract with us."

The argument was getting incredibly juicy. But as much as Aiah wanted to stay and watch the entire train wreck unfold, she was starting to feel deeply uncomfortable being stuck in the middle of the crossfire.

"Excuse me? They did what?" Sophia asked, her voice incredulous, as if Mikha had just said the sky was falling.

"You didn't even call them, did you?"

"But—"

"I know. I know. This is too much for you to handle. I understand that this is beyond your ability." Mikha's tone was as cold and matter-of-fact as if she were simply ordering a coffee. "Now, I'll give you a month to find another job, and then you can tell everyone you resigned. Okay?" She didn't wait for an answer.

Aiah had a million questions, but she was, as Mikha had reminded her, just a prop here. And Mikha Lucero certainly didn’t have to explain her decisions to her secretary. So when Mikha turned on her heel and started walking away, Aiah just found herself trailing silently behind her boss like a loyal sidekick in a movie.

Sophia Lacorteza was absolutely not having any of it. She stormed out of her office like a woman possessed, chasing after the chief and her secretary, who were now walking away from her room.

"Mikha Lucero!" Sophia shrieked, her voice dripping with poison. "You malicious witch!" The venom in her words was so thick Aiah half-expected it to form a puddle on the floor.

The entire floor, which had moments ago been a buzz of orchestrated busyness, went completely silent. Everyone froze, their heads subtly turning to witness the drama. Aiah could hear the collective gasps, well aware that for her colleagues, this was better than any season finale. They'd always known there was beef between the two bosses, and everyone had been dreading, and morbidly anticipating the day they finally decided to snap at each other.

"You can't fire me!" Sophia yelled, her voice breaking with anger and desperation.

Mikha stopped and turned to face Sophia, a bored expression on her face.

"You don't think I see what you're doing here? Trying to make me look bad with that Born To Win thing just so you can look good to the board? Oh, I know! Because you're threatened by me!"

The chief let Sophia finish her rant, completely unbothered, as if Sophia was a toddler throwing a tantrum.

"You are a monster," Sophia added.

Oop.

Aiah had never thought anyone would be brave enough to say that to Mikha's face. That really wasn't the ideal way to beg a boss who just fired you to take you back.

"Sophia, stop," the chief suggested, her expression as blank as a new sheet of paper. Mikha wasn't even fazed by all the stares they were getting from Sophia’s outburst.

"Just because you have no life outside this office, do you think it entitles you to treat all of us like your own personal slaves?"

Now, a lot of people could agree with that. But Mikha remained completely unbothered by Sophia's increasingly unhinged attack.

"You know what? I actually feel sorry for you," Sophia continued, her voice dripping with venom. "Do you know what you'll have on your deathbed? Nothing and no one."

That last remark had the entire office collectively gasping in disbelief. It was a low blow, even for a corporate catfight.

All of this drama was unfolding right in front of Aiah and the entire office floor. She felt pretty conflicted about the whole thing, to be honest. Sophia was making a ton of sense, and Aiah mentally agreed with some of what she was saying, especially the part about the boss treating them like her personal slaves. Well, Aiah could totally relate, that was pretty much her job description.

But here's the thing: Sophia wasn't exactly an angel either. Aiah was a direct witness to Sophia's own arrogance and pettiness, like the "lapdog" comment moments ago. Maybe this was a harsh way to do it, but Sophia probably had it coming. Mikha was still her boss, and Aiah's job, her dream, and her entire future were riding on this woman. So, even though she agreed with some of what Sophia said, Aiah just stood there, silently showing her loyalty to the chief.

"Listen carefully, Sophia Lacorteza," Mikha said. Her voice was dangerously calm, which Aiah knew was worse than her yelling. "I did not fire you because I feel threatened. I fired you because you are lazy, entitled, incompetent, and you spend more time chasing after that Latina supermodel in the next building than you do actually working in this one."

Then, for the benefit of everyone on the floor, she added, "And if you say another word, Aiah will call security and have your ass thrown out."

I was a prop, sure.

Sophia was about to say something, but Mikha cut her off with a raised hand. "Say another word, Sophia, and I will tell your wife about your cheating whereabouts. Is that what you want?"

Sophia's silence was her answer. She was still obviously furious, but her anger had deflated into stunned defeat.

"Didn't think so. Now I have work to do." Mikha turned her back and left, not even allowing Sophia the chance to argue.

Aiah just knew that whatever commotion had happened back there would be the next big office gossip for the next few weeks.

"Tell the maintenance team to take that beautiful painting from her office and hang it in my conference room," Mikha instructed Aiah as they walked away. The woman was already redecorating.

"Got it," Aiah said, a new item added to her ever-growing to-do list.

"And I need you around this weekend to help review her files, manuscripts, and the other pending deliverables on her plate."

"This weekend?" Aiah stopped dead in her tracks, a record scratch in their fast-paced escape. Mikha did the same.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

God. This woman is so demanding.

"Uh, no. It's just that it's my grandmother's 90th birthday, so I was going home and would be back by next week because it's my vacation leave, but..." She trailed off, not liking the glare Mikha was giving her right now. "It's fine. I'll cancel it."

"Good."

Aiah could only nod, her mind a whirlwind. One minute she was watching a corporate takedown of two monstrous witches, and the next, her grandmother's 90th birthday was a casualty of war. The emotional whiplash was almost as bad as the hangover that was still pounding away inside her skull. Sophia was gone, but Aiah was left to pick up the pieces, and the price of that was a ruined weekend and another missed family milestone. She knew she should be angry, and a part of her was, but mostly, she just felt tired. This was what it took. This was the price of admission for a chance, however slim, to one day be a Mikha Lucero herself.

Aiah let out a long, weary sigh. Her head was a mess, her stomach was in open rebellion, and her perfectly curated week had just been obliterated by a woman who apparently thought "vacation leave" was a myth. Between the mystery hickey, the office-wide scandal, and the canceled birthday, Aiah had to admit her life was less of a comedy and more of a full-blown disaster movie.

And the worst part? It was barely 10:00 AM on a Monday morning. 

Chapter Text

“Jeez, your boss is not someone to mess with. She’s basically Miranda Priestly with less Prada and more… trauma,” Maloi, who had to be the most dramatic of the trio, shook her head in disbelief as Aiah recounted yesterday morning's latest office drama.

"Honestly, your job sounds less like a career and more like a hostage situation," Jhoanna deadpanned.

“I told you guys, she’s a monster,” Aiah muttered, twirling her fork and stuffing a mouthful of pancit bihon into her mouth. Her eyes practically bugged out. “Oh my god. Okay, wait. Forget my boss. These pancit are giving me life. Why didn’t you two tell me about this place sooner? Do you want me to suffer?”

Maloi gave a smug little shrug. “One of my ex-flings. American dude. Thought he could impress the Filipino in me. At first, I rolled my eyes, like, ‘Yeah, sure, buddy, take me to another fake Filipino restaurant with lumpiang shanghai that tastes like expired sausage.’ But surprise, surprise. It was actually legit. Now I come here whenever I get a craving.”

“Plot twist: your terrible love life actually gave us something good for once,” Jhoanna said between loud noodle slurps, earning a glare from Maloi. “Seriously though, it’s a great find.”

“I’m adding this to my list,” Aiah declared, pointing her fork like she was signing a treaty. “Mission: Try Every Dish. Step one, survive this mountain of carbs.”

“They even have lambanog,” Maloi added casually.

The word lambanog might as well have been a trigger button. Aiah's chewing slowed to a stop. Her cheeks flushed cherry-pink.

Maloi, of course, noticed immediately. “Oh, here we go.”

“W-what?” Aiah stammered, suddenly fascinated with her pancit.

“You’re acting weird again,” Maloi said, stabbing her fork in Aiah’s direction.

“She’s been like that since yesterday morning,” Jhoanna said. “I’m telling you, it’s about last Sunday night.”

“I am not acting weird!” Aiah said.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are,” Maloi and Jhoanna chorused like evil twins.

“No!”

“Mariah Queen Arienza,” Maloi announced like a mom about to deliver a lecture. Using Aiah's full government name basically meant things were about to get real. “We’ve known you since you were running around in diapers, okay? Sure, we missed a lot when you went back to the Philippines for college, but we’ve been with you for most of your life. And trust me, you’re still the same Aiah we’ve always known. We know you so well at this point, you couldn’t hide a secret from us even if you tried.”

Aiah knew it was pointless to argue. Her best friends could see right through her.

Maloi Ramirez, with her unapologetic extrovert energy and booming laugh, was the type of person who could befriend a fire hydrant. This cute anik-anik girlie, with her dramatic hand gestures and enough confidence to power a small city, had always been the trio’s built-in mood booster. She thrived on drama, gossip, and let’s be honest, being the center of attention. Not that anyone minded. With her lovable, vibrant personality, she kind of deserved it.

Across the table, Jhoanna Rivas gave a small nod in agreement, the quiet yin to Maloi’s noisy yang. She was the introvert of the trio, the one who spoke less but noticed everything. And if Aiah was being honest, her heart still tripped a little whenever Jhoanna looked at her for too long. Old habits die hard, especially when your childhood puppy love was sitting there slurping pancit like it was the most romantic thing in the world. Jhoanna had always been thoughtful, the kind of person who could read your soul without saying a single word.

And that’s exactly why Aiah couldn’t shake off the thought of their latest Lambanog Night. The last thing she wanted was for something weird to wedge itself into their friendship. What they had was good, no, great, and she didn’t want to ruin it. That was why she’d never confessed to having a crush on Jhoanna when they were kids. Sure, the crush was long gone, but still. If Maloi ever remembered and started teasing her about it? Disaster.

Aiah sucked in a breath. She was definitely overthinking.

“Fine. I’m sorry,” she muttered, stabbing her fork into the noodles. “But last Sunday night was just… weird, okay?”

Maloi scoffed so loudly half the diner turned their heads. “Weird? Babe, please. I told you it was nothing! We were tipsy, the vibes were good, we played a little truth or dare, and that was it. There are zero romantic feelings involved.” She leaned back and wagged her fork like a teacher with a pointer stick. “You don’t actually think I’m into you, do you?”

“Wow, you kind of made it sound like I’m not a very likable person,” Aiah mumbled, though she felt a rush of relief. The awkward cloud finally lifted, and they could go back to just being friends without some weird unspeakable tension.

“What?!” Maloi’s voice went up an octave. “Do you know how many times I’ve avoided introducing you to people I’m dating because they end up asking for your number? ‘Not likable’? Babe, please. With that gorgeous brunette hair and a face that looked like you’re the actual Virgin Mary? You’re a walking trouble.”

Jhoanna chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Facts. Remember my cousin’s wedding? I literally spent the whole reception running interference because the groomsmen and bridesmaids wouldn’t stop asking me to introduce them to you. They said Aiah was sitting there looking like a Pinterest board come to life.”

Maloi smirked. “See? Even Jho’s extended family wants a piece of you.”

"Oh, stop it," Aiah blushed, swatting at Maloi's arm.

"Just stating facts, dear."

The truce lasted all of twenty seconds before another memory barged into Aiah’s brain. Her chewing froze again. “Wait. Hold on. What about the hickey?”

Maloi burst out laughing so hard her shoulders shook. “Oh, that? I did it on purpose. I knew your boss would see.”

“Y-you did it?”

"Yeah!" Maloi answered with a proud grin.

Aiah wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved it wasn’t Jhoanna, because honestly, she would not survive that level of emotional chaos, or deeply concerned for Maloi’s mental health. Who does that to a friend? A kiss was an acceptable truth-or-dare consequence, but a strategically placed hickey just to freak out her boss? That was a different thing entirely.

Well, it's Maloi. Everything can happen when it's Maloi.

“What’s with the long face? Are you disappointed?” Maloi narrowed her eyes mischievously. “Wait… did you assume Jho was the one who did it?”

Jhoanna almost choked on her pancit, while a fresh wave of color flushed Aiah’s cheeks. 

This. This was exactly what she was afraid of.

“W-what? No! I mean… congrats. Great. Mission accomplished. It was mortifying! And don’t think I didn’t notice the love notes you keep leaving on my coffee cup. The witch definitely saw those too,” Aiah stammered, trying to steer Maloi back to safer territory before she got any more ideas. Before Jhoanna got any more ideas.

“You’re welcome.” Maloi winked. “Between the notes and the hickey, your boss probably thinks you actually have a life outside of spreadsheets. Unlike her.”

“She already knows that, but she still works me to death every single day. She even wants me to work this weekend.” Aiah stabbed her fork into the pancit like it had personally wronged her. “Good thing they say pancit is for long life. At this rate, I’m gonna need three extra lifetimes just to survive her workload.”

Maloi laughed so hard. “Careful what you wish for, babe, and don’t eat too much pancit or you’ll end up immortal, and stuck being her secretary forever. You'll be doomed to follow your witch boss’ orders till the end of time.”

“Or worse, they’ll carve your face into the company logo. Saint Aiah, patron saint of deadlines and white chocolate mochas.” Jhoanna added with a grin.

The trio burst out laughing.

When the laughter died down, Jhoanna cleared her throat. “But seriously, why do you put up with it?” she piped in, serious for once. “You have a choice, Aiah. Just quit and go home—”

“Don’t,” Aiah cut her off so sharply the fork in Jhoanna’s hand froze midair. Her chest tightened. She knew her friends meant well, but this was the one thing she couldn’t let slide. “We’ve talked about this. All the times I told you this is all part of the process. There’s no easy way to achieve what I want.”

She set her fork down and leaned back, letting out a breath. In truth, she had never imagined ending up as someone’s secretary. When she’d applied to the company, it had been for an editorial position, an ambitious, long-shot dream to break into one of the most prestigious publishing houses in New York. Instead, she’d been offered the role of secretary to the editor-in-chief herself. Not the plan. Not even close. But wasn’t that still… something? If she couldn’t sit in the editor’s chair yet, maybe sitting beside the person who did was the next best thing.

Her mind always circled back to the same thought: maybe this was the universe’s way of preparing her, a detour that would eventually put her right where she was meant to be. Maybe working under Mikha Lucero, the intense, brilliant, impossible Mikha Lucero, was exactly the kind of trial by fire she needed to sharpen her edges before her real chance arrived.

“You have to go through hard work to get there,” she went on, softer now, but steadier. “And I believe this is all part of it. A huge step, a challenge, but one I need to take so I can finally be where I want to be, doing what I love to do. Can you just… be supportive of my dreams, please?”

Jhoanna softened immediately, guilt flickering in her eyes. “We just worry, that’s all.”

"I know," Aiah said, giving her best friends her signature golden retriever puppy-look that always got her way. "And I appreciate you always being there. That's enough for me."

And it was true. Deep down, she knew they only nagged because they cared. Through every reckless choice, every half-baked plan, and even those life decisions that looked questionable at best, her friends had never turned their backs on her. They respected her, even when they didn’t understand her, and supported her, even when they thought she was being ridiculous. That kind of loyalty wasn’t something she took lightly. They never judged, just worried in the way people who truly cared did. They had been her safety net for years, and sometimes that mattered more than she could admit.

Maloi threw her hands up and sighed dramatically. "Ugh, fine! This is the last time we'll tell you to quit your crappy job."

“Thank you!” Aiah beamed. “I love you two so much!”

“We love you too,” Maloi said sweetly, before ruining it with, “but you’re paying for this meal.”

“You fucking little scammer!”

“A fucking little scammer you love.”

“Touché.”

The table fell quiet for a beat, the serious mood lingering, until Aiah cleared her throat, almost too casually. “…Okay, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…” she lowered her voice, eyes darting between them like she was weighing whether to share state secrets. “Don’t laugh. She… she drank the white chocolate mocha.”

For a full second, Maloi and Jhoanna just blinked at her. Then, as if on cue, they both burst out laughing, loud enough to make the waiter side-eye their table.

“Oh my god, Aiah.” Maloi clutched her chest like she’d been personally attacked. “That is the most unhinged thing I’ve ever heard you say. Your boss? The Mikha Lucero? The dragon queen? White chocolate mocha?” Maloi snorted so hard she nearly choked.

Jhoanna waved her fork dramatically. “Please. That woman drinks your interns’ tears for breakfast. You really mean to tell me your boss, the woman you call the Satan’s Mistress, drank one of the sweetest drinks on our menu? Our cupcake-in-a-cup??”

Maloi was still laughing, shaking her head. “Impossible. That woman looks like she’s powered by motor oil and rage. White chocolate mocha would literally poison her bloodstream.”

“She did!” Aiah whispered, leaning forward like it was classified information. “I accidentally spilled her black coffee, so I gave her mine. And she actually… finished it.”

“Next you’ll tell us she sings Disney songs in the shower,” Maloi shot back, still wheezing with laughter.

“Or… or next you’ll tell us she watches K-dramas and cries at the sad parts,” Jhoanna added between giggles, “If this is true, I think I respect her less.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before Maloi burst out laughing again. “No. Absolutely not. The woman bleeds espresso. White chocolate mocha would put her into a sugar coma.”

“Stop it!” Aiah buried her face in her hands, also laughing. “I shouldn’t have told you anything.”

She couldn’t blame her friends, that was her initial reaction as well. It was truly unbelievable.

“Too late,” Maloi said, grinning like she’d just uncovered blackmail material. “This is gossip of the year. I’m picturing it right now: Mikha Lucero with whipped cream on her upper lip.”

Their laughter spiraled and was unstoppable, loud enough to earn a glare from the next table, while Aiah sat there blushing, silently vowing never to spill either coffee, or secrets again.

Her best friends were crazy. Absolutely crazy. But as the three of them dissolved into hysterics, Aiah couldn’t help thinking that the messiness of their friendship was part of its charm, and for Aiah, knowing she had these two in her corner made the chaos of her life just a little more bearable.

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. Can you tell Mamalol I’m sorry too?” Aiah whispered, hunched over the phone on her desk like a kid sneaking past curfew as she explained to her mom for the third time that she had to work her ass off through the weekend. “No, Ma, I really can’t come. She’s making me work through the weekend. I literally don’t have a choice.”

On the other end of the line, her mom was giving her the guilt trip of the century. Aiah could practically see her dad in the background with arms crossed, jaw tight, silently fuming like a ticking bomb.

“Aiah,” her mom sighed, disappointment dripping from every syllable. “Your grandmother asks about you every single day. You know how old she is. How many more birthdays do you think she has left?”

That one hit hard. Aiah closed her eyes, guilt crashing over her chest.

If Aiah were being completely honest, a big part of her was sad she couldn’t go home. She missed her grandma’s hugs, her mom’s cooking, and just being surrounded by family again. A quick vacation sounded more tempting than she cared to admit.

But there was another part of her, a small, stubborn part that was oddly relieved. Grateful, even. Because the truth was, she wasn’t ready to go home yet. Not until she reached her dreams. Not until she had something real to show her father. She wanted to walk through that front door with her head high, not empty-handed, not like she’d given up too soon.

So yes, she missed home. But for now? Work was her excuse. Work was her shield. And maybe… just maybe, it was exactly what she needed.

“I’ll make it up to her, Ma,” Aiah said, forcing a smile into her voice even though her chest ached. “Just tell her I love her, okay? And I’ll call her tomorrow night.”

There was a pause, then a rustle. Her mom must’ve handed the phone over.

Then his voice came, calm, low, and terrifying in the way only her father’s voice could be. “Mariah.”

Aiah straightened in her chair immediately. Nobody called her by her full name unless it was serious. And this wasn’t the friendly “serious” she gets from Maloi or Jhoanna whenever they called her out. This was different. This was her father’s way of making it clear he wasn’t interested in excuses. This was him reminding her, without raising his voice, that he was still the authority in the family.

“You’ve been gone long enough,” he said, each word clipped and deliberate. “If that job of yours doesn’t even let you come home for your grandmother, then quit. You come home. Now.”

Her stomach twisted into knots. Her dad never raised his voice, but he didn’t need to. His tone alone was like a hammer striking steel, final, unyielding.

“Dad…” Aiah whispered, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I just… I can’t yet. Please, just trust me.”

On the other end, silence stretched. Heavy, suffocating. She could practically feel his disapproval pressing through the phone, sharp as a blade.

Finally, he exhaled, long and tired. His voice sank into something colder, steadier, like a verdict being passed.

“One day, Mariah. One day you’ll understand that family doesn’t wait. And when you realize what you’ve lost, it’ll already be too late.”

The words slid under her skin like ice water. Aiah hated it when he did this, using family as the chain to drag her back. He knew exactly which buttons to press, and it never failed to make her feel both small and selfish, like chasing her own dreams was some kind of betrayal.

And then the line went dead.

Aiah sat frozen at her desk, the dial tone buzzing in her ear, her chest aching with the weight of her father’s words. She wanted to cry, but instead, she straightened in her chair and shoved the telephone back into its cradle like it had burned her fingers. The last thing she needed was anyone asking if she was okay. Because she wasn’t. Not even close.

She barely had time to blink away the sting in her eyes before movement caught her peripheral vision.

Mikha Lucero. Getting up from her chair. Heading her way.

Crap.

“Was that your family?” Mikha’s voice was sharp, but her brow furrowed just slightly, like she already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Aiah admitted. No point hiding it, Mikha clearly wasn’t blind. She already expected this witch to question her on why she’s using the company phone for personal reasons but in Aiah’s current state, she will just take whatever Mikha would say.

Mikha crossed her arms. “Did they tell you to quit?”

“Yep.” Aiah flashed her a smile that was way too innocent to be real. “Literally, every single day.”

Mikha gave a humorless little huff. “Then maybe they should see how much work I pile on you. They’d drag you home themselves.”

Aiah dropped her gaze to the papers on her desk and muttered under her breath, barely audible, “Yeah, you’re heartless.”

Her blood froze when Mikha’s brow arched like she might’ve actually heard. For a second, Aiah swore the woman had supersonic hearing.

“What was that?” Mikha’s tone was sharp, a warning more than a question.

“Nothing!” Aiah squeaked, snapping upright like she’d just been caught cheating on an exam. “Just saying… I’m loyal.” She forced a grin that was ninety percent panic, ten percent charm.

“Loyal,” Mikha echoed, flat and dry. “Or too stubborn to quit.”

For a beat, Aiah wasn’t sure how to take that. Was that… a hint? Did Mikha actually want her to quit? She wouldn’t be surprised. After all, Mikha had gone through secretaries faster than she went through coffee, and none of them had lasted long enough to even figure out how the office printer jammed. Maybe Mikha was just waiting for her to crack like the rest, to throw in the towel and save her the trouble.

Well, tough luck. Aiah is more on the stubborn side. 

If there was one thing Aiah wasn’t going to do, it was back down. Not to her dad telling her to quit. Not to her boss testing her limits. She’d already sacrificed sleep, weekends, and an entire skincare routine for this job, there was no way she was walking away without proving herself first. Not until she could finally reach her dreams. Not until she had something real to show her family.

The phone rang, saving Aiah from the heat creeping up her neck. She snatched it up instantly. “Ms. Lucero’s office... Yes... Okay. I’ll let her know. Bye.”

She set the phone down and looked up at Mikha, who was still hovering like a storm cloud waiting to strike.

“Anderson needs to see you upstairs right now,” Aiah reported.

Mikha groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Great. Just what I needed. More Anderson.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Come and get me in ten minutes. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Will do,” Aiah chirped.

Only after Mikha walked away did Aiah let out the breath she’d been holding. Between her dad and her boss, she wasn’t sure which one scared her more. Two terrifying authority figures breathing down her neck was just too much for her to handle in this lifetime.

Her dad had the typical scary silent-disappointed-Filipino-father energy, but at least he was thousands of miles away and couldn’t smack her upside the head. Mikha, on the other hand? Aiah was within the witch’s slapping distance. And honestly, that was way more terrifying.

Mikha Lucero couldn’t help but wonder why the chairman of the board had summoned her. It had to be one of two things: either a pay raise (finally), or a personal round of applause for landing the official launch date for Born To Win, something that had the entire board grinning like kids on Christmas morning, and more importantly, solidified her reputation as someone who got things done. Either way, both outcomes eventually circled back to the first point: her pay raise.

That’s how Mikha’s brain liked to arrange things: success first, money next, sleep… somewhere far down the list.

The truth was, Mikha lived for this. The endless meetings, the impossible deadlines, the way her calendar looked like a battlefield of color-coded chaos. She thrived on it. Work wasn’t just something she did; it was the one thing she knew she was unbeatable at. And if the chairman wanted to pat her on the back for it? Well, she wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she’d take the compliment and probably replay it in her head later while smugly sipping overpriced coffee.

Or maybe she’ll try that white chocolate mocha again.

She pushed open the door to the chairman’s office suite with the same commanding presence she carried into every meeting. Her shoulders squared, chin tilted just enough to say “I run this place, and we all know it.”

The secretary glanced up, visibly straightening at the sight of her.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Lucero,” the secretary greeted politely.

Mikha gave a curt nod, her expression unreadable. She didn’t waste words on pleasantries. She never did. Efficiency was her language, and silence often spoke louder than anything she could say.

Behind the cool exterior, though, there was the faintest spark she refused to show. The board’s recognition of Born To Win had been more than a win; it was proof her relentless pace, her long nights, and her refusal to settle for mediocrity were paying off. If there was one thing Mikha Lucero took pride in, it was her work. And she wasn’t about to let anyone see how much she wanted that acknowledgment.

She adjusted the cuff of her blazer, her face impassive, and said only, “He’s expecting me?”

The secretary nodded quickly.

Without another word, Mikha crossed the suite and pushed the office doors open, her heels clicking like a metronome that set the tone of the room before she even entered.

The doors shut behind her with a soft click.

Chairman Scott Anderson didn’t look up right away. He was hunched over a stack of documents, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the cavernous office.

Mikha stopped two feet from his desk, hands clasped neatly in front of her, posture like a soldier waiting for inspection. If he made her stand there in silence for ten minutes, she’d do it without a blink. Patience, discipline, these were her weapons.

Finally, Anderson exhaled through his nose and set the pen down. He lifted his gaze, sharp and assessing, the kind of look that made most executives in the building sweat.

“Lucero,” he said, his deep voice carrying both weariness and authority. “You’ve been keeping the board very… entertained.”

Most people would flinch at the ambiguous tone. Mikha didn’t. She kept her face neutral, eyes steady on his.

“Securing the official launch date for Born To Win,” he continued, leaning back in his chair, “that was no small feat. I’ve had board members sing your praises in ways I didn’t think they were capable of.” His lips twitched like the idea amused him. “Congratulations.”

Her jaw didn’t move, her hands didn’t twitch, but inside, a small spark of satisfaction bloomed. She let it sit in the quiet corners of her chest, hidden. Recognition mattered, even if she’d never admit it.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, her tone flat, professional, controlled.

Anderson chuckled, low and gravelly. “Always so polite. Always so… cold. One of these days, Lucero, you’ll allow yourself to look proud of what you’ve built.”

She didn’t rise to the bait. That was the thing about Mikha Lucero. She never gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing her slip.

She remained standing, not showing any emotions even with all the praises, and asked the only question that made sense to her on why she was summoned here.

“This is about my pay raise, isn’t it?”

Her tone was calm, almost businesslike. It wasn’t a joke. She wasn’t fishing for reassurance. To Mikha, it was simply the most logical conclusion.

Anderson chuckled, though there was no warmth in it. “Not exactly.” His smile faded. “Do you remember when we agreed you wouldn’t travel to the Oxford Book Fair until your visa application was processed?”

Her back stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

“And yet, you went.”

“Yes,” she admitted without hesitation. No excuses, no shame. “We were about to lose Pablo to a competitor. He’s an incredible writer. He’s a big hit. I saw an opportunity to talk to him and get him to sign with us. I had no choice.”

The chairman leaned back, studying her. “Mikha, the U.S. government doesn’t care about who publishes Pablo. We just spoke to your immigration attorney.”

Her heartbeat stuttered, but her face didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. “Excellent. Then I believe that the matter is already being handled.”

His sigh was heavy. “Mikha… your visa application has been denied. You’re being deported.”

The word slammed into her like a door being shut. She blinked, just once. “Deported?”

“Apparently, there was also some paperwork that you didn’t fill out on time. We can reapply, but you must leave the country for at least a year.”

A year. The thought hollowed her out. Paperwork? How could she have missed that? She never missed anything. Not signatures, not deadlines, not a single detail, especially not with Aiah at her side. Her secretary was meticulous, the kind of person who caught deadlines three weeks before they existed. If something had slipped through the cracks, it wasn’t just strange, it was impossible.

Unless… unless it had slipped during the Oxford chaos, buried under the avalanche of contracts, travel documents, and author crises. Maybe it had been one of those late nights when exhaustion blurred her eyes, or worse, maybe she’d brushed it off, thinking she’d get back to it later, only to lose it in the storm of emergencies she was constantly putting out.

Still, none of it made sense. Mikha Lucero did not miss paperwork. And yet here she was, being told her career was about to be derailed by a single forgotten signature.

Her stomach tightened, but her voice came out calm. “That’s not ideal, but I can manage operations remotely. Technology allows for—”

He cut her off. “If you’re deported, you cannot work for an American company. In the meantime, operations will be handed over to Sophia Lacorteza.”

For the first time, Mikha’s composure cracked. Her lips parted in disbelief. “…The woman I just fired?”

"We need an editor-in-chief, and she's the only person in the building with enough experience and competence to fill in for you," the chairman explained.

Inside, humiliation burned hot. Outwardly, Mikha stood frozen, her jaw taut. Sophia in her chair? The thought was unthinkable. She had clawed her way up, the youngest woman to run one of New York’s most reputable publishing houses. To lose it all, and to her?

“You cannot be serious. I beg of you,” she said, her voice dropping into something dangerously close to desperation. The words left her mouth sharper than she intended, but she couldn’t stop them. She had played a pivotal role in building this company’s reputation, brick by brick, deal by deal. Sophia Lacorteza was talented, sure, just enough to serve as second in command. But that was the point. She was second. Mikha was chief. Because she was the best. Seeing her hard-won seat handed to someone she had recently fired? That would be the ultimate humiliation. One she couldn’t fathom enduring. Not for a year. Not for a single day.

“Anderson, please,” she pressed, her tone cracking with urgency. “I’ve worked too hard for this. Don’t hand everything I’ve built to someone else.”

The chairman’s expression softened, lines of worry creasing his face. He leaned forward, resting his hands together as though he carried the weight of the entire situation in his palms. “Mikha… believe me, we’re desperate to keep you here. You’re the best we have. You’re the one who keeps this company sharp, competitive, alive. If there’s any way… any way at all that we can make this work, we’ll do it.” His voice was firm, but there was an unmistakable sadness beneath it, as though he hated every word he was forced to say.

Mikha stood still, her nails pressing crescents into her palms, her back straight, her jaw tight, every muscle wired with control. She wanted to fire back, but what else could she say? Appeal to logic? To loyalty? Remind them she had doubled profits when she started being the editor-in-chief, that she’d turned disasters into bestsellers, that without her, the publishing house would be roadkill in an industry already half-dead? She wanted to throw down the numbers, the facts, the wins, anything to make him see reason, to make this nightmare bend.

Her mind scrambled for leverage, some sharp edge she could wield to cut through the bureaucracy strangling her. A promise? A compromise? What was left to bargain with when the rules weren’t his to break?

And then—

A knock cut through the heavy silence. Both turned their heads toward the door.

“Excuse me, but we’re in a meeting,” Anderson said.

The door cracked open anyway, and Aiah poked her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the finance head, Mr. Griffin, called. He said it was urgent. He wants to talk to Ms. Lucero.”

Mikha’s eyes narrowed. She knew perfectly well this was the rescue plan she’d told Aiah to execute so she could leave this meeting as soon as she could. But this wasn’t the moment she wanted it. Not now.

She no longer wanted to be rescued from the meeting; she wanted to salvage her job. “Please tell him I’ll give him a call back. Thank you,” Mikha said crisply, dismissing the excuse she herself had asked Aiah to use.

Mikha’s mind spun. Deportation. Sophia. Everything slipping away.

Being as observant as ever, her secretary seemed to immediately register the tension in the room. Aiah straightened, her tone polite but careful. “Yes, I informed him that you are currently engaged in a meeting. He was insistent on relaying the message, so… my apologies once again for the interruption, Ms. Lucero, Mr. Anderson.”

Aiah was already turning toward the door when Mikha froze. A light inside her incredible brain had flickered on. An idea. Risky. Outrageous. But maybe her only card left.

Engaged.

The word lit up in her mind like a flare. Not the “busy at work” kind of engaged, the other kind. The kind that could solve her problem right here, right now.

Her stomach twisted at how insane the idea was, but desperate times didn’t exactly leave room for modest solutions.

“Uh… wait,” Mikha said, her voice quieter now, but firm enough to make Aiah pause mid-step.

The brunette secretary turned back, brows furrowed in confusion.

Mikha gave her the faintest look, the kind that said play along or we’re both doomed.

“Come here,” Mikha said quietly.

Aiah obeyed, wary, her brows knitting together.

Mikha drew in a steadying breath, then turned back to the chairman. “Sir… I understand how serious this is. And there’s something important you should know.”

Anderson frowned. “Go on.”

Mikha’s pulse thundered in her ears, so loud she was almost certain Anderson could hear it. Every instinct screamed at her to keep her silence, to control the narrative, to never ever let desperation drive her words. Yet here she was, standing in front of the chairman of the board, seconds away from detonating a lie she could never take back.

Her smile came sharp and deliberate, practiced like every other mask she wore in this city. But beneath it, her stomach twisted, torn between humiliation and the ruthless instinct to survive. She hated how cornered she felt, how this one misstep… this stupid, unthinkable paperwork oversight, had pushed her into a corner where even she, Mikha Lucero, had no elegant escape.

But if there was one thing she excelled at, it was forcing the universe to bend before she did.

Her voice came steady, clipped, carrying none of the chaos thrashing inside her chest.

“We’re getting married.”

The words landed like a live grenade.

Aiah Arienza blinked hard and was very confused.

Chapter Text

“We’re getting married.”

The words tasted foreign, even on her own tongue, but Mikha forced them out like they were carved in stone. Her chest felt tight, her pulse unsteady, but her face remained the mask everyone expected, calm, sharp, untouchable.

And then came the silence.

Not the polite, waiting kind of silence. No, this was the kind that dragged its nails down the walls, stretching and stretching until it felt like the air itself was holding its breath. It was the kind of silence where you could actually hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above and the distant tapping of a keyboard three rooms away.

Across from her, Chairman Anderson froze mid-breath, his pen hovering above the paper like it, too, couldn’t believe what it had just heard.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aiah stiffen. The poor secretary blinked once, twice, her lips parting in a silent gasp as confusion swept across her face. She looked like someone who had just been shoved onto a Broadway stage with no lines, no costume, and definitely no clue what play she was in.

The sight twisted something sharp in Mikha’s gut. Guilt, perhaps. Or regret. But she buried it deep beneath the steel mask she wore, refusing to let either Aiah or Anderson see her falter.

She didn’t flinch. She couldn’t. Not now.

Instead, she lifted her chin, meeting Anderson’s gaze head-on, as if daring him to call her bluff. As far as anyone else was concerned, this was no bluff.

This was fact.

Silence. Still.

It was so unbearable Mikha almost heard her own heartbeat trying to punch its way out of her ribs.

“We’re getting married,” she repeated, this time slow and deliberate, putting extra weight on every word like she was hammering nails into a coffin. Hopefully not her own.

If she was right… and oh, please let her be right, Aiah Arienza’s HR file had her listed as a U.S. citizen. Which meant instant green card. Which meant deportation? Cancelled. Which meant her entire career wouldn’t go up in flames today.

But if she was wrong? Well, then she’d just announced the world’s dumbest fake engagement in front of the chairman of the board.

No big deal. Just her dignity, her job, and her sanity on the line.

Well, this entire plan was indeed insane. Even Mikha Lucero who prided herself on being sharp, composed, and always in control, couldn’t deny how ridiculous this sounded coming out of her mouth. But ridiculous or not, it was the only card she had left to play. She prayed to every higher power that she was indeed correct and that this plan would pull through. Otherwise, she wasn’t just desperate. She was desperate and stupid.

Aiah blinked at her like someone who’d just been told the Earth was flat. “Uh… boss? Who’s getting married?” she whispered.

“You and I,” Mikha shot back smoothly, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

Aiah’s brows pulled together. “You and I?”

“Yes,” Mikha said, with the patience of someone explaining gravity to a toddler. “You and I are getting married.” She smiled like she was totally serious, totally sane, and not making this up on the fly.

Silence. Glorious, awkward silence.

Tension. Aiah’s expression screamed malfunctioning processor.

“Come on, baby,” Mikha added, forcing out a laugh that sounded way too close to a nervous cackle. “We’ve already finalized the plans. Don’t go all shy on me now, not in front of the gentleman.”

Just go with it. Just go with it. Just go with it, Mikha chanted in her head like a mantra.

Aiah, still staring into the void, muttered under her breath, “You and I are getting married…” as if trying to translate it into a language she understood.

“Yes, that’s right!” Mikha swooped in before Aiah could short-circuit any further, sliding an arm around her secretary’s waist in what she hoped looked like an affectionate gesture and not a desperate death grip.

To her relief, Aiah didn’t shove her off. She didn’t even twitch. Which was either a good sign… or a bad one. Maybe the poor girl was just too stunned to process the fact that her boss had just declared them fiancées in public.

Either way, Mikha tightened her hold, pasted on a winning smile, and prayed no one noticed the sheer madness of what she’d just set in motion.

“Isn’t she your secretary?” The chairman’s voice was laced with a healthy dose of skepticism, brows pulling together like he’d just discovered a typo in his morning crossword.

“Yes, technically.” Mikha let out a nervous little chuckle that she hoped sounded charmingly casual. “A Personal Assistant… Executive… Personal Assistant Secretary. Titles, you know? Very fluid these days.” Her laugh sounded a little bit like a dying goose.

And then… because apparently her mouth was determined to dig her an early grave, she added, “But hey, it wouldn’t be the first time someone around here fell for their secretary, right? Like your ex-wife, Laura. Remember?”

The second the words left her mouth, Mikha wanted to grab them out of the air and stuff them back down her throat. Why, brain, why? Of all possible examples, she had to throw his failed marriage into the mix. Perfect.

But the words were out before she could stop them, and Mikha’s stomach did a free fall.

It was wildly inappropriate, completely unprofessional, and a massive risk. But she was betting on the chairman’s embarrassment, a man who’d rather swallow a porcupine whole than revisit his very public, very messy affair. She needed him to see this as a “been there, done that” situation, not a professional catastrophe.

She could practically see the gears turning in his head. This crazy, last-ditch effort to get the chairman to see things her way seemed to be working. It was an unprofessional jab at a sore subject, but she was counting on the fact that he’d be too embarrassed to call her out on it.

She kept her smile plastered on, pretending she hadn’t just sprinted past the line of professionalism and done a victory lap. The trick was to look confident. Always look confident. And she powered through anyway, because what else could she do? “What I’m trying to say is, Aiah and I… Well, we find ourselves in a similar situation. We’re just two people who weren’t supposed to fall in love, but we did.”

Inside, Mikha’s stomach twisted like she’d just swallowed a handful of paperclips. The words she just said tasted like expired milk on her tongue. Outwardly, she smiled like she had just recited a touching love confession instead of detonating a conversational landmine.

“Hmmm.” Scott Anderson leaned back, eyes narrowing in that way bosses do when they’re filing your life choices under “deeply suspicious.” Clearly, he wasn’t going to touch the “Laura” comment with a ten-foot pole. Too messy. Instead, he took a deep breath, trying to process the absurdity of the situation without having to open the very large, very inconvenient can of worms that was his personal life.

He gave Mikha and Aiah a long, assessing look that made Mikha want to dissolve into the carpet.

“All those late nights at the office, weekend book fairs, business trips, lunch outings…” Mikha rattled off, her voice dangerously close to cracking. “Eventually, something… something happened.”

Total nonsense. Grade-A bull. She knew it. The chairman probably knew it. Aiah definitely knew it. But did that stop her? Nope. Because right now, the only thing flashing in her brain like a neon sign was “visa denial = career funeral.” It wasn’t exactly her personality to spin wild fairy tales like this, but losing her entire career over a paperwork technicality? Absolutely not. She had clawed her way to the top of Bloom Publishing, and she wasn’t about to see it crumble just because of some ridiculous visa issue. She’d say anything, do anything, to protect her legacy.

“We tried to fight it,” she continued, adding just enough breathy emotion to sound convincing. “Avoid it, even. Because, you know… workplace ethics. HR wouldn’t be so happy about it. But when you fall, you fall, right?” She fluttered her lashes at Aiah, praying Aiah wouldn’t spontaneously combust under the spotlight. Or worse, call her bluff.

“So, uh… we’re good with this?” Mikha asked, her tone sugary enough to give cavities. “I hope this is… good news? Considering… well, everything.” If she could’ve crossed her fingers and her toes at the same time, she would have.

Scott Anderson leaned back in his leather chair, his face doing that thing dads do when they’re handed a suspiciously finger-painted ‘art project’ that looks more like roadkill than a rainbow. He glanced at Mikha, then at Aiah, then back again, clearly calculating just how much disbelief he was willing to swallow in one sitting.

Suspicious? Absolutely. Everything about this screamed fishy. The stiff posture. The too-wide smiles. The fact that Mikha Lucero, of all people, suddenly went soft-voiced about romance like she was auditioning for a Hallmark movie.

He had seen enough schemes in his life to know a fake story when he heard one, but he also knew a good result when he saw one. The truth was, he didn’t want to lose Mikha Lucero. She was the best thing that ever happened to this company. She’s sharp, ruthless, the kind of talent you don’t just replace with a job posting. And if her little announcement will keep her in the country and conveniently shift the spotlight away from that whole oops, had an affair with my secretary fiasco that everyone pretended to forget? Even better.

He tapped his fingers against the desk, hesitating just long enough to make Mikha feel her heart crawl into her throat. Then he smiled, slow and practiced, as though he’d decided to believe the performance for both their sakes.

“Mikha, that’s fantastic. I’m genuinely happy for you both.”, nodding like a proud dad at a high school talent show, pretending his kid’s off-key saxophone solo was pure genius. “Just make sure it’s legally official, alright?” He tapped his ring finger, and Mikha almost fainted with relief.

“The ring. Legal. Of course.” Mikha nodded so hard she was surprised her head didn’t fly off. “Well then, that means we need to get to the immigration office to sort out this whole mess.”

“Good.” The chairman nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson,” Mikha said with the poise of someone who hadn’t just lied through her teeth. “We’ll take care of it immediately.”

And with that, she swept out of the office like a woman on a mission, Aiah trailing behind her in absolute silence. Her secretary’s face screamed WHAT JUST HAPPENED? but Mikha didn’t dare look back. She was too busy pretending this whole train wreck was actually under control.

News of the Mikha Lucero-Aiah Arienza engagement spread through the building faster than a celebrity gossip tweet. By the time they made it halfway down the hall, everyone already knew. As Aiah trailed her boss back to the office, everyone they passed was staring, whispering, and giggling. Some gave her thumbs-ups, some gave her disapproving scowls, and one guy even slow clapped. Aiah felt like she was trapped in a bad dream. She couldn't understand what was wrong with all of them. Heck, she couldn't even comprehend what was happening herself.

She was suddenly feeling dizzy. As she stared blankly at Mikha’s back, she tried to rewind the last few minutes, to make sense of what her boss had said in the chairman’s office.

‘You and I are getting married...’

Aiah shook her head. No. That couldn’t be right. Mikha Lucero would never say anything that catastrophically stupid. Right? She had to have misheard. Maybe Mikha actually said “We’re very harried” or “We’re getting married to our jobs.” Something sane. Yes. Definitely.

“Girl, for real?” Debbie whispered from her cubicle as Aiah passed by. “Didn’t know you were into ladies. Powerful, intimidating ladies. Honestly, kinda hot.”

Aiah shot her a death glare.

Debbie grinned wider. “Oooh. Hot.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

By the time Aiah shut the door to Mikha’s office behind them, she was bracing herself for something. An explanation, maybe. She stood there awkwardly, waiting, hoping, praying her boss would acknowledge the insanity that had just unfolded. Instead, Mikha just sat down, pulled a stack of paperwork toward her, and started signing papers like it was just another Tuesday.

Aiah cleared her throat. Loudly.

“What?” Mikha asked without looking up. “Your workload isn’t going to magically finish itself if you just stand there.”

"I don't really understand what's happening," Aiah said, her voice shaking.

“Oh, that?” Mikha flipped a page, casual as ever. “Relax. This is for you too.”

Aiah blinked. “Please enlighten me, because I’m kinda lost here.”

Mikha sighed as if Aiah were a particularly difficult piece of paperwork. "He was going to make Sophia chief.”

"So, naturally, I have to marry you?" Aiah's voice rose with incredulity.

“What’s the problem? It’s not like you’re saving yourself for someone special.”

"W-well, yes, maybe. But regard—"

"What was the girl's name again? Maloi?"

"What? No! That's not what I'm saying—"

"If you're single and there's no one, then I don't see the problem."

“Mikha.” Aiah dropped all formalities, her voice sharp. She was pissed. Pissed at the constant interruptions, at the ridiculousness of this whole conversation, and mostly at Mikha acting like her feelings were just a mild inconvenience. She was done playing. “I’m not gonna marry you.”

"Oh, yes, you are," Mikha countered, not missing a beat.

"No, I'm not."

“Yes, you are. Because if you don’t, your dreams of touching millions of readers with your precious words are dead.”

Aiah’s jaw dropped. Her head actually hurt from trying to process the level of manipulation happening in real time. Mikha sounded less like a boss and more like a villain monologuing right before the evil plan worked.

"Look," Mikha said, finally setting her pen down. "I'm being deported. And Sophia Lacorteza? She's going to fire you the second I'm gone. Why? She knows your loyalty is to me. That means no job, no future, and no dreams of becoming an editor. All the time and hard work you've put in here will have been for nothing.”

Aiah's life flashed before her eyes: jobless, broke, dreams slipping out of reach. She remembered the endless late nights, the instant cup ramen dinners at her desk, the quiet satisfaction of accomplishing deadlines. Why was her entire career suddenly on the line because of this woman?

"I guess you don't want that, do you?" Mikha said with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Don't worry, we'll get a quick divorce after the required allotment of time. But until then, whether you like it or not, we are getting married. Okay?"

Aiah opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She needed time. Space. A new brain. Anything to make sense of this insanity. Aiah couldn't say yes, but she couldn't say no either. She needed time to think, to breathe, to process.

“Now,” Mikha said briskly, “get ready. We’re going to the immigration office.”

But Mikha, her soon-to-be-wife, wasn't giving her a moment.

Wife.

Aiah cringed so hard she was shocked her spine didn’t snap clean in half at the thought of Mikha Lucero, Mikha freaking Lucero, being her wife. Her wife. Ugh. Just thinking about it made her want to scrub her brain with bleach. Sure, it wasn’t forever, just long enough to dodge deportation and maybe her own criminal record, but still, she’d always imagined her future a little differently. Like, maybe ending up with someone decent. Someone who didn’t make her want to commit murder every other Tuesday.

Don’t get her wrong. Aiah wasn't blind. It wasn’t like Mikha was lacking in the looks department. No, the witch had to go and be gorgeous on top of everything else. She’s elegant, she’s stunning, and had a way of commanding a room that made everyone else look like a faded photograph. The kind of woman you put on a magazine cover and then cry into your ramen about because you’d never stand a chance. No, the problem wasn’t the face. It was the personality that came with it.

Aiah wanted someone kind. Gentle. Patient. Maybe even warm. 

Mikha? Nowhere near warm. Mikha was the opposite of all those things. If anything, she was the human equivalent of a blizzard: pushy, demanding, manipulative, selfish, and just plain mean. A cruel witch. Aiah didn’t want to marry a witch. She had no intention of marrying a witch, no matter how good she looked in a business suit. The idea of marrying Mikha, even for a limited engagement, felt like a deal with the devil.

But what choice did she have? Mikha wasn’t wrong. If she got deported, Bloom Publishing would have no choice but to hand the reins over to Sophia Lacorteza, the ever-ambitious second-in-command. And the board will actually do it, because Sophia was competent enough, safe, reliable, already waiting in the wings. They’d probably applaud the seamless transition, pat themselves on the back, and move on. 

In fact, Aiah could already picture her: Sophia strutting through the office in Mikha’s chair, heels clicking like a victory drumroll, measuring curtains for the editor-in-chief’s office window while humming a smug little tune. She’d slap her name on Mikha’s projects, polish them up with her “team player” grin, and by Monday morning, everyone would pretend Mikha Lucero had never existed.

Which meant everything Mikha had built would burn to ash, and Aiah’s hard-earned spot in the company would turn to collateral damage in the fire. She’d spent years trying to grind her way up with trainings, seminars, unpaid overtime, all while surviving Mikha’s volcanic temper. Starting over wasn’t an option. Not after pouring so much of herself into this place. And definitely not after how badly things already stood with her father. Running home defeated would just prove him right, and that wasn’t happening. Not after everything. Not after proving she could stand on her own two feet.

Internally, Aiah was screaming. Loud. Like horror-movie-final-girl loud. Because, of course, even now, Mikha was still finding a way to use her. Twist her arm. Trap her into this ridiculous fake engagement. And the worst part? Aiah couldn’t even protest. Because the witch didn’t just have broomsticks and black eyeliner on her side. No, Mikha had something way worse. Subtle, terrifying blackmail.

With a heavy sigh, Aiah fished Mikha’s spare car keys out of her pocket. Every nerve in her body screamed that this was wrong, that it went against everything she believed in. She wasn’t the type to bend the rules, much less break federal law while holding the witch’s handbag in one hand and her dignity in the other. Yet here she was, cornered into playing along with Mikha’s scheme. Trapped. It felt like stepping into a cage and tossing the key over her shoulder.

So yeah, wedding bells. Lucky her.

Like every other government office on a Tuesday, the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services was a zoo. People of every nationality packed the place, clutching folders and papers like their lives depended on it, because, well, they probably did. The air hummed with the quiet desperation of a thousand dreams and the collective sigh of people who had been waiting for what felt like an eternity. People are shifting in their seats, and looking about five minutes away from giving up on their American Dream altogether.

Aiah scanned the room and spotted the line. Correction: the line. It stretched all the way to what looked like the end of time. By her rough estimate, they’d get to the counter right around next Tuesday.

"Follow me," Mikha commanded, her voice cutting through the air. Aiah, ever the good employee, began to lead her to the end of the line, only to watch her boss veer off course and head straight to the front.

"Hey! There's a line," Aiah groaned, her voice coming out part warning, part desperate plea for basic human decency as Mikha, without a shred of shame, swooped in like she owned the place, cutting in on some poor woman who was already speaking with a representative. Aiah wanted to melt into the floor. Or crawl under a desk. Or maybe fake a fainting spell. Anything but be seen with this woman. Was there a witness protection program for secretaries?

The rep frowned. “Ma’am, there’s a line. Please proceed to the back.”

“This will be quick.” Mikha dropped a folder on his desk like she was handing him his homework. “I just need you to file this fiancée visa for me.”

The guy looked at her the way teachers look at kids who claim the dog ate their essay. Then he sighed, opened the folder, skimmed the contents, and exhaled like he’d seen this kind of entitled chaos before.

“Ms. Mikha Lucero?” he asked, one eyebrow climbing into orbit.

“Yes,” Mikha said, chin tilted like the name should explain everything.

The rep closed the folder with a snap. “Please come with me.”

And just like that, they were being escorted to a small office. Aiah shuffled behind them, rehearsing what she’d tell the FBI when they inevitably showed up. “Hi, yes, I’d like to state for the record that I was kidnapped into this engagement. Blink twice if you’re being held hostage? Yeah, that’s me.”

Meanwhile, Mikha looked like she was about to ask for a complimentary glass of champagne.

The office looked like every government office ever: bland walls, filing cabinets that probably hadn’t moved since the ’90s, and fluorescent lights that buzzed just enough to make you regret every decision that led you here. Behind the desk sat a woman in her late thirties with sleek black hair and glasses, the type who probably never lost a pen in her life and would silently judge you if you did.

Aiah read the name on the desk: Sarah Gibson.

Sarah stood to greet them with the kind of professional smile that could either mean Welcome, I’m here to help or Welcome, I will politely dismantle your life.

"Hi, I'm Sarah," she said. "I'm the immigration agent handling Ms. Mikha Lucero's case."

“I’m Mikha Lucero,” the boss said smoothly, shaking Sarah’s hand like she was negotiating world peace. “We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.”

Sarah chuckled. “Well, it’s literally my job.” Then she turned to Aiah. “You must be Aiah Arienza?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

"Great. Please have a seat."

They settled in. Sarah flipped open a folder, scanning through it with the calm efficiency of someone who knew exactly how much power she had over your life.

“So…” she started, shutting the folder with a dramatic snap. “Just one question. Are both of you committing fraud to prevent Ms. Lucero's deportation so she can retain her position as editor-in-chief at Bloom Publishing?"

Aiah blinked. Wow. Straight to the point. No warm-up? Not even a coffee first?

Beside her, Mikha scoffed. Of course she did. “That’s ridiculous. Where did you hear that?”

“We received a phone tip this afternoon from a woman named—”

“Sophia Lacorteza?” Mikha cut in, already rolling her eyes.

“Yes. Sophia Lacorteza.”

“Oh, Sophia. Poor Sophia.” Mikha shook her head, looking appropriately tragic. “She’s a bitter ex-employee I had to fire. I’m sorry you had to hear her nonsense.”

“Hmm.” Sarah gave Mikha the kind of look cats give when you try to convince them the vet is fun.

Not missing a beat, Mikha stood, all charm and boss energy. “Well, we don’t want to take too much of your time. We know you’re very busy. If you’d just tell us the next step, we’ll be on our way—”

“Ms. Lucero.” Sarah’s tone sharpened. “Please sit.”

To Aiah’s surprise, Mikha actually sat down. Aiah had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing. It was so entertaining to see the great Mikha Lucero, the most demanding woman on the planet, follow orders from someone else. Someone should write this down in history books.

"Let me explain the process," Sarah began. "Step one will be a scheduled interview. I'll place each of you in a separate room and ask you every little question a real couple would know about each other."

Mikha and Aiah nodded.

"Step two, I dig deeper. Sarah said, her voice turning to ice. "I'll look at your phone records, talk to your neighbors, and interview your co-workers. If your answers don't match up, Ms. Lucero, you will be deported indefinitely." 

Then Sarah’s eyes slid to Aiah. "And you, young lady, will have committed a felony punishable by a $250,000 fine and five years in federal prison."

Aiah froze.

…Excuse me?

Her brain short-circuited.

Two. Hundred. Fifty. Thousand. Dollars.

Five. Years. In. Prison.

What the actual hell?

Her stomach twisted into a knot. She was the one being used, and somehow she was the one with the prison sentence? Mikha will be deported, but Aiah will have to deal with orange jumpsuits and bad cafeteria food? Oh, sure, that’s fair. Totally logical. Let’s ruin my life too, why not.

She felt sick to her stomach, her face probably looking like a constipated freak.

Mikha was staring daggers at her, silently screaming don’t you dare ruin this, while Sarah’s gaze softened with concern.

"Ms. Arienza, are you okay?"

"Uh... Y-yeah..."

"Is there anything you'd like to discuss with me?"

Her throat went dry. Should she tell the truth? Just spit it out? Aiah's mind raced. A fine and prison time versus losing her job and starting over? The choice seemed obvious.

Sarah waited patiently, while Mikha’s glare screamed: Open your mouth and I’ll kill you with my bare hands.

Aiah’s pulse thundered in her ears. The truth sat right there on her tongue, begging to be let out. Confess now, walk away clean. No lies, no criminal record, no insane boss dragging her down. She could start over.

But then the thought clawed its way in: every movement felt heavier than it should, like her body already knew she was about to cross a line she’d sworn she’d never touch.

This wasn’t her. She wasn’t the kind of person who got tangled up in fraud, who signed her name on lies just to save her own skin. She’d built her whole identity on the opposite: hard work, sleepless nights, refusing shortcuts, no matter how tempting. That was supposed to mean something.

And yet here she was, staring down the wreckage of those values, seriously considering if survival was worth the sellout.

She felt trapped, like Mikha had built this velvet-lined cage just for her with all its sharp edges dressed up in silk promises. It went against everything she believed in, everything she’d ever sworn she wouldn’t do.

Her stomach twisted. She hated herself a little for even letting the thought linger. For giving in. But survival had a way of shouting louder than guilt. And guilt, unfortunately, didn’t pay rent.

Then… like a fever dream or a stroke of genius… the devious little plan popped into her head.

"The truth is..." she cleared her throat.

Sarah leaned in. “Yes?”

“The truth is… Mikha and I…” Aiah’s voice wavered.

"Yes?" Sarah prompted. Mikha bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Ms. Gibson, the truth is... Mikha and I... we're just two people who weren't supposed to fall in love, but we did."

Mikha’s expression softened in relief, like she’d just gotten away with a life sentence.

Sarah arched a brow. “Interesting. And why keep it a secret?”

"We couldn’t tell anyone at work because of my… uh… upcoming promotion." Aiah grinned internally. She was in it now. Two could play this game.

Mikha's eyebrows shot up. "Promotion?" Sarah asked, voicing Mikha's exact thought.

"Yes. We both felt it would be highly inappropriate for me to be promoted to editor while we were in a relationship. Right, baby?" Aiah cooed, patting Mikha's cheek affectionately.

"Uhh... Y-yeah," Mikha mumbled, completely flustered.

"Oh. I see. That somehow makes sense," Sarah said, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "So, have you two told your parents about your secret love?" she turned to Mikha who still looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"N-not possible for me," Mikha mustered despite still being caught off-guard by Aiah’s promotion bomb. "My parents are deceased. No siblings.”

Sarah turned to Aiah. "Well, what about Ms. Arienza’s parents?"

"Mine are very much alive," Aiah said.

"Well, we were planning to tell them this weekend," Mikha jumped in, riding the lie. "It’s my future grandmother-in-law’s 90th birthday. The whole family’s coming together. We thought it would be the perfect time to announce it."

Aiah’s heart plummeted. Of course Mikha remembered her vacation leave request. Now the witch had roped her family into this circus.

And the worst part? Aiah hadn’t thought this through. At all. It hadn’t even crossed Aiah’s mind that this whole fake-fiancée act might extend beyond Bloom’s office walls and government forms. She’d been picturing something temporary, transactional, just sign a few papers, smile through an interview, done. She hadn’t signed up for dragging her parents, her cousins, and her grandmother’s 90th birthday party into the plot twist of the year.

But now? Thanks to Mikha Lucero’s world-class scheming, she was about to bring a literal witch to her family’s doorstep and pretend she was madly in love.

She could already picture it. Her mom’s suspicious squint, her dad’s eternal disapproving eyes, and her relatives whispering like they’d just tuned into a soap opera. Her chest tightened at the thought. She hadn’t wanted to go home yet, because her career wasn’t where she wanted it to be yet. Facing her family when her career was still in limbo felt like salt in an open wound. She wasn’t ready. Not when every sacrifice she’d made still hadn’t bloomed into the success she’d promised herself. Going home unfinished already felt like failure. And now she’d have to go home unfinished and hand-deliver a corporate witch as her fake bride-to-be.

It was too late to back out. She’d already spun Sarah a story thick enough to choke on, and undoing it now would only make everything collapse faster. So she swallowed her dread and told herself to survive first, figure out the guilt later. Her dream would still be waiting for her on the other side of this mess… right?

"Yes, that's right. We're going to tell them this weekend," she played along.

"And where is this surprise going to take place, Mikha?" Sarah asked, testing her.

"Uh... at Aiah's parents' house."

"And where is that located again?" Sarah asked.

"Why am I doing all the talking?" Mikha said with a nervous chuckle. "It's your family's house, babe. Why don't you tell her where it is? Jump in."

“It’s in Cebu,” Aiah said flatly.

“Cebu…?” Mikha echoed, confused.

“Philippines.”

“…P-Philippines?” Mikha squeaked, looking like she’d just realized she’d signed up for a one-way trip to Mars. She probably thought Aiah's family lived somewhere in the U.S.

"So you're flying to the Philippines this weekend?" Sarah asked.

"Yep." / "Y-yes, we are," they said in unison, a clear hesitation in Mikha's voice.

"And how long will you be there?"

"Maybe a week?" Aiah answered.

"What?" Mikha gasped.

Aiah gave her a sweet, innocent smile. "Babe,” she said sweetly, patting Mikha's cheek affectionately. “There's so much to do. I need to show my fiancée around our hometown." Aiah then looked back at Sarah, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Sarah chuckled, as if she found this conversation so ridiculous but entertaining at the same time. "Fine, fine. I see how this is gonna go," she said, jotting notes like she’d just been handed front-row tickets to a drama series. "I will see you both when you get back from your trip for your scheduled interview. And your answers better match up on every account." 

She handed Aiah a sticky note with the details.

“Sure. Thank you,” Aiah said politely, while silently screaming WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DO.

Mikha Lucero prided herself on control, on never cracking, never slipping, never letting anyone see behind the mask. Walking into Sarah Gibson’s dull little office, she’d fully intended to treat it like just another negotiation: different table, same stakes. Her chin high, steps even, voice smooth as glass. People respected confidence, and if they didn’t, at least it unsettled them long enough for her to take control.

She sat across from the immigration agent, back straight, expression composed, the picture of confidence. On the outside, she looked like a woman who could charm her way out of anything. On the inside? She was running mental gymnastics fast enough to qualify for the Olympics. Her chest was a live wire. Every fluorescent hum overhead, every shuffle of papers on the agent’s desk, sounded like a countdown.

Sarah Gibson. That was the agent’s name. Neat hair, sharp glasses, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Mikha clocked her in three seconds flat: the type who could gut you politely while filing her nails. Dangerous.

Still, Mikha offered her hand like she was meeting a potential investor. “We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.” Smooth. Calm. World peace negotiator vibes. A masterclass in graceful manipulation. Meanwhile, her pulse hammered against her ribs.

When Sarah asked if they were committing fraud, Mikha nearly laughed. It was too direct, too blunt. Fraud wasn’t a word you wanted floating in the air where it could stick. Sarah said it so casually it was almost funny, if it weren’t aimed directly at her. Mikha scoffed, played offended, and countered with Sophia’s name before Sarah could even say it, spinning the narrative: poor Sophia, bitter Sophia, desperate ex-employee Sophia. Easy. A classic move. Discredit the rival, control the narrative, keep it moving.

Except Sarah didn’t look convinced. She looked… amused. And Mikha hated when people looked amused. Amusement meant they weren’t fully buying it. Cats and immigration officers, they had the same look when they decided you weren’t fooling them.

Then came the process: separate interviews, digging through records, interrogating coworkers. Mikha’s mask never cracked, but her stomach tightened. Sarah wasn’t bluffing. One slip, one tiny inconsistency, and it was over.

Her brain started speed-running scenarios like a computer on fire. How many people at Bloom would actually cover for her? How airtight was her phone history? Could Aiah be trusted not to accidentally mention she once cried in the breakroom after shredding one of Mikha’s drafts?

And then, deportation. That word wasn’t just a threat. It was annihilation. Not just for her career, but for everything she’d built. Bloom wasn’t just a job. It was her empire, her crown, her reason for waking up at ungodly hours. Being stripped of that meant being stripped of herself.

When Sarah turned her icy warning onto the brunette secretary, Mikha felt the air shift. $250,000 fine. Federal prison. Mikha caught the way Aiah’s face drained of color, how her shoulders stiffened. The girl looked like she’d just been handed her own death sentence. And for a split, horrifying second, Mikha thought Aiah was going to break. She could practically see the confession bubbling up, the truth spilling out, all of it collapsing around them.

For that flicker of a second, Mikha actually felt her throat tighten. She hadn’t thought about what this scheme cost Aiah. She hadn’t let herself. Because if she thought about it too hard, she might hesitate. And hesitation was fatal.

So when Sarah asked if Aiah had anything to share, Mikha sent her a look sharp enough to slice: Don’t you dare. Don’t you ruin this.

Aiah opened her mouth, and Mikha braced for disaster.

And miracle of miracles… Aiah didn’t crack. Instead, she spun gold out of nothing. Ridiculous, reckless, and utterly brilliant: “We weren’t supposed to fall in love, but we did.”

For the first time since stepping foot in this office, Mikha’s mask almost slipped. Relief flooded her so fast it made her dizzy. The little secretary had bite after all.

And then Aiah dropped the promotion bomb, and Mikha almost choked. Promotion? What promotion? Where had that come from? Sarah’s eyebrow rose, and Mikha had to nod along like this wasn’t the first she’d heard of it. For once, she was the one caught off-guard, her brain scrambling to catch up. But she nodded anyway, because hell, it worked. Sarah looked almost… entertained.

Mikha almost relaxed. Almost.

Then Sarah asked about families. Parents. Announcements. Mikha played her tragic orphan card, clean, simple, airtight. Sympathy points secured. And then, thinking she was clever, she volunteered the only personal detail she’d bothered to memorize: Aiah’s grandmother’s 90th birthday.

It wasn’t even a lie. She remembered it from Aiah’s vacation leave request and figured it made for a heartwarming, believable excuse. After all, she’d already checked Aiah’s HR records right after that ridiculous “engagement” stunt with Anderson, and confirmed the girl was a U.S. citizen. So obviously her family lived somewhere safe. Nebraska, maybe. Or Florida. One of those places with more cornfields than people. Manageable.

Except Aiah, bless her sunshine soul, decided to detonate the nuclear bomb: “Philippines.”

Mikha’s entire body went cold. she thought she’d misheard. Philippines? As in international trip, passports, plane rides, jet lag Philippines? She had built her neat little lie on the assumption that Aiah’s family lived somewhere in America. Now, thanks to Aiah, Mikha was staring down an intercontinental nightmare?

That one word unraveled everything. This wasn’t some manageable weekend trip to Ohio where she could charm a few parents over bad casserole. This was international. Flights. Immigration. Customs. Paper trails. An entire family, half a world away, waiting to scrutinize the stranger their daughter supposedly loved.

It hit her harder than Sarah’s threats of prison or fines. Because this wasn’t just a risk. It was exposure. And exposure meant collapse.

Flying halfway across the world to meet Aiah’s family hadn’t been part of the script, but she forced a chuckle, forced agreement, forced everything, because Sarah’s eyes were watching for cracks. She didn’t flinch. Couldn’t flinch. She repeated the golden rule she’d built her empire on: never let them see you sweat.

Inside, though? Panic. Real panic. Because Bloom was her world, and now survival meant marching into Aiah’s world. A world she couldn’t control with polished speeches and sharp suits.

So Mikha smiled, even as dread pooled in her stomach. Fine. Philippines. Families. Birthday parties. She’d handle it. She always did.

As the pair exited the immigration building, Aiah was ninety-nine percent sure her soul had stayed behind, probably still strapped to that uncomfortable chair and trembling in that cramped interview room. She and Mikha had just pulled off the world’s fakest engagement story, and somehow lived to tell the tale. But the real kicker? The witch had just signed her up for a performance she’d never auditioned for: bringing her fake fiancée home to Cebu. To her parents. To her grandmother. To the entire Arienza clan.

Yep. Death by secondhand embarrassment was now her most likely cause of death.

Her blood boiled just thinking about it. She was pissed. She was annoyed. She deserved an award. No, she deserved a whole parade for not lunging at Mikha inside that interview room and throttling her then and there. At the very least, she deserved the promotion she’d been chasing, because she wasn’t just some clueless secretary with a stapler and dreams. She’d earned her stripes: extra trainings, weekend seminars, late-night study sessions squeezed in between Mikha’s endless “urgent” demands. While other people her age were binge-watching K-dramas, she was binging Publishing 101. She was ready. More than ready. This wasn't asking for too much. All she asked for was a chance, maybe a few smaller projects to start. Was it really too much to ask for Mikha to recognize that?

Apparently, yes. Because instead of smaller projects or even a shot at editing, she’d landed herself in a Netflix series-level scam marriage plot.

Her chest tightened at the thought. She had never imagined stooping this low, not for anything. She’d always promised herself she’d make it the honest way with hard work, persistence, maybe even a few tears shed in the bathroom between deadlines. But when faced with a $250,000 fine and five years in prison? Yeah, those morals had cracked faster than cheap glass.

Aiah groaned, letting the frustration roll out of her chest, and this time she didn’t even try to rein it in. So pissed, in fact, she let the heavy glass door swing shut behind her, directly in Mikha’s face instead of holding it open like she usually did. Respect was dead. Buried. Cremated. If Mikha wanted kindness, patience, and loyalty, maybe she should’ve tried being a human being first, instead of a pint-sized dictator in designer heels.

“So, here’s the plan,” Mikha started barking orders before her stilettos even hit the pavement. "We'll fly to Cebu, pretend we're girlfriends, and tell your parents we're engaged. Also, book a first-class ticket. If it's not first-class, we're not doing it. And make sure my meal doesn't have chicken. Check if they have other options without chicken." Mikha rattled off her demands, eyes glued to her phone, completely oblivious to Aiah's brewing storm. "The last time I had chicken—"

“Excuse me?” Mikha snapped when she realized no one was typing. “Why aren’t you taking notes?”

Aiah stopped dead, spun on her heels, and glared. “I’m sorry, weren’t you in that room? Because I was. And I heard every single word of the little performance you bullied me into.”

Mikha squinted. “What is it now?”

“Seriously?!” Aiah’s voice hit octaves usually reserved for karaoke night.

“Oh! That thing you said about the promotion?” Mikha’s mouth curved. “Genius. You’re a genius. She totally bought it.”

“I was serious!” Aiah snapped. “Did you miss the part where I’m looking at a $250,000 fine and five years in prison? That changes things.”

Mikha scoffed. “Promote you to editor? No. No way.”

Aiah’s eyes narrowed. "Then I quit. And you're screwed. Goodbye, Mikha. It's never been a pleasure working for you." Aiah turned and stormed off.

“What? Aiah! Aiah, wait!” Mikha’s voice followed, sharp and a little desperate.

But her pleas fell on deaf ears. Aiah kept walking. Sweet, sweet freedom.

"Fine! Fine! I'll make you an editor, fine!" Mikha’s voice was filled with defeat.

Aiah stopped. Oh, she had her. Slowly, smugly, she turned back.

"If you do the Cebu trip and the immigration interview, I'll make you an editor. Happy?", Mikha blurted, sounding like she’d just agreed to donate a kidney.

"And not in two years. Right away."

“Fine!”

"And you'll publish the manuscript I gave you."

Mikha rolled her eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Fine. Ten thousand copies for the first run.”

“Twenty thousand copies, first run.”

“Ugh, fine! What else, Your Majesty?”

Aiah bit back a grin. Oh, this was delicious. Every “fine” was another crack in the Ice Queen’s armor, and she was mentally keeping score. She’d never win a shouting match with Mikha, but this? Watching her bend, watching her scramble to salvage her precious career? This is satisfaction.

And Aiah wasn’t above squeezing every drop out of Mikha’s desperation. If she was going to risk prison time and public humiliation, she was damn well going to collect her compensation in full.

"We'll tell my family about our engagement when I want and how I want."

"Deal."

“Now…” Aiah crossed her arms. “Ask me nicely.”

Mikha blinked. “Ask you nicely what?”

“Ask me nicely to marry you, Mikha.” Aiah was loving this. Sure, this wasn’t her dream scenario, no fairy lights, no flowers, no soft music swelling in the background. But if she wasn’t going to get the romantic proposal she’d always pictured, then watching Mikha Lucero kneel in the middle of a New York street with strangers gawking? Yeah, that would do.

“What does that even mea—”

“You definitely know. Now, get down on one knee.”

Mikha’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious—”

“Oh, you want to upset your girlfriend? You do not want me pulling a no-show at the altar.”

The threat landed. Mikha groaned, glanced at the crowded sidewalk, and… unbelievably, lowered herself to one knee, wobbling in her designer dress and four-inch heels. Aiah could practically hear the gasps of strangers around them.

There it was: Mikha Lucero, ice queen editor-in-chief, kneeling on a New York sidewalk like an overdramatic K-drama lead.

She glared up at Aiah like she’d rather eat glass.

People were staring. Aiah could practically hear strangers whispering, phones lifting for photos. It was ridiculous. It was glorious. And for the briefest moment, guilt pricked at her chest.

Maybe she’d pushed too far. Maybe making Mikha humiliate herself in public wasn’t the moral high ground she liked to think she stood on. 

But then the memory came rushing back: Sarah Gibson’s cold voice talking about deportation, fines, prison. The way Mikha had shoved the spotlight on her and made her improvise lies that could’ve destroyed her life. That suffocating moment where she’d felt completely trapped. Mikha had shoved her into that corner, dangled her family and her career as leverage, and made her feel like her values were nothing but paper set on fire.

So no. This wasn’t cruelty. This was balance. If Aiah had to be trapped in Mikha’s game, then Mikha could damn well kneel for it.

"Does this work for you?" Mikha hissed, her eyes squinting with annoyance.

“Oh, I love this,” Aiah said sweetly. “Proceed.”

"Uh, will you marry me?" Mikha muttered the words like they were acid on her tongue, barely audible.

“Nope. Say it like you mean it.”

Mikha rolled her eyes, a small sigh escaped her lips. "Aiah," she said, her voice a little calmer, a little sweeter.

"Yes, Mikha?"

"Sweet Aiah..."

"I'm listening."

“Would you please, with cherries on top, marry me?” 

The word please left Mikha’s mouth like it had been dragged out with pliers. Aiah almost choked for holding back her own laughter. Mikha Lucero did not say please. She barked orders, issued deadlines, maybe threw in a “thank you” when hell froze over, but please? Never.

The crowd oohed. Mikha looked like she wanted to throw herself into traffic.

And yes, another tiny pang of guilt surfaced, but Aiah swatted it away. Compared to being blackmailed into marriage, this was nothing. Let Mikha sweat for once.

Aiah tapped her chin like she was actually considering. “Hmm. Don’t love the sarcasm. But fine. I’ll allow it.”

“Great. Then we’re good.”

“Yep. See you at the airport Friday. Oh, and your car’s in the lot. I’m taking the bus. Drive safe!”

With that, Aiah strutted off, leaving her boss still kneeling on the sidewalk like a rejected reality show contestant. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Because if she looked back again, she might remember the weight of it all. The fake engagement, the lies, the suffocating pressure of being trapped in someone else’s mess. She couldn’t deal with that. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when she’d recharged, maybe when her lungs didn’t feel so tight.

Right now, she just wanted to breathe. To be alone. To rest.

And yet, the satisfaction of flipping the script, of making her untouchable boss kneel and beg, even just for a moment, didn’t erase the simmer in her chest. Sure, it was entertaining watching the almighty Mikha reduced to begging, but it didn’t undo the fact that Aiah was still neck-deep in a scam marriage plot she never signed up for. Mikha’s obedience might’ve been a rare treat, but Aiah wasn’t about to forget who dragged her into this circus in the first place.

By the time she reached the bus stop, the adrenaline fizzled out, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. Last Sunday night she’d been kissing her best friends. Today she got engaged to her boss. Tomorrow? Who knew? Probably a meteor strike, just to round things out.

Fantastic. Just fantastic. What a way to start the week.

Chapter Text

The departure hall smelled like burned coffee and overpriced perfume samples. Trolleys clacked, a toddler threw a tantrum worthy of an Oscar at Gate 12, and the flight boards blinked like they were trying to give someone a seizure.

Aiah stood with her carry-on by her feet, watching Jhoanna wage war with the straps on her travel bag while Maloi struck poses at the glass wall like it was her personal dressing mirror.

“You sure you’re not coming with me?” Aiah pouted as Jhoanna tugged at the strap, her voice already dipped in guilt-tripping syrup.

“You know I would if I could.” Jhoanna’s answer came flat, practical. The same expression she wore when life handed her an inconvenience she couldn’t karate-kick away. She glanced at Maloi, who pretended her reflection was more important than reality. “But I’ve got a business to run.”

“It’s just a week, though. I’m sure you can work something out?” Aiah pleaded, her voice taking on that small, helpless lilt she only ever used with them.

The tall girl sighed. “I know. Believe me, I want to. Going home actually sounds amazing right now.”

Maloi slid in between them with the grace of an extrovert who lived for entrances. “The new manager we hired starts this week. Let her meet the store and settle in.”

“Yeah, it should’ve been you though,” Jhoanna muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Correction,” Maloi said, wagging a finger, “it should’ve been us interviewing her. But you’re better at reading characters, with all that observing, nodding, judging, and Aiah needs moral support. Coming home to the Philippines with Dad already furious? Coming home with Satan disguised as a boss? Double trouble. She can’t, must not, handle all of that alone.” Maloi’s dramatic eye-flutter was proof she meant every word.

Jhoanna blinked, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll book the next flight out as soon as I finish here. I’m sure your family misses me terribly.” She said it like both a threat and a consolation.

Aiah grinned so wide it might have dented her face. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Jhoanna glanced toward the arrivals board. “Anyway, where is your fiancée?”

“She’s not here yet. We’re early. I guess I’m used to showing up before the boss arrives.” Aiah laughed, a nervous, too-bright sound.

Jhoanna’s face softened, then hardened into that look Aiah knew all too well. A quiet pretense of calm that meant she wanted to say something but was weighing the words.

“Come on, what is it?” Aiah prodded.

“What is what?” Jhoanna deflected.

“Your face. I know that face. You make that face when you want to say something, but something’s holding you back.”

Jhoanna feigned innocence. “It’s nothing. Check your baggage. Did you forget anything? I can run to the airport shop.”

“Oh, come on, Jho. Don’t make me overthink.”

Jhoanna heaved a small, real sigh. “I just… Well, does it matter now? You’ve already decided.”

“What?”

“She still thinks this is a terrible idea.” Maloi cut in smoothly. We both do.”

“Guys—” Aiah tried to interrupt, but both friends closed ranks.

“What I wanted to say is, it worries us that you’ve been dragged into this mess,” Jhoanna said carefully. “This isn’t just pretending to hold hands and smile for the camera. There are fines. Prison time. It could go so many wrong ways. But—” She stopped, and Maloi took over like a drumroll.

“But you’re already in it,” Maloi finished, words fast but warm. “So we worry a lot, but what Jhoanna means is be careful. And we’ll be with you until this is over.”

Aiah’s shoulders loosened as if the words were a physical blanket. She pulled both of them into a hug, squeezing whatever stew of fear and relief she had into the two people who’d kept her sane for years. “Ahhh. What would I do without you two?”

“Don’t even deny it. You’d be spending Saturday nights having staring contests with your ceiling. Your life isn’t that fun without us,” Maloi declared melodramatically, and Jhoanna nodded in agreement.

A moment later, they all craned their necks toward a corridor where a cluster of passengers spilled out; none of them were in a blazer that screamed Fear me.

“Maybe she’s stuck in traffic,” Aiah offered.

“Maybe she’s just late,” Jhoanna said.

“Maybe she got kidnapped by a rival publisher,” Maloi suggested cheerfully, and the three of them dissolved into laughter.

For a moment, they just stood there, three points of a triangle, messy but unbreakable. 

Maloi returned to striking poses. Jhoanna folded her arms and watched the crowd like she’s airport security. Aiah tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling slightly.

Aiah’s uneasiness made her check her phone for the third time and said, “She should be here any minute.”

It hit her then. Not just the airport buzz, not the goodbyes, but the weight of it all. This wasn’t a hypothetical anymore. No more stalling, or bargaining. They were really doing this… boarding a plane together, selling a lie as big as marriage. The thought made her chest feel too tight, like her lungs couldn’t decide if they wanted to laugh or panic.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, restless, every tick of the clock sounding like a countdown. Ridiculous. Insane. And yet, there she was, waiting for her boss, her fiancée to arrive.

Half of her wanted Mikha to stay lost forever. Maybe Maloi’s kidnapping theory wasn’t such a bad idea. At least then Aiah could breathe again, even if only for a few hours.

No such luck. Her eyes landed on a familiar figure cutting through the crowd like she owned the entire terminal.

Mikha Lucero did not, in fact, dress like someone about to endure a 21-hour flight of recycled air. No, the chief editor had shown up in a tailored cream blazer cinched at the waist, a silk blouse tucked flawlessly beneath it, and light-gray cigarette pants that screamed Paris runway more than NAIA Terminal 1. Add the matching stilettos clicking against the floor and the oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, and she looked like she was about to board a private jet to Milan, not Cebu.

Why did it suddenly feel like slow motion? Aiah blinked hard, but Mikha still looked like a walking perfume ad. Damn.

“Damn,” Maloi echoed beside her, gawking openly. “You said she’s a witch.”

“She is,” Aiah muttered, throat dry.

“You didn’t say she’s a smoking hot, supermodel witch.”

Aiah shot her a glare. “Close your mouth before you drool on the floor.”

Maloi snorted, not even bothering to hide her grin. “You’re one lucky bastard.”

“I’m the lucky one now? You’re supposed to be my best friend,” Aiah hissed.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. Look at yourself.” Maloi swept her gaze up and down her best friend’s figure.

Aiah did the same, glancing at her reflection in the glass wall. Nothing fancy. Just a soft oversized hoodie in muted beige, black leggings, and her beat-up sneakers that had seen one too many all-nighters. Comfortable. Practical. Absolutely peasant-level next to Mikha Lucero’s designer runway cosplay, she might as well have been dressed in potato sacks. But it suited her mood. She wasn’t here to impress. She was here to survive.

“You, Aiah Arienza, are one hell of a snack,” Maloi declared dramatically. “Scratch that. You’re a full-course meal. Ms. Smexy Boss over there is luckier to have you as her fiancée.”

Aiah rolled her eyes, though the corner of her lips betrayed her with a smile. “Shut up.”

She couldn’t help it. Maloi really knew how to gas a person up. No wonder half the world seemed to fall for this ball of sunshine. Problem was, half the world also thought she was flirting, and then cried when they realized she was just being Maloi. Lovable? Absolutely. Heartbreaker? Accidentally, yes.

But then, as if sensing Aiah needed more than jokes right now, Maloi’s voice softened. “Seriously, though. Don’t let her make you feel small. For two years, this almighty Mikha Lucero put you in a box until you started doubting yourself. But you’re good, Aiah. Better than good. You’re a great person, inside and out. Start giving yourself credit.”

Aiah swallowed. She didn’t want to argue, because Maloi was right. She had left home chasing a dream, clawed her way into a secretarial job, worked her ass off… and yet her witch of a boss never once acknowledged it. Some nights, she really wondered if she was good enough. If she’d chosen the wrong dream. If she’d been fooling herself this whole time. What if Mikha had been right to keep her in the shadows? The what-ifs had a way of piling up until they drowned her.

But then there was Maloi. And Jhoanna. Two lifelines keeping her head above water when she swore she was about to sink.

“I fucking love you both,” she whispered.

“We love you too,” Maloi said immediately, grinning. Jhoanna, quieter but solid as always, squeezed Aiah’s arm in agreement.

“And even though I have a very bad feeling about this whole messed-up situation,” Maloi went on, dramatic again, “I believe you know what you’re doing. Right?”

Aiah inhaled deeply. “Of course. Just trust me on this, okay?”

“Fine,” Maloi sighed, already rolling her eyes. “Just don’t come running back to us with your ugly crying face when everything goes south.”

Aiah chuckled, because she knew Maloi was joking. She also knew that when, not if, things went south, Maloi and Jhoanna would be the first ones she could run to.

She was about to say something else when a sharp clicking sound cut through the air. She looked up, and Mikha was right in front of them now, pulling along a massive Louis Vuitton suitcase that looked like it could double as a small apartment.

“Did you bring your whole wardrobe?” Aiah asked, arching a brow. “Or are you already moving in with me and my family?”

“Don’t start with me,” Mikha shot back, glaring over the rim of her sunglasses. “I needed all of this.”

“If you say so. But I’m not helping you with that. Just to remind you, I am not your personal assistant for a week. I am your… uh, your fiancée.”

Mikha tilted her head, lips twitching. “A fiancée who doesn’t care about her fiancée? Sounds very loving to me.”

“Oh my god, you two are so cute together!” Maloi clasped her hands, her voice rising like she was watching a romantic movie scene unfold in real life.

Aiah resisted the urge to groan. What happened to having a bad feeling about this whole thing, huh?

Mikha blinked, confused, and Aiah jumped in quickly. “Uh, Mikha, this is Maloi. Maloi, Mikha.”

Maloi offered her hand, which Mikha took, surprisingly without hesitation.

“Wait. Maloi?” Mikha’s brows furrowed. “The one who wrote on the cup? And left you a hickey?”

Maloi burst out laughing, cheeks dimpling. “Oh! That was nothing. Just playing around. Don’t worry, I’m not about to get in the way of your relationship. I’m her best friend.”

Aiah’s cheeks flared instantly. Her brain screamed Why are we bringing this up here of all places?! Mikha’s confusion deepened, no doubt wondering what kind of best friends left kiss marks on each other’s necks and called it “playing.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Aiah blurted, tugging Mikha away before her blush could reach critical levels. The last thing she needed was her boss hearing any more best-friend oversharing.

“And this is Jhoanna,” Aiah added, motioning toward her quieter best friend before Maloi could make things worse. “She’s… the sane one. The reason Maloi and I haven’t burned the city down yet.”

Jhoanna didn’t move to shake hands. She just gave Mikha a curt nod, her expression unreadable, like she was sizing her up. “Mikha,” she acknowledged simply. No extra words, no warmth. Just enough to be polite. A whole vibe that said: I’ve got my eye on you.

Aiah winced a little at the tension, knowing exactly where Jho’s head was at. Of course Jhoanna couldn’t even pretend to be friendly. Not when she was the one most against all this in the first place.

Mikha, of course, noticed. Her brows pinched slightly, probably wondering what kind of mess she’d just walked into, caught between one best friend who flirted with the air she breathed and another who looked like she’d happily toss her into an interrogation room. If she thought the three of them were weird before, this only sealed it.

“You…” Aiah stepped forward to hug Jhoanna goodbye. “Call me, text me, whatever. Don’t do anything stupid while we’re gone.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jhoanna teased, leaning in to press a quick kiss on Aiah’s cheek. Then, without missing a beat, she leaned over and pecked Maloi’s cheek too. “You, sunshine, take care of her for me. Both of you have a safe flight.”

Maloi blinked, then broke into a mischievous grin. She glanced at Aiah, who instantly went stiff, her face heating like a kettle on the verge of boiling, maybe because Jhoanna’s little peck came unexpectedly. “Wow. Who would’ve thought? Ten-year-old you would be screaming right now.”

“Maloi!” Aiah hissed.

“What?” Maloi asked, all fake innocence. She leaned in and whispered in Aiah’s ear. “Remember when you used to swoon over her every time she breathed in your direction? Looks like some people are still living the dream.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aiah hissed between her teeth. “That was ages ago. I’m over it.”

“Uh-huh.” Maloi cocked a brow. “So why are you blushing like a schoolgirl then?”

“I’m not!” Aiah shot back, her hands flailing a little too defensively. “It’s hot in here, okay? Blame the airport AC, not me.”

“I’m just saying,” Maloi sing-songed, “dreams do come true.”

Jhoanna frowned, blinking between them. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing!” Aiah squeaked, a little too fast.

“I’m saying, don’t miss us too much!” Maloi quickly added.

Aiah could feel her cheeks still burning as she tugged Maloi along, Mikha’s rolling suitcase clicking against the tile behind them. Out of the corner of her eye, Aiah caught her boss lowering her sunglasses just enough to study the three of them. Mikha’s expression was unreadable, but the slight squint said it all: she was confused. Very confused.

And honestly? Aiah couldn’t blame her. From the outside, their trio probably looked like the pilot episode of a shitty comedy series with childhood crushes dragged out of the closet, overprotective friends, best-friend banters that sounded a little too flirty. If Mikha thought she’d just walked into a sitcom gone wrong, well… she wasn’t exactly wrong.

It wasn’t something Aiah could explain to her, not now, maybe not ever. The truth was, some stories weren’t meant for her boss to know. Not when she was already suffocating under the weight of the one lie they were all about to live.

Mikha Lucero did not kneel.

Not for editors. Not for rivals. And definitely not for doe-eyed assistants with tragic taste in footwear.

And yet there she was, on a grimy New York sidewalk, balancing in four-inch heels and the last scraps of her dignity while half the city was already uploading her humiliation to TikTok.

She had told herself it was a strategy. Not begging. Not desperation. Just a calculated move to keep Aiah from combusting in public and dragging her career into the cliff with her. 

Purely tactical. Absolutely nothing else.

Still, the sting lingered. She was Mikha Lucero, Bloom’s youngest editor-in-chief, the woman who could dismantle a feature pitch with a single arched brow. And now? Reduced to a punchline in some romcom proposal gag.

When Aiah finally strutted off, chin high, smug as a cat that had just stolen the cream, Mikha stayed on one knee a beat too long, pretending she was adjusting her heel. A pro at salvaging pride, even when it was bleeding out in the gutter.

She had risen smoothly, brushed off invisible dirt from her dress, flicked her hair back like the humiliation was someone else’s problem. “Well,” she’d muttered under her breath, “at least I didn’t say please twice.”

Someone clapped. A stranger actually clapped. Mikha gave them a curt nod as if she’d just finished a Broadway curtain call instead of lowering herself to a stunt she should’ve been far too dignified for.

And that was the worst of it. Because somewhere between the immigration office, the fake engagement, and the sidewalk theatrics, she’d crossed a line she never intended to. She’d bent. She’d compromised. All for her career.

And if there was one thing Mikha Lucero hated more than chicken on her in-flight meal, it was the creeping suspicion that Aiah Arienza might actually be the one with leverage.

Now, trapped on a seventeen-hour flight to Manila, crammed into business class beside said secretary, Mikha was beginning to realize the sidewalk might have been the easier battlefield. At least in New York, the enemy had been faceless strangers with iPhones, people she would never see again. A quick blow to her pride, bandaged with a hair flip. Done.

But Aiah? Aiah was the long game. Ever since Mikha had announced their “engagement,” the girl had mutated into some upgraded version of herself. The wide-eyed assistant who once scurried to fetch her coffees had been replaced by a sass machine that ran exclusively on sarcasm and side-eye. The sighs alone, God, the sighs were so dramatic Mikha half-expected someone to roll out a fog machine and cue the violins.

Not that Aiah had never talked back before, she always had a streak. But this was new. This was fearless. The girl who flinched at her raised brow now threw it right back at her, as if daring Mikha to flinch first. Respect? Gone. Fear? Missing. And instead of being the all-powerful editor-in-chief with a secretary who knew her place, Mikha found herself staring down a woman who seemed hell-bent on reminding her that this marriage, fake as it was, had stripped her of the one thing she valued most: control.

And the worst part? As infuriating as it was, Mikha couldn’t quite decide if she hated this rebellious streak… or if some twisted part of her found the defiance entertaining.

Maloi was passed out behind them, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, dead to the world. Lucky her. Mikha, for once, was grateful. She adored Maloi in the way one tolerates an excited puppy at a Sunday lunch party, they’re fun in small doses, exhausting in long hauls. Keeping pace with that kind of extroversion required energy Mikha never bothered to spend. She had no patience for people in general, much less ones who treated the world like their personal stage.

Besides, Maloi wasn’t even supposed to be here. Mikha had planned this trip as a tight two-person operation. Just her and Aiah. Minimal witnesses, minimal chances for the lie to unravel. But Aiah had insisted Maloi come along, swearing her presence would make the story easier to sell. To the immigration officer, sure, but more importantly to her family. Maloi, with her easy charm and oversized personality, was basically a credibility stamp.

Mikha could already picture it. Maloi at the Arienza dinner table, overselling the performance with hand gestures, wild anecdotes, maybe even a PowerPoint presentation if someone gave her access to a projector. Solid.

So no, Mikha couldn’t argue with Aiah’s logic. Besides, Mikha had to admit, she was thankful it was Maloi Aiah had dragged along and not Jhoanna. Mikha could already imagine how that would go: silent glares, clipped words, and the constant sense that every move she made was being graded like a pop quiz. Jhoanna might have tolerated this circus, even quietly supported Aiah’s choice, but participate? Never. One look at her earlier at the airport had said it all: calculating, sharp, disapproving. Mikha didn’t need words to know that Jhoanna considered this whole thing a scam of a marriage. And she wasn’t even wrong.

At least with Maloi, the lie had a cheerleader. She could laugh, distract, keep things light. With Jhoanna? Jhoanna would’ve prosecuted her for accidentally stepping on Aiah’s shadow.

Still, given the choice, Mikha preferred Maloi unconscious. As far as she was concerned, the longer Maloi stayed asleep, the smoother this flight would be.

Meanwhile, Aiah had gone full statue mode. She had gone quiet, stiff, staring out the window like she was auditioning for the lead role in a sad ballad music video.

Six hours in, Mikha was officially bored. And a bored Mikha was a dangerous Mikha.

She leaned sideways, breaking the silence. “So… is this a new trendy kink?”

Aiah blinked, slowly pulling herself from her melancholic staring contest with the clouds. “What?”

“Kink,” Mikha repeated, deadpan. “Making out with your close friends. Is that a thing now?”

The reaction was immediate: the faint blush, the widening eyes, the way Aiah’s lips parted like she had a rebuttal queued up but her brain hit the wrong file. Delicious.

“Why are you even asking me that?” Aiah snapped, a little too defensive. “If it is, it’s none of your business.”

“Yes, it is if it ends up in the immigration interview,” Mikha said, reclining smugly.

“They would never ask something that inappropriate.”

“You don’t know that.”

Aiah sighed, resigned. “Fine. Just to shut you up, I’ll answer. It’s not my thing. We were drunk. It was one time. We got carried away with the game.”

“So… friends with benefits?”

“What? No!” Aiah’s voice cracked slightly, which only made it better. “Maloi’s been my best friend since childhood. It was a mistake. It will never happen again.”

Mikha hummed thoughtfully, clearly entertained by the flustered mess beside her. Then her gaze sharpened, like she’d just spotted a typo in a headline. “And the other one? Jhoanna. What’s her deal?”

Aiah stiffened. “Her deal?”

“She looks at you like she’s memorizing your every move. Not exactly the energy I’d expect from a supportive best friend.” Mikha leaned back, tone smooth but edged with curiosity. “So? What’s the story? Childhood crush? Unresolved feelings? A blood oath in middle school?”

The brunette’s cheeks flared at once, her whole body stiffening like she’d been caught in a lie she hadn’t even told. “She’s just… protective. That’s it. She’s always been that way.”

Mikha arched a brow. Too quick. Too defensive. Interesting.

“Hmm.” She let the sound hang in the air, small and sharp, before leaning back against the headrest. “Protective. Right.”

And just when Mikha thought the poor girl might actually burst into flames, Aiah fumbled into her bag and slapped a thick booklet onto the tray table like it was a shield. “You know what? Let’s just focus on the actual questions they’ll ask in the interview. At least that’s useful.”

Mikha smirked to herself, settling back in her seat. Useful, sure. But nowhere near as entertaining.

“This…” Aiah held up the guidebook like it was scripture “...is what matters. The good news is, I know almost everything about you. The bad news is, you’ve got a week to learn everything about me.”

Mikha plucked the booklet from her hands with practiced ease, flipping through the pages. “You know everything about me?”

“Scary, isn’t it?” Aiah smirked, just a hint of triumph there.

Mikha raised a brow. “Hmm. A little.” 

In truth, it wasn’t far-fetched at all. Two years as her assistant had given Aiah the keys to everything: her schedule, her coffee order, the cadence of her temper, even the subtle twitch of her brow before she exploded. Aiah knew when to clear the room, when to slide in a report, when to distract her with some ridiculous quip before she snapped at an investor.

Unsettling, if Mikha allowed herself to dwell on it. Knowledge like that wasn’t something she gave freely; it was the kind of intimacy people earned after years of trust, or never earned at all. Yet here was Aiah, a secretary-turned-fiancée, walking around with the entire instruction manual to her life tucked under her arm.

And Mikha? She barely knew more than what was written on Aiah’s résumé. A family name. A degree. A habit of bristling at every tease. And, of course, that coveted line at the bottom: U.S. citizen.

That single detail had shifted everything. It was the loophole her career depended on, the lifeline that kept her empire intact. Without it, without her, Mikha might have lost everything.

The imbalance gnawed at her pride. Aiah almost knew her inside out. Aiah knew her moods, her habits, the exact moment she was about to snap, while Mikha, elegant and guarded, had been forced to bare more of herself than she ever intended. She, who prided herself on being unreadable, had been annotated and indexed like an open book.

But not the whole book. Never the whole book. If Aiah thought she was peeking through the cracks, it was only because the job had placed her there, in proximity, close enough to notice the hairline fractures. Aiah might not even realize she was already pressing against Mikha’s walls. But Mikha? She had every intention of keeping the locks tight. There were chapters Aiah hadn’t seen, pages inked in secrets that Mikha had long since locked away. Some she withheld out of cold, deliberate principle. An armor against a world that always wanted more than it deserved. Others… well, others are truths buried so deep they’d never be unearthed, the kind of stories that still pressed against her ribs if she let her guard slip for too long.

Aiah could skim the margins all she wanted. The heart of the story would always stay hers alone.

Mikha cleared her throat and read aloud from the page. “What am I allergic to?”

“Peanuts. Also, you hate chicken. And…” Aiah smirked, “...the full spectrum of human emotions.”

Mikha’s lips parted in mock offense. “Excuse me? I do not hate the full spectrum. I selectively despise… let’s say… eighty percent.”

“Oh, so you’re narrowing it down. Growth.”

“I’ll have you know,” Mikha crossed her legs, adjusting her clothes with regal precision, “I am perfectly capable of joy. I just choose not to display it like a deranged game-show contestant.”

Aiah tilted her head, feigning thought. “Hmm. I think I’ve seen irritation, arrogance, disdain, and that terrifying smile you use on your editors. Does that count as joy?”

“That was joy.”

“Wow. No wonder people are scared of you.”

“Fear,” Mikha said smoothly, “is simply respect in its most efficient form.”

Aiah snorted. “Right. Remind me never to put that on our immigration interview answers.”

Mikha gave a dry laugh. “Hilarious.” She flipped to the next. “Do I have any scars?”

“Not that I know of,” Aiah said breezily. “But I’m pretty sure you have a tattoo.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. About a year ago your dermatologist called about a Q-switched laser. I Googled it. It’s used for tattoo removal.”

Mikha froze, just a fraction.

Aiah leaned in, eyes glinting. “But you canceled. So… Vikings? Calligraphy? Barbed wire?”

“You’re enjoying this a little too much,” Mikha said through narrowed eyes.

“Immensely.”

“Well, I’m not telling you where it is.”

“They’re going to ask.”

“No, they won’t.”

“They will.”

“We’re done with that question, Aiah. Done.” Mikha flipped another page with more force than necessary, the glossy paper snapping under her fingers. Her tone was cool, polished, the kind of finality that warned people not to pry further. “Oh. Here. ‘Whose place do we live at?’ Easy. Mine.”

“And why not mine?”

“Because I live in Central Park West,” Mikha said, arching a brow. “And you… probably live in some sad little studio apartment stacked with yellowing Nicholas Sparks paperbacks.”

The glare Aiah shot her could’ve peeled paint. Mikha didn’t even look up from the booklet, though she felt it, burning through her skull like twin laser beams.

For once, Aiah didn’t argue. She just crossed her arms, turned back to the window, and resumed her starring role as “melancholic airplane passenger #1.”

And Mikha? She reclined in her seat, victorious.

For now.

Because just as she was about to settle into smug silence, Aiah muttered without looking at her, voice calm, almost casual, like she wasn’t even trying.

“You know, for someone who brags about living at Central Park West, your place must be awfully sad and quiet.”

Mikha’s head snapped sideways. “Excuse me?”

“Mm. Nothing.” Aiah still didn’t look at her, eyes glued to the sea of clouds. “Just that a home’s only as good as the people waiting inside. Guess that makes your penthouse more… display piece than actual home.”

The words slipped under Mikha’s skin with surgical precision, no sarcasm, no smirk, just plain observation. And that made it worse.

“That was unnecessary,” Mikha said, her voice cool, measured, but not quite steady.

“That was the truth.” Aiah finally turned her head, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in a smile that wasn’t quite kind. “Don’t worry. I’ll memorize your address anyway. Somebody has to make it sound like you’re not living alone in a museum.”

And just like that, she turned back to her window, leaving Mikha stewing in the kind of silence that wasn’t victory at all.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. We are beginning our descent into Cebu,” the intercom had announced earlier, but Mikha still felt like her body hadn’t caught up with reality. After almost a day of travel, layovers, and stale airplane food, she was running purely on caffeine and spite. Jet lag clung to her like a second skin, and all she wanted was a bed, or at the very least, silence.

Instead, she got the chaotic buzz of Mactan–Cebu International Airport. The arrival hall hit her senses all at once: bright lights, the smell of disinfectant mixed with sea air that somehow clung to travelers, and a wall of noise, families squealing, placards waving, hugs colliding. She dragged her suitcase along, watching Aiah scan the crowd with laser focus.

“There they are,” Aiah muttered, eyes lighting up. Sure enough, four women were waving like they were trying to flag down a passing ship. One held a huge sign that screamed WELCOME HOME AIAH & MIKHA!, another had WE MISSED YOU ATE MALOI!, and the last lazily brandished a banner that read SUP BITCHES?? in bold neon letters.

Mikha blinked. Charming.

She let her gaze sweep over the group, cataloging. The grandmother was easy to spot, she’s older, regal in that you do not cross me way. Beside her was a middle-aged woman, probably the mom. The two younger ones had to be the cousins. Unless Aiah had secret siblings she’d conveniently forgotten to mention.

“There she is!” the woman in the middle cried, and before Mikha could blink, Aiah and Maloi sprinted ahead like they were competing for Olympic gold. Neither looked back to see if Mikha was following. Typical.

What followed was a blur of hugs and squeals. Aiah threw herself into their arms, glowing with a warmth Mikha had never seen in the office. Suddenly, Aiah was no longer the broody seatmate she’d endured on the plane; she was a bouncing ball of sunshine, hugging everyone in sight with a grin wide enough to split her face.

“Ohhh, it’s so good to see you, honey,” the middle-aged woman gushed, clutching Aiah like she might vanish again.

“It’s good to see you too, Mom,” Aiah replied softly.

Right. The mother. That solved that mystery.

“You’re suffocating her, Mary. Come here, my Mariah Queen,” the old lady chimed, opening her arms.

“Mamalol!” Aiah beamed. “I missed you so, so much!”

Mariah Queen. Mikha had seen the name in official documents, but hearing it out loud was different. Somehow heavier. For everyone else, she was “Aiah,” the efficient assistant, the quick-witted secretary. But here? She was someone’s Mariah Queen, a daughter, a granddaughter, a cousin. A whole person with roots. It unsettled Mikha in a way she couldn’t quite name.

“How about me, ate Aiah?” the youngest piped up, the one clutching the WE MISSED YOU ATE MALOI! placard. Pretty, sharp-eyed, and about Aiah’s height.

“Staku!” Aiah squealed, tackling her in a hug.

Mikha wasn’t surprised at the names. Aiah had already briefed her on the cousins during the flight, running through who’s who like a crash course in family tree survival. This one had to be Stacey.

The girl smirked over Aiah’s shoulder. “Of course I’ve grown. There’s someone who didn’t.” She side-eyed Maloi.

Maloi smacked her lightly on the head, muttering something in Bisaya that made Gwen, the other quiet cousin and Stacey’s older sister, snicker under her breath. Mikha’s eyes flicked between them and realized something unsettling. Stacey was basically Maloi in younger form: loud, playful, unfiltered. God help them if they ever teamed up.

The other cousin, Gwen, stood back, scrolling her phone, quiet as a shadow. Definitely the Jhoanna type, reserved, calculating, probably allergic to fun. Mikha could practically feel her judgment from three feet away.

“Where’s Dad?” Aiah asked, finally pulling back.

“You know your father,” Mary sighed. “Always working. Never mind him. Where’s your girl?”

Aiah spun around, motioning toward Mikha. And just like that, Mikha was yanked into the spotlight. “She’s right here.”

“Oh. I guess the word girl is inappropriate, huh?” the grandmother teased, eyes twinkling.

“Mom, this is Mikha. Mikha, this is my mom, Mary.”

Mikha plastered on her most professional smile and stuck her hand out like she was about to seal a million-peso deal. “Hello.”

Mary looked like she wanted to hug her but settled for shaking her hand.

“This is my Mamalol, Minerva.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mikha said, shaking her hand too.

“And these are my cousins, Gwen and Stacey.”

Mikha gave a polite nod. “Hi.”

Stacey aggressively shook her hand, but Gwen just acknowledged her with a nod. Did Mikha already mention that Stacey was basically Maloi’s clone and Gwen was Jhoanna’s twin?

And then came Stacey’s bomb. “So you’re ate Aiah’s girlfriend, huh? Do you prefer being called Mikha or Satan’s Mistress? Because we’ve heard it both ways. Actually, we’ve heard it lots of ways.”

Mikha blinked. Excuse me? Had she really been that insufferable that the brunette had come up with so many awful nicknames for her?

“Stacey Aubrey Arienza-Salcedo!” Mary barked.

“Don’t mind her,” Mamalol soothed kindly. “She thinks she’s funny.”

“Oh… right.” Mikha forced a smile, though she was certain the girl wasn’t joking. “Thank you for letting me be part of your family gathering.”

“You’re very welcome, dear. We’re delighted to have you,” Mamalol said warmly, before shepherding them toward the baggage claim. “Come on, let’s get you two home. You must be starving.”

Minutes later, they were outside, where a sleek black Range Rover gleamed in the pick-up lane.

Mikha narrowed her eyes. A Range Rover? Really? Aiah must have put some effort into finding a decent car for them to drive around this small city, but it didn’t have to be this extravagant. It must have cost her quite a bit, and the brunette might be running low on funds by now.

“You don’t have to rent an expensive car just to impress me,” she whispered.

“What?” Aiah blinked.

“I’d be fine with a hatchback. Comfort matters more than status.”

“What are you even saying?”

“That you probably smashed your piggy bank just to rent this thing.”

Aiah laughed. “Well, yeah, most likely. You’re a high-maintenance girlfriend. I know you won’t settle for less.”

Mikha stiffened. The sarcasm wasn’t lost on her, but how could Aiah still joke when she was probably running on a negative balance?

Before Mikha could retort, she noticed Aiah slipping into the back seat beside her instead of the driver’s seat.

“You’re not driving?”

“She doesn’t drive in the Philippines,” Gwen answered flatly from the passenger seat, never looking up from her phone.

“Then who—”

The driver’s door opened, and a middle-aged man slid in.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Aiah,” he greeted warmly.

“Good afternoon, Mang Rick!” Aiah’s face lit up. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

Living in a small city, Mikha assumed you’d get to know the community and its residents, because there was no way the chauffeur was included in the car rental package. That would be too expensive. She worried Aiah would accumulate debt during their fake marriage if she kept pulling stunts like this.

“What are you doing?” she whispered sharply.

“What?”

“Just because we’re engaged doesn’t mean you can start spending my money when yours runs out.”

Aiah looked at her like she’d grown two heads. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The car. The chauffeur, Aiah,” she said with emphasis, as if stating the obvious.

A dry chuckle escaped Gwen’s lips. Whether it was at her phone screen or Mikha’s paranoia, Mikha couldn’t tell.

“Relax, baby. It’s been handled,” Aiah said pointedly, leaning on the baby like it was a warning. The brunette probably didn’t want her cousin to think they were fighting.

Mikha exhaled through her nose, unconvinced. She wasn’t worried out of care, absolutely not, but because if Aiah drove herself into debt, their entire scheme could implode. And yet, if Aiah insisted it was handled, Mikha would let it slide. For now.

“They took another car,” Aiah explained. “Mom wanted to stop at the store, and Stacey begged Maloi to tag along. They’ll catch up with us later. Just relax, okay?”

Relax. Easy for Aiah to say. For Mikha, this whole family circus felt less like a vacation and more like stepping onto a stage where everyone already knew their lines. Except her.

Gwen finally looked up from her phone, deadpan. “Wow. What a fun couple you two are. Can’t wait for family dinner.”

Mikha whipped her head toward her, scandalized, but Aiah just burst into laughter.

“See, Gwen likes you already,” Aiah teased.

“That’s her liking me?” Mikha shot back.

“For Gwen? Yeah. Trust me, this is her friendly mode.”

Gwen gave a one-shoulder shrug, returning to her screen. “Could be worse. Could be Stacey in the car instead of me.”

Mikha groaned. “You’re right. I’ll take quiet judgment over open mockery any day.”

“See?” Aiah said, smirking. “You’re fitting right in.”

Chapter Text

After more than thirty minutes on the road, Mikha’s eyes fluttered open. She must’ve dozed off, because for a split second she panicked. New country, unfamiliar car, wrong side of the world. Then she spotted Aiah snoring softly beside her, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and relaxed. Okay. Not kidnapped. Just… weirdly chauffeured.

Gwen was still glued to her phone in the front seat, thumbs flying across the screen like she was defusing a bomb, so Mikha assumed she hadn’t taken a nap like the two of them.

As the SUV rolled on, the scenery changed. Buildings thinned out, traffic eased, and soon the city noise faded into something quieter. Mactan’s outskirts looked less like chaos and more like a glossy travel brochure: palm trees, beachside restaurants, clusters of modern shops. Mikha leaned on the window, curious… until her brain screeched to a halt.

ARIENZA BANK.
HOTEL ARIENZA CEBU.
ARIENZA PLAZA.

And several more with Arienza’s in their names, like a hardware store, a supermarket, even a fuel station.

Arienza.

Her eyes darted to the girl asleep next to her. Mariah Queen Arienza.

Mikha nearly choked on her own spit. What the hell?!

She nudged Aiah hard, whisper-yelling, “Aiah. Aiah.”

Aiah stirred with a groggy scowl. “What’s your problem?”

“You didn’t tell me about… all the family businesses, baby.” Mikha hissed back, making sure to tack on “baby” because Gwen was still within earshot.

“Oh, Ate Aiah was probably just being modest,” Gwen piped up from the front seat, as if this were the most normal revelation ever.

Modest? Mikha had believed this woman was hustling in New York just to make rent, not sitting on top of a business empire like some Cebuano Gossip Girl character. Why was she fetching coffee in Manhattan when she could be running a literal chain of banks?

The car slowed, pulling into a gated property that opened into… of course, a private marina. Not just any dock. This was marble walkways, manicured palms, staff in crisp uniforms embroidered with the Arienza crest. Mikha blinked at the sight of it all. She saw Aiah’s mom and Mamalol stepping gracefully out of another car, Maloi and Stacey following behind like they’d done this routine a thousand times.

Mikha clutched her suitcase. “What are we doing? Shouldn’t we be checking into our hotel right now?”

“Oh, we canceled your hotel reservation,” Mary said sweetly before Aiah could answer. “Family doesn’t stay in hotels. You’ll be staying at our home.”

“Oh. Okay…” Mikha forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “And where exactly is your home?”

“It’s on another small island here in Cebu,” Aiah said flatly, as if that was the most normal sentence in the world.

Mikha blinked. Island?

“And how exactly are we getting there?”

“Boat,” Aiah replied, gesturing at the marina like duh.

Mikha’s blood pressure spiked. “No. No, I don’t want to ride a boat.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No.”

“Then stay here, and I’ll see you in a few days. Bye, Mikha.” Aiah dragged her suitcase away like she was serious about leaving her behind.

Mikha scrambled after her. “You don’t understand! I can’t swim!”

“Neither can I,” Aiah shot back. “So if you drown, I drown. Isn’t that romantic?”

Romantic? More like deranged. Who lived on an island but didn’t know how to swim?

“Now hurry up. I’m starving.” Aiah marched off, leaving Mikha fuming.

“Aiah dear, help Mikha with her things,” Mary called gently.

“I’d love to,” Aiah said with a smirk, “but she won’t let me do anything. She’s all about girl power.”

This little rascal. Mikha glared so hard it could’ve burned holes. Aiah must’ve felt it, because she turned to Gwen instead. “Go help your Ate Mikha with the bags.”

Gwen groaned but obeyed, grabbing Mikha’s suitcase. “Don’t sweat it, you’re a visitor. The helpers will take care of the rest.”

Mikha glanced around. Sure enough, staff in matching uniforms moved efficiently, all wearing that same Arienza crest. Like she’d stepped into the middle of some elite family drama where everyone else knew the script and she was still flipping through the program.

“You really don’t want to get on the boat?” Gwen asked.

“No!” Mikha said a little too quickly.

“You’ll love it.”

“Love it?”

“Yes. Trust me.” Gwen pointed toward the dock.

Mikha followed her finger and froze.

Her idea of a boat was something rickety and wooden, maybe with a motor that coughed and sputtered. But this was a private marina, and nothing here even remotely fit that picture. 

The vessel in front of her was sleek. Shining. Ridiculously oversized.

That wasn’t a boat.

That was a freakin’ yacht.

The staff lined up along the dock like they’d rehearsed it, greeting the Arienzas with polite bows and “Good afternoon, Ma’am” in perfect unison. Mikha, still clutching her carry-on like a lifeline, tried not to look like the village outsider who had accidentally wandered into a royal procession.

Then she saw the ramp leading onto the yacht.

“Oh, no.” She stopped dead.

“Oh, yes,” Aiah countered, already halfway up the ramp.

“This isn’t a boat, Aiah,” Mikha hissed. “This is a floating mansion.”

“Semantics,” Aiah called over her shoulder. “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

Mikha’s palms went clammy. The ramp looked steady enough with polished wood and stainless steel rails, but her brain screamed that one wrong step and she’d tumble straight into the blue water below.

“Don’t worry, Ate Mikha,” Gwen said breezily, breezing past her. “It’s super safe. You could drive a golf cart up that thing.”

“Great,” Mikha muttered, “maybe I’ll ask for one.”

She took her first step onto the ramp, heart hammering. Her stiletto heel clicked against the polished wood, sharp and commanding, the kind of sound that usually made her editors in New York scatter. But here? It only reminded her she was one wobble away from pitching straight into the sea.

Her second step clicked louder, echoing against the marina like she was about to hold a board meeting on a floating mansion. Everyone’s heads turned, staff and family alike.

Mikha froze. “Perfect. Exactly what I wanted, an audience.”

From the deck, Aiah extended a hand, smirk tugging at her lips. “Relax, baby. You’re too stiff. You look like you’re about to conquer Wall Street, not board a yacht.”

Mikha shot her a glare, but refusing the hand would make her look worse. So she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode forward with the poise of a runway model…

Until her heel caught in the thin groove between two planks of the ramp.

Her ankle wobbled, balance betrayed, and she let out a startled gasp.

Strong hands caught her just in time. Aiah’s.

“Careful,” Aiah murmured, annoyingly smug. “I thought I said that you had girl power covered?”

“Shut. Up,” Mikha muttered through clenched teeth, cheeks heating.

But when she finally looked around, her embarrassment gave way to disbelief.

The yacht’s deck gleamed like something out of a luxury magazine. Teak flooring, white leather loungers, glass railings that framed the endless ocean view. Staff whisked their luggage inside with practiced ease, while the family moved around like this was just another Saturday afternoon.

Mikha’s jaw practically dropped. “You live like this?”

Stacey glanced over, adjusting her sunglasses. “Oh, this? It’s just for the transfer.” Her tone was so matter-of-fact it almost sounded apologetic, like she was pointing out the weather.

Maloi shrugged. “Yeah. It’s easier than taking two smaller boats.”

Transfer. They actually said transfer. Like this floating mansion was the equivalent of an airport taxi.

Mikha’s brain scrambled. She wasn’t exactly poor. Back in New York, she’d worked her ass off to build a name, carved out her own money and independence with blood, sweat, and stilettos. She had her own place, her own office, and a wardrobe that screamed she could buy you and your family if she really wanted to. A small inheritance from her parents helped her start, sure, but everything else? Pure grit. Pure Mikha Lucero.

And yet, she almost laughed at herself. Earlier, she had actually wondered if Aiah was broke. Broke. As in, “living off instant ramen and skipping subway fare” broke. Worse, Mikha even entertained the thought that Aiah had smashed her piggy bank just to rent that fancy car for her back at the airport. And here she was, casually boarding a yacht like it was the Cebu version of a grab car. Ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

But this? This wasn’t grit. This was legacy. This was wealth that stretched back generations, the kind where family names weren’t just printed on business cards. They were plastered on banks, hotels, schools, and probably the oxygen she was currently gasping into.

And right now, the weight of it all was sitting heavy in her chest.

Like how do you even compete with that?

“Transfer ride?” she echoed, voice pitching higher.

Gwen finally looked up from her phone, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t overthink it. You’ll see the house soon enough.”

The house. If this wasn’t the destination, Mikha wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was.

She turned to Aiah, utterly betrayed. “You. Didn’t. Warn. Me.”

Aiah slid on her sunglasses, looking unfairly at ease. “Would it have helped? You’d still be freaking out.”

“You are going to be just fine,” Stacey said, plopping down on the sofa beside her with the effortless confidence of someone who belonged on yachts.

Mikha, on the other hand, sat stiffly at the far end, clutching a throw pillow like it had a life jacket hidden inside. The main salon was too much with its wide windows spilling sunlight over cream leather couches, polished wood floors that gleamed like honey, and a glass table with a flower arrangement so precise it looked like it had been bullied into perfection. The whole place smelled faintly of sea breeze and something citrusy, like even the air had been catered.

She’d been told the trip was just about forty-five minutes, so she hadn’t bothered checking into a cabin. The sofa was soft enough, plush, cozy, borderline predatory in how much it wanted to swallow her whole. Better to just sit than risk motion sickness while wandering around. If she stayed put, maybe she could fool herself into thinking this was just a really weird hotel lobby.

“It’s just a quick trip,” Stacey went on, swirling the wine in her glass like she’d done this commute a hundred times. “Don’t worry. You’ll live.”

“So obviously, this so-called boat is family-owned as well, right?” Mikha asked, her voice a careful mix of sarcasm and dread.

Stacey blinked, then tilted her head with mock offense. “This?” She swept her hand around. “This belongs to Ate Aiah.”

Mikha’s eyes nearly fell out of her head.

“Gifted by uncle when she turned eighteen,” Stacey said so casually it sounded like she was mentioning a hand-me-down pair of shoes. “She doesn’t really use it, so she left it under my care. Well, mine and Gwen’s. We usually host our college parties here instead of having them at home.”

Mikha’s throat made a noise that could only be described as a dying blender. “Parties. You… host parties. On this.” She gestured at the yacht like it had personally insulted her.

“Mm-hmm.” Stacey leaned back into the cushions, crossing her legs, the glass of wine dangling from her hand like a prop in a lifestyle ad. “Better than dealing with our parents yelling at us for noise. At least here, we only sometimes get in trouble with the Coast Guard. They’re nice as long as we follow the rules. They like us because we don’t do anything crazy. Plus, they keep us safe.”

Mikha’s brain short-circuited. The Coast Guard. The actual Coast Guard crashes their parties? She couldn’t even imagine.

“Aiah didn’t tell me about any of this,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone.

“Oh, Ate Aiah’s the most humble person I know,” Stacey said, sipping her wine. “She doesn’t boast about the family’s wealth.”

Mikha sat there, words drying up in her throat. The girl she’d thought was scraping by in New York on secretary wages actually had a yacht just lying around, and apparently, in her cousin’s custody no less.

Overwhelmed didn’t even cover it. Her instinct was to retreat, to close off, because honestly? While she appreciated Stacey checking up on her, she wasn’t skilled at this whole small-talk thing. She could command a boardroom, shut down a sleazy investor, or bulldoze her way through a contract negotiation, but casual chit-chat? Absolute disaster.

Her silence stretched long enough that Stacey tilted her head, assessing. Then, with a little shrug, the younger girl stood. “I’m going to get a refill.”

Mikha blinked, only then noticing the wine glass Stacey had been holding was already empty. “Oh.”

“Want one?” Stacey asked.

Mikha shook her head quickly. Alcohol and nerves? Not a good combo.

“Suit yourself.” Stacey padded off toward the bar, casual as ever, while Mikha sank deeper into the sofa, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The view should’ve been calming. Sunlight glittering off the turquoise water, waves rippling like liquid glass, a horizon so wide it looked like the world had cracked open just to remind her how small she was. But instead of peace, her chest felt tight.

She wasn’t sure if it was the motion of the yacht, or the weight of realizing she’d stepped into a life so far from her own it might as well be another planet.

For one unguarded moment, Mikha wondered… Was it too late to undo all of this? The blackmailing, the fake engagement, the lies she’d forced Aiah into? She could call it all off, confess, let Aiah walk free in her world of yachts and empires. But then her chest tightened with another thought: if she let go, her career would be the casualty. Everything she’d bled, clawed, and sacrificed for would go down in flames.

And unlike Aiah, she didn’t have a family empire waiting as a safety net. No private islands, no fleets of yachts, no cousins throwing parties on floating mansions like it was a dorm common room. All Mikha had was what she’d built with her own hands: a career stitched together with ambition and sleepless nights, propped up by sheer willpower and the scraps of an inheritance. If that went up in smoke, there was no Plan B. No Arienza cushion to fall back on.

So she clenched her jaw, sat straighter on the too-soft sofa, and told herself what she always did when cornered: Suck it up. See it through. Then walk away when it’s over.

Easier said than done, when the ocean glittered outside the window and her “fake” fiancée’s life looked more like royalty than reality.

Stacey reappeared, fresh glass in hand, and plopped down beside her. She took a sip, then smirked. “Honestly, none of us expected Ate Aiah to show up with a girlfriend from New York. The Witch Bosszilla, no less.”

Mikha choked. “Excuse me?!”

“You know…” Stacey gestured at Mikha’s pristine cream blazer and perfectly crossed legs. “Sharp suits. Killer stilettos. Scary death glares. Major witch boss energy.”

“That’s—” Mikha sputtered.

“Relax.” Stacey grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “It’s iconic, actually. Ate Aiah coming home with her boss-slash-girlfriend who looks like HR needs therapy after every meeting with you? No one saw that twist coming.”

Mikha arched a brow, dryly. “Wow. You really know how to make someone feel welcome.”

“What can I say?” Aiah’s voice floated in as she appeared at the bottom of the stairs, sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking like she’d just stepped out of a glossy magazine. “I like a challenge.”

Stacey, still grinning, pressed on. “Seriously though, that’s why everyone’s so shocked. You were the Witch Boss of New York! We all thought Ate Aiah dreaded going to work every day, and now you’re her girlfriend? It doesn’t add up.”

Mikha forced a smile, scrambling for something vague but believable. “Well… turns out, sometimes the boss isn’t so bad outside the office.”

Aiah snorted. “Or maybe she just grew on me. Like a fungus. A terrifyingly well-dressed fungus.”

Stacey laughed, throwing her head back, and the sound carried enough that Gwen and Maloi who were chatting near the railings, glanced over and chuckled too, like they’d caught the punchline without needing context. The salon filled with their amusement, disbelief softening just enough for the moment to pass.

Mikha, meanwhile, sat rigid, praying they wouldn’t dig any deeper.

“Miss me?” Aiah asked casually, sliding onto the armrest beside Mikha like she owned the place. Well, she does own this place.

Mikha forced a smile. “Desperately, baby,” she said through her teeth, making sure Stacey heard every ounce of sarcasm.

“Good. Keep it up,” Aiah murmured, clearly amused. “The audience is buying it.”

Mikha clutched the throw pillow tighter, wondering, not for the first time, if it was too late to swim back to New York. Which was ridiculous, of course. She didn’t even know how to swim. She’d probably sink the second her toe touched the water.

“Here we are. We’re almost home!” Mamalol’s excited voice carried through the salon.

Mikha moved to the window, and what she saw nearly made her jaw drop right onto the polished mahogany floor. She felt a wave of dizziness so intense her legs wobbled that she had to grab a window frame to steady herself. 

She hadn’t known what to expect, but whatever her imagination had cooked up, it was nowhere near this.

The horizon revealed a smaller island rising out of the ocean, cradled in the blush-gold glow of the setting sun. But sitting on that island wasn't a humble beach house. It was a sprawling, opulent estate that screamed "Old Money" from every perfectly manicured lawn. This was the kind of place you only ever saw in movies or on the glossy pages of Architectural Digest. This was Crazy Rich Asian-level type of shit.

Except… it wasn’t just any mansion.

Casa Arienza rose like a dream, part traditional Filipino ancestral house, part modern luxury villa. Its stone base stretched into wide verandas and capiz-inspired windows, but those old-world touches were softened with glass-paneled terraces, sleek lines, and warm amber lighting that spilled across manicured lawns. The whole structure shimmered in the fading light, like history and modernity had decided to hold hands.

Her legs became more unstable, nausea is taking over her. She gripped the window frame, certain her body was being dramatic, and nearly lost her balance, until a familiar hand steadied her.

“You okay?” Aiah asked, appearing at her side as if out of thin air.

Mikha spun toward her, wide-eyed. “That is your home?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“Who are you people?”

Aiah blinked. “…Uhm—”

“Why did you tell me you were poor?”

“I never said I was poor.”

“But you never told me you were rich!”

“I’m not rich. My parents are rich. My family is rich.”

Mikha narrowed her eyes. “Okay, you know what? That’s something only rich people say.”

Aiah just shrugged, annoyingly calm. “Come on, let’s get our things. We’re almost there.”

The yacht drew closer, and Casa Arienza grew impossibly grander. From afar it had been majestic, but up close it pulsed with life. Strings of warm lights wound through the coconut trees by the shoreline, lanterns swayed gently in the sea breeze, and the sound of laughter drifted across the water. The whole place radiated celebration, like the island itself was in on the party.

Her practical brain, of course, betrayed her. How much was their monthly electric bill? Then again, these people probably didn’t care if lights and air-conditioning hummed 24/7.

As the yacht docked at the private pier, Mikha spotted movement onshore. People bustled around, some on the steps, others inside, framed by tall glass doors. She knew the birthday party wasn't for a few days, yet the mansion already looked alive, voices floating over the water, music faintly joining in like background color.

“Hi, Aiaaaaah! Welcome home!” a few called, waving eagerly as soon as they caught sight of her.

“Hi!” Aiah waved back, her voice cheerful but cautious. Then she turned to her mother. “Mom, what is this? Why do we have guests?”

"Nothing, honey. It's just a simple welcoming party. Is that a crime?" her mother, Mary, replied, her voice filled with feigned innocence.

Mikha caught the soft huff Aiah made under her breath.

“It’s only a few of the family’s island friends,” Mamalol chimed in warmly from behind. “Everyone’s excited to see you.”

Mikha nearly groaned. A plane ride, a drive, a yacht trip… her soul had officially clocked out. And now? A party. Of course, rich people throw parties when someone who's been away for so long finally comes home. She glanced at her watch: past six. To her, it screamed quick dinner, shower, and blackout sleep.

Beside her, Aiah sighed, just as drained. “We don’t have to stay long. Just smile, exchange a few greetings, and I’ll tell Mom we need to rest. Honestly, I hate these things too.”

That startled Mikha a little, because for someone who lived in a mansion straight out of a billionaire soap opera, Aiah sounded just as weary of the spectacle as she was.

Mikha groaned anyway, shoulders slumping like the last of her energy had been wrung out on the trip over.

“Let’s go,” Aiah said, already trudging toward the glowing path that led up to Casa Arienza. “My grandma’s moving faster than you.”

Mikha dragged herself upright, wobbling as if her legs had filed an official complaint. She shot Aiah with a glare. Aiah, equally tired, just gave her a crooked smirk, the kind that said Yeah, I don’t want to do this either, but here we are.

Together, under the wash of sunset and golden lights spilling from the mansion, they looked less like a power couple making an entrance and more like two overworked humans bracing for another round of performance.

The second Mikha stepped into Casa Arienza, her brain short-circuited.

From the outside, the mansion had been a breathtaking paradox with its modern lines kissed by a Filipino ancestral soul. But inside? Inside it was a fiesta explosion that could only be described as controlled chaos.

Warm yellow lights glowed from capiz-shell chandeliers overhead, their shimmer bouncing off polished narra floors. The air smelled of lechon crisping in the garden, pancit, and fresh mangoes, like a whole barrio had moved into the mansion. A live band was tucked in one corner, already playing a mix of folk and modern songs, while kids darted between legs, clutching balloons. Somewhere in the chaos, someone yelled “Viva Señor Sto. Niño!” and got a round of cheers.

This wasn’t some uptight elite gathering with champagne flutes and small talk about stocks. 

This was noisy, messy, alive.

Mikha froze at the entrance, unsure if she’d just walked into a billionaire’s homecoming or a barangay fiesta. Probably both.

Even though she’d never actually experienced a Filipino fiesta despite being Filipino-Canadian herself, it felt like she’d just stepped into one of those images she’d skimmed online before the trip. She remembered typing “Philippine culture” in a mild panic, hoping to cram like it was an exam. Back then, it was just glossy photos of parols, lechon, and streets exploding with color.

The truth was, she’d only visited the Philippines once as a kid, tagging along with her parents. It was a blur of relatives she couldn’t remember, humid air, and one awkward trip to Jollibee. That was it. No fiestas, no street dances, no real sense of what it meant to belong. She grew up in Canada, where her world was maple leaves and snow days, Walmart runs, and weekends at the mall. Western culture was second nature. It is what she understood, what she lived in. Filipino traditions? Those were background noise at best, the occasional YouTube video her dad would play while cooking, or the random article that popped up in her feed, glimpses of a culture she never really lived.

Now, standing here, it was the real deal. Laughter bounced off the walls, the smell of grilled seafood hung heavy in the air, music spilled from a live band in the corner. It was like stepping into a photograph that had suddenly come alive.

It should’ve been comforting, familiar even. But instead, Mikha felt like the odd one out at her own cousin’s birthday party. A cousin she didn’t actually know. Everyone else slipped easily into this world of hugs and chatter and jokes in Cebuano that flew too fast for her to catch. Meanwhile, she hovered at the edges, smiling like a tourist who’d stumbled into a cultural festival, half-amused, half-overwhelmed. She couldn’t shake the little pang of impostor syndrome crawling up her chest. This was supposed to be her culture too, wasn’t it? And yet, she felt like a guest peeking in through the wrong door.

“Lost, my friend?” a voice said beside her.

She turned to see Maloi, grinning ear to ear, already balancing a plate of lumpia like she was born at buffet tables.

“I’m fine,” Mikha lied, gripping her bag like it was a lifeline.

“No, you’re overwhelmed. Classic rookie mistake,” Maloi said, popping a lumpia in her mouth and talking around it anyway. “Don’t worry, I’ll brief you. Think of me as your unofficial tour guide to the circus you just stepped into.”

Mikha exhaled, trying not to glare. “Please. Because right now, I have no idea if I should be curtsying or grabbing a beer.”

Maloi chuckled. “Come on, sit down. You look like you’re about to pass out.” She led Mikha to a quiet corner, away from the main area.

“I just…” Mikha started. “I don’t understand. I thought Aiah had a simple family.”

Maloi laughed. “Honey, ‘simple’ is a relative term. Okay, so… Arienza crash course, coming right up. You know how some families in movies are shady oligarchs with bodyguards and cigar smoke?”

“Yes,” Mikha said carefully.

“Not them. To understand the Arienzas, you have to go back. Way, way back.” Maloi set her plate down and began to tell the story as if it were a thrilling historical drama. “The Arienzas are more like… Cebu’s first family. Old money, yes, but the type that built everything from the ground up. The ancestors were big landowners in Cebu back in the Spanish colonial era. Like 1800s big. Coconut and sugarcane plantations. They supplied the Spanish galleons, then the American traders. Basically, they built their first fortune on copra and sugar. Their first estate, Hacienda Arienza, started it all.”

Mikha blinked. “So… farmers turned billionaires?”

“Exactly. Except they didn’t just hoard it. By the 1900s, Cebu was a major trading hub, so they pivoted. They founded Arienza Maritime Lines. Cargo galleons first, then ferries, then passenger ships. They became indispensable, connecting Cebu to all the neighboring islands.”

“Wow,” Mikha breathed.

Maloi grinned. “But wait, there’s more! After World War II, they didn’t just rebuild. They diversified. They created Arienza Bank to help farmers and entrepreneurs. Built Arienza Plaza, got into real estate, and started the Arienza Foundation, building schools and hospitals. They didn’t just rebuild themselves, they rebuilt Cebu. To them, their wealth is tied to the land and the people. They’re seen as stewards, not exploiters.”

Mikha’s jaw ticked. “You make it sound like a bedtime story.”

“Hey, I’m simplifying. If I gave you the full version, you’d need PowerPoint.” Maloi wagged her fingers. “Anyway, fast-forward. The global stuff came later: luxury resorts, Cebuano exports like dried mangoes and furniture, etcetera, etcetera. And now? Sustainability. Solar farms, eco-tourism, marine sanctuaries. Old money but with modern values.”

Mikha doesn’t even know what to say to all of that.

Maloi gestured toward the party. “That’s why this doesn’t look like some stuck-up Manila gala. See the fishermen in the back? The teachers near the buffet? Half of them owe scholarships or jobs to this family. The Arienzas don’t just live here. They are Cebu.”

Mikha glanced around. Sure enough, the crowd wasn’t just family in designer clothes. Locals mingled freely. Kids with sunburnt cheeks chasing balloons, old fishermen laughing with titas in floral dresses, teenagers snapping photos like they were at a festival.

Her mind, always wired to analyze, began to connect the dots. Aiah’s cheerfulness, her humility, her easy way with people… it all clicked now. She wasn’t just a girl from a wealthy family. She was the product of a legacy stitched tightly with community.

Mikha’s throat tightened.

“And this,” Maloi added with a flourish of her fork, “is how they party. Always open door. Always with the people.”

There was a beat of silence before Maloi smirked. “So, yeah. Congratulations.”

Mikha frowned. “For what?”

“For being the Witch Bosszilla who made her poor assistant cry in New York, and then somehow showing up as her girlfriend. Imagine their faces when Aiah walked in with you on her arm. Okay, fine, she’d told them over the phone already, but still… shocking doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Mikha groaned, pressing her temple.

Maloi leaned closer, lowering her voice this time. “By the way… don’t overthink why people are side-eyeing you. It’s not personal. Well… okay, maybe a little.”

Mikha’s brow twitched. “Comforting.”

“No, really. It’s just…” Maloi waved vaguely toward the crowd. “Okay, here’s another extra trivia for you: while Aiah was born and raised in the States, her family made sure she came home every year for vacations and holidays. They weren’t about to let her drift too far. They wanted her tied deep into her Filipino roots. So, by the time she decided to spend her college years here, nobody was surprised. After graduation, she flew straight to New York and hasn’t been back in two years. Last time people saw her, she was fresh out of college. The beloved balikbayan granddaughter everyone spoiled with mangoes and halo-halo is gone for two years. And now?”

Her eyes flicked over Mikha with a dramatic pause. “Now she’s home with her terrifying boss who looks like she could fire her for breathing wrong.”

Mikha rolled her eyes. “I’m not planning on firing her.”

“Yeah, but you did make her life a living hell. Aiah said your interns have a support group, and HR still twitches when your name comes up.” Maloi smirked before continuing. “So imagine their shock: their beloved sunshine island girl Aiah walks in holding hands with the dragon lady from New York. That’s why everyone’s confused.”

Mikha’s throat went dry.

“Let’s just say… whatever story you two cooked up better be airtight. These people love her too much to just nod and smile. So yeah, they’ll smile and welcome you. But underneath? They’ll be watching. Wondering if you’re worth the girl they love so much.”

Mikha’s stomach sank. She glanced at the laughing cousins, the aunties and uncles clinking glasses, the village people queued up at the buffet. Aiah had a whole island treating her like a daughter.

And Mikha? She was just the outsider who’d strong-armed her way into their golden girl’s life, now standing in the middle of a fiesta that celebrated everything she wasn’t.

“Then why was she in New York? I still don’t get it.”, she asked.

Maloi shrugged, eyeing another lumpia. “Because she’s got her own dreams, babe. She wanted to carve her own path, do her own thing. That’s the short version anyway.” She smirked. “If you want the long one, that’s a whole other lecture. Save it for Arienza Crash Course: Part Two.”

Mikha stayed quiet, but the words lodged in her chest. Dreams. Roots. Aiah had both, and she’d chosen New York anyway. Funny how Mikha, the one supposedly closest to her now, suddenly felt like she was piecing together a stranger from everyone else’s stories.

Her throat constricted, but instead of showing it, she smirked. “Great. So basically, I’m the evil stepmother in this telenovela. Can’t wait for the villagers to chase me out with pitchforks.”

Maloi choked on a laugh. “Oh, please. No pitchforks. Worst case? You get passive-aggressive stares and titas asking when you plan to give them great-grandchildren.”

Mikha groaned. “Fantastic. Just what I needed.”

“Relax,” Maloi said, nudging her shoulder. “If anyone survives this circus, it’s you. Just… maybe try smiling more so you don’t scare the children.”

Mikha shot her a glare, but Maloi only grinned wider, clearly enjoying every second of her misery.

Aiah’s head was pounding. She hadn’t expected her family to throw her a full-blown fiesta masquerading as a “simple” homecoming. They’d promised her it would be “small” and “casual.” Translation: live band, buffet tables sagging with food, and half the island crammed into their house.

Don’t get her wrong. She loved her family, loved the island people who showed up with wide smiles and warm hugs. But parties like this drained her. She’d rather have the money go into fixing roofs or funding scholarships, not hiring a band loud enough to blast her eardrums into next week. Her parents always countered with the same argument: We’ve already budgeted for that, Mariah. This is tradition. People enjoy it. It’s how we celebrate with everyone.

And maybe they were right. The people were laughing, eating, alive. Meanwhile, she was stuck smiling so hard her cheeks twitched like they were on strike.

She caught sight of Mikha across the room, standing rigidly beside Maloi. Her “smile” looked like it had been stapled on. Aiah almost laughed. At least she wasn’t the only one suffering. She was already plotting her escape: sneak upstairs, collapse in her old bedroom, and wake up two days later when the party was over.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were some kind of Cebuana princess?”

Mikha had somehow materialized beside her, tugging her into a quieter corner.

“How could I?” Aiah shot back, deadpan. “All we did was talk about you for the last two years.”

“Okay, time out.” Mikha lifted her hands into a perfect “T,” like a referee about to bench her. “This constant bickering? We need to cut it out. People have to believe we’re in love, so let’s just drop the fighting.”

“That’s not a problem for me,” Aiah said sweetly. “Pretending to be the perfect, loving fiancée? Piece of cake.”

“Great.”

“But for you…” she smirked, “…that might require actual witchcraft. Maybe a potion. Something to trick people into thinking you’re capable of love.”

“That. Exactly that.” Mikha jabbed a finger at her. “Those remarks have to stop.”

“Fine, I’ll stop.”

“Good. So when are you planning to tell them we’re engaged?”

“When the moment’s right. Let’s not rush it. The last thing we need is them smelling something fishy.”

“Hey, Aiah!”

Both women snapped their heads toward the sing-song voice.

“Mrs. Herrera!” Aiah plastered on a smile. “How are you? It’s so nice to see you again.”

Her old college adviser swooped in for a hug. “I’m good, dear. And it’s great to see you back.”

“Thank you. This is Mikha.” She slipped easily into the role, tugging Mikha closer. “Baby, this is Mrs. Herrera, my adviser in college.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mikha said smoothly, shaking hands like she’d been doing it all night.

“And you, too,” Ms. Herrera smiled. “So tell me, what does a book editor actually do?”

Before Mikha could answer, another voice cut in. Sharp, low, and instantly familiar.

“Well, that’s a great question. I’ve always wondered the same.”

Aiah’s stomach dipped. She didn’t even have to turn to know.

“Dad.”

Miguel Arienza stood there, glass of rum in hand, looking as stern as he had the day she left for New York. Their hug earlier had been stiff, more contractual obligation than homecoming. He’d always called it “tough love,” but to Aiah, it felt like love had gotten lost somewhere in translation.

“This must be Mikha.” Miguel extended his hand, his smile polite but practiced, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Mikha said politely, her expression unreadable as she shook it.

Miguel’s thin smile lingered for a beat before he pivoted to the small circle watching. “So tell us, what does a book editor really do? Besides…” His pause stretched just long enough to sting. “Besides telling other people how to write because you can’t do it yourself?”

Ms. Herrera gave a polite little laugh, the kind people used when they weren’t sure what else to do. “Well, publishing must take a lot of skill. No wonder you went into it, Aiah.”

Miguel’s glass caught the light as he lifted it in mock correction. “No, no. Aiah’s not the editor. She’s the assistant. Mikha here is the editor.”

The words hit sharper than they should have. Aiah forced her smile not to twitch.

“Oh.” Ms. Herrera blinked, visibly flustered. “So… you’re her boss?”

“Yes,” Miguel confirmed smoothly, no hesitation, his voice too loud in the sudden quiet.

The air thinned. Even Ms. Herrera’s smile faltered as she glanced between them. She muttered something about catching up later and scurried off, her heels clicking like a retreat.

Miguel turned, already dismissing the awkwardness with a casual sip. “Excuse me, I need a refill.”

Mikha shifted closer, muttering under her breath, “Wow. That was… something.”

Aiah caught the subtle stiffness in Mikha’s shoulders, the way her polite mask didn’t quite hold. She must’ve been taken aback by the way her father had welcomed them. If this had been anyone else, an intern, an editor, a supplier, or even a board member, Mikha would’ve already cut them down with the sharp edge of her voice. Aiah knew her well enough to recognize the twitch of her jaw, the impatient flick of her fingers, all her bossy instincts itching to come out and snap back the way she probably would in a boardroom. But this wasn’t Bloom’s conference table. This wasn’t just anyone. This was Aiah’s father. And with the chief wanting this entire show to glide without a hitch, Mikha was forcing herself to swallow it down. For the sake of appearances, for the sake of this fragile performance, they couldn’t afford a blowup. Not here. Not now.

Aiah knew she was holding back, restraining herself out of respect for Aiah’s family. Out of respect for her.

And Aiah hadn’t warned her. She’d thought, stupidly, that maybe she could get through this visit without another verbal sparring match with her father. That maybe, for once, they could last a week without tearing into each other. But no. Not even an hour in.

Her jaw ached from holding her smile in place. “Excuse me,” she said tightly, each syllable clipped.

She found him at the minibar, pouring with deliberate slowness, the amber liquid catching the light as if he had all the time in the world. His back was straight, relaxed. Too relaxed. Like nothing about what just happened carried weight for him. But for her, the humiliation still burned hot, wrapping tight around her chest.

“That was quite a first impression, Dad,” she said, voice sharp.

Miguel didn’t even flinch. “What the hell, Mariah? You disappear for years, then show up with the woman you used to complain about, and suddenly she’s your girlfriend?”

“We just got here,” Aiah shot back. “Can we not throw the kitchen sink at each other yet?”

“I never thought you’d reduce yourself to being someone’s shadow. Is this what New York made of you? Running errands, waiting for scraps of recognition, using your boss as a stepping stone and calling it ambition? That’s not building, Mariah. That’s settling.”

He took a sip from his glass before speaking again, the disdain sharpening. “Don’t fool yourself, Mariah. Women like her don’t build anything lasting. They chew through people, through careers, then move on to the next shiny thing. You’re just convenient for now.”

Miguel’s words landed like a slap. Aiah bit the inside of her cheek, heat sparking in her chest. She didn’t like a lot of things about Mikha. Her sharp tongue, the impossible standards, the way she treated everyone like soldiers in the board room… Despite all that, she didn’t deserve the disrespect. Not from him. For all her sharp edges, Mikha was brilliant, tireless, and relentless in ways that made New York’s publishing world take notice.

“Actually, Dad,” she said evenly, “Mikha is one of the most respected editors in New York. She’s not a stepping stone. She’s… important to me.”

Miguel scoffed, swirling his glass. “Important? Mariah, that woman and that publishing career will not carry our family forward. You know what I see when I look at what you do? A glorified hobby. What kind of legacy is that? Where’s the impact? This family’s work isn’t just business, Mariah. It’s duty. It keeps lives stable, it keeps traditions alive. And you threw all of that away for a desk job in New York. Tell me, what kind of daughter walks away from her duty?”

Aiah’s chest tightened. She’d heard this her whole life, every time she dared to dream beyond the Arienza name. To him, nothing she did outside their empire was real, or worth a damn.

And yes, she loved what her family had built. She was proud of the empire that gave their people livelihoods, homes, stability. She admired how her father and ancestors carried that responsibility on their shoulders. But she also knew, deep down, she wasn’t made to lead the way they did. She wasn’t her father. She wasn’t her Papalol.

Her dream looked different, but that didn’t make it less important. Stories mattered too. Words carried weight, they gave voice to people who would otherwise be unheard. If the Arienzas could give their community food and shelter, then maybe she could give the world something else… a chance to be seen, to be remembered.

“You think editing isn’t real work?” she snapped. “It’s shaping stories, voices, ideas that matter. It’s helping people be heard. But of course you’d never understand that. You only measure worth in the legacy you can pass down, in whether I can carry the family’s name the way you and Papalol did.”

His expression hardened, the lines on his face deepening. “Don’t talk to me about worth. You’re my daughter. You had a clear path laid out for you. You have security, wealth, and respect. And you threw it away for… books? For running errands for someone else?”

“Maybe I didn’t want your path,” she said, voice shaking but steady. “Maybe I wanted my own. You raised me to think like you, to be like you, but I’m not you. I never will be.”

“So now, you drag some woman across the ocean to parade her like a trophy? This is shameful, Mariah. A disgrace to your family, to everything we built.” Miguel spat, stepping closer.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Aiah said, pulse thundering. Her chin lifted, eyes burning with the fury she’d carried for years. “What you see is me choosing for myself. What you see is me loving someone you’ll never understand. And what you’ll never admit, Dad, is that you’ve already lost the right to decide for me.”

She took a breath, her voice rising, sharp as a blade.

“Because Mikha isn’t just my boss. She’s not just a random girlfriend I brought home. She’s my fiancée.”

Miguel blinked, rum glass poised at his lips, caught off guard. “Your what?”

“My fiancée.” Aiah’s voice didn’t waver. “Mikha and I are getting married.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the party spilling in from the other room: laughter, guitars, glasses clinking. But Miguel recovered fast, shaking his head like he’d misheard. “You expect me to believe this?” His voice was low, almost a growl. “Mariah, do you think marriage is some kind of magic trick you can pull to get ahead?”

“This isn’t about getting ahead, Dad.”

“Oh, but it always is with you. First it was your poor choice of a college course, then it was this job no one in this family understands, and now it’s parading some woman you claim is your boss, your lover, and suddenly she’s your fiancée? You’re not serious. You’re humiliating us.”

Aiah felt the heat rise in her chest, but she didn’t flinch. “You know what’s humiliating? Standing here while my own father tells me my life is a joke.”

Miguel’s jaw tightened, but she pressed on, her voice steady. “You’ve spent my whole life doubting me. Doubting what I want, what I can build. But Mikha’s not a trick. She’s not a prop. She’s my choice. My partner. And if you can’t accept that, then you’ll just have to sit there with your drink and watch.”

Her father opened his mouth, then shut it again. For once, he didn’t have the last word.

And before he could find it, Aiah spun on her heel and strode into the living room, lifting her voice over the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” she announced, her voice carrying over the music. “I have something important to share.”

Dozens of faces turned toward her. Conversations hushed. Even the band quieted mid-riff, letting the silence swell.

“Mikha and I…” her gaze swept the crowd until it locked onto her fiancée, mid-sip of wine, “...are getting married.”

Mikha promptly spat into her napkin, coughing, her eyes blazing murder.

“Baby, come here!” Aiah beckoned brightly, as if none of it fazed her.

Mikha’s glare screamed what the hell are you doing? but with the entire room watching, Aiah had no choice. Mikha slipped into her side, her posture rigid, her smile the stiffest.

“There she is… the love of my life.” Aiah wrapped an arm around her waist, squeezing just tight enough to make Mikha grunt.

The room erupted. Cheers, applause, whistles crashed over them like a wave. Stacey whooped from the back about opening another champagne. Aiah’s mother barreled through the crowd with tears in her eyes and wrapped them both in a crushing hug. Mamalol wasn’t far behind, peppering their cheeks with noisy kisses and declaring them “perfect together.”

The people shrieked, the visitors clapped, and someone even shouted for the band to play a love song.

Through it all, Aiah held her smile like armor. Mikha, still dazed and slightly damp from her near wine-disaster, managed to mutter under her breath, “You could’ve at least briefed me.”

Aiah just squeezed her tighter, the brightness of her grin not quite reaching her voice. “Surprise,” she whispered back, her tone flat under the roar of applause.

Inside, though, she was sinking. Her stomach roiled so hard she half-expected to throw up right there, in front of everyone. Her temples throbbed. Her face ached from smiling. She hadn’t even been home an hour and already she’d gone head-to-head with her father. She’d known this fight was inevitable, Miguel never missed a chance to remind her where she fell short, but knowing didn’t make it easier.

And what made it worse was the sting of truth buried in his words. Because wasn’t this exactly what she’d done? Bent her own morals, agreed to a fake engagement, traded her integrity for a promotion. She’d built her whole identity on hard work, on starting from the bottom, on earning every inch of her climb. And now here she was, taking the shortcut she swore she’d never take.

Part of her still wanted to blame Mikha for it… for needing saving, for forcing her into a corner, for dragging her into this spectacle. But even as she thought about it, she knew the blame wasn't really exactly all hers. She’d chosen this too. She’d clung to it as a lifeline for herself too. If Mikha stayed, so did her shot at climbing out of obscurity, so did the chance to prove she wasn’t wasting her life in New York. She kept trying to believe that helping Mikha meant helping her career, that the two could be the same thing. But even as she smiled and pretended, the lie curdled inside her.

Her father’s voice still echoed in her head, critical, dismissive, as if her dreams would never be enough no matter what she did. Mikha or no Mikha, he would still find a way to belittle her choices, still see her as the girl who’d run off to New York and failed. That truth gnawed at her as much as everything else.

She hated herself for it. She hated that she needed this mess, hated that her father’s accusations hit closer than she wanted to admit. And worst of all, she knew he wasn’t entirely wrong.

The weight of it pressed down heavier than her mother’s embrace, heavier than the cheers crashing around them. Her throat felt raw, her chest tight, her hands clammy under the heat of the lights and the noise. Everything about this was a mess, and there was no way out now. All she could do was keep smiling, keep pretending… until the night… and maybe this whole charade was finally over.

Chapter Text

Mikha had been sitting with Maloi, doing her best impression of a local who actually wanted to be here. Her cheeks ached from the fixed smile she’d been wearing all night. It was exhausting, like holding a plank in heels.

Then she spotted Aiah across the room, looking just as restless, already eyeing the staircase like it was her lifeboat off a sinking ship. Relief flickered through her chest. At least she wasn’t the only one plotting escape.

Mikha seized her chance. A few steps and she was beside her, tugging her into a quieter corner. Better to deal with Aiah’s barbs than Maloi’s ceaseless attempts to turn her into a local expert. 

Their banter came quick, sharp, and too familiar. Aiah smirking, Mikha pretending to referee, the two of them bickering like they always did. But beneath the words was that hum of pressure: keep it believable, keep the masks on. Pretend we’re perfect. Pretend we’re in love.

Mikha could do masks. She’d been raised on them.

When Mrs. Herrera appeared, Mikha slipped into her practiced role without hesitation, warm handshake, polite smile, smooth as if she’d been introduced to professors and patrons all her life. She almost believed the performance herself.

And then he arrived.

Miguel Arienza. The head of the Arienzas, and it showed. The moment his voice cut in, Mikha felt it. It was sharp, low, carrying the kind of authority that could silence a room without raising volume. She turned, smile intact, but her spine braced like she’d just been summoned to a boardroom showdown.

His handshake was firm, but his eyes weren’t smiling. Polite, yes. Practiced, absolutely. But there was no warmth. No welcome. Just appraisal, the way men twice his age used to look at her across negotiating tables, waiting for her to prove she belonged.

She knew the type. She’d dealt with the type. But this was Aiah’s father, and Mikha could feel the eyes around them, the weight of expectation pressing like a spotlight. So she bit her tongue when his “joke” landed.

Telling other people how to write because you can’t do it yourself?

Her jaw nearly twitched, but she kept her face perfectly composed.

If this had been work, if this had been anyone else, an author, an investor, a competitor, she would have cut through the condescension in seconds. She had entire speeches sharpened for less. But here? Here, one wrong word could unravel the fragile illusion she and Aiah were barely holding together.

So she smiled. Nodded. Let Mrs. Herrera awkwardly scramble for a reply. And when Miguel “corrected” the mix-up, broadcasting her role like it was a punchline, Mikha swallowed the flare of heat rising in her chest.

Not here. Not now.

She felt Aiah tense beside her, saw the way her smile faltered even as she tried to hold it in place. That, more than Miguel’s words, was what caught Mikha off guard. For once, Aiah didn’t look like she was playing it cool. She looked… blindsided.

And that bothered Mikha more than she cared to admit.

So she forced her own mask tighter, shoulders squared, smile smooth, every instinct screaming to snap back but her willpower holding the line. For appearances. For the performance.

Maybe for Aiah. 

“Wow,” she muttered under her breath once Miguel moved off, low enough for only Aiah to hear. “That was… something.”

But what she really meant was… she didn’t understand why it unsettled her, only that she didn’t like seeing Aiah cornered, not one bit.

"So that was your idea of the perfect time to tell them that we're engaged?" Mikha asked Aiah as they stood pressed into a corner, nursing glasses of champagne. The scent of sweet florals tangled with the unmistakable aroma of lechon dominated the air, and somewhere behind them, the bass from the music thumped like it had opinions about everything happening tonight.

"Oh, yes. That was the perfect time," Aiah replied, not meeting her eyes.

"That's brilliant. That's brilliant timing." Mikha knew the sarcasm was thick enough to cut, but honestly, it was already done. She could at least be relieved that the announcement was over.

"Aiah. Hi." A soft voice cut through the background noise.

Mikha turned to see a striking brunette approaching. "Colet? Oh my god. Wow. Hi."

The hug was long and warm, the kind that spoke of years and shared history. Probably a long-lost friend. But Mikha felt that subtle, tiny stab of discomfort as Aiah visibly relaxed into the embrace.

Of course she would. Aiah had been gone for so long, so it was natural for her friends to miss her greatly.

"How are you doing? I didn't know you were going to be here," Aiah asked, pulling back.

"Oh, your mom invited me. Probably didn't mention it to you because she wanted it to be a surprise. So... surprise," Colet said with a laugh that made Mikha want to raise a brow and ask, “What’s so funny?”

"Wow. I'm glad you came. It's so good to see you again."

"Yeah. It's good to see you too."

Aiah had been wearing a performative smile all evening, but this was different. This was real warmth, real nostalgia. Mikha felt a flicker of possessiveness she quickly dismissed as professional ownership.

The air shifted when Colet finally turned her attention to Mikha. "Aiah, we’re completely being rude," she said, extending her hand.

"Oh, right. Sorry. Mikha, this is my... this is my ex—uhhh..." Aiah hesitated, an awkward flush creeping up her neck.

"I'm Colet," the brunette finished smoothly, shaking Mikha’s hand with a firm, confident grip.

Oh. A long-lost ex-girlfriend. Nice. Mikha shook Colet's hand, finding the name oddly familiar, a stray piece of information she must have stumbled across in Aiah's personnel file.

"Hi. Nice to meet you." Mikha's smile was polite, yet subtly challenging.

"Same. It's good to finally see the person who hit the jackpot by marrying this little golden pup."

Little golden pup? Mikha barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. That nickname clearly came with history. It felt strangely intimate, something Colet had clearly earned the right to use. Mikha tried not to let it get under her skin. Colet’s tone was teasing but fond, and Mikha realized there was a subtle undercurrent of lingering affection towards Aiah. Something to watch.

"Well, congratulations to both of you," Colet said. Mikha could tell the sincerity was there, but beneath it, there was a definite hint of "what-ifs" regret. Aiah was clearly still precious to her.

"Thank you," Mikha and Aiah said in unison.

"So, did I miss the story?" Colet asked.

"What story?" they both replied, a little too quickly.

"Ohhhh. How a person proposes their love says a lot about their character," Mamalol chimed in, appearing like she had been hiding in the shadows just waiting for the juicy part.

"I actually would love to hear the story too, Aiah. Would you tell us?" Mary, Aiah's mother, said as she joined Mamalol on a nearby sofa.

They were in trouble. This was something they hadn't discussed, and Mikha felt like a deer caught in the floodlights. 

"You know what? Actually, Mikha loves telling this story. So I'm just going to let her go ahead and do that." Aiah immediately sat down on the sofa, leaving Mikha stranded with an audience of expectant faces.

Oh. Great. 

Where’s Maloi when we need her? she thought, remembering how Aiah had insisted on bringing her along for this trip. She was supposed to be the one selling the story, hyping it up, keeping the crowd entertained and on cue, basically doing everything Mikha was now flailing at trying to manage. Instead, she was on her own, all eyes locked on her, and her stomach did a perfect little flip.

Well, since Aiah wanted her to be the one to spin the tale, she might as well make it entertaining.

"Wow. Okay. Where do I start?" Mikha paused for dramatic effect, letting her imagination kick in. "Well, uhm... Aiah and I were about to celebrate our first anniversary. And I knew that she'd been itching to ask me to marry her already. And she was so scared, like my little cinnamon bun that she is…" Mikha’s eyes flicked to Colet for just a moment, letting the glance do all the talking: We have our own little world, our own private nicknames too.

The crowd laughed, unaware of the shade, but Mikha saw where Colet’s smile faltered. Good. Let her know this game had two players now.

"So…”, she continued. “I started leaving her little hints here and there because I knew she wouldn't have the guts to ask, but—"

"That's not exactly how it happened, baby," Aiah interjected, giving her a desperate "what-in-the-world-are-you-saying" look.

"Hmmm. No?"

"No," Aiah breathed deeply, leaning forward. "I mean, I picked up on all her little hints. This woman was about as subtle as fireworks in a library," Aiah said, earning a laugh from the small crowd that had gathered. Stacey and Gwen were now leaning against the wall, sipping drinks with wide eyes. Maloi is still nowhere to be found. "What I was worried about was that she might find this little box—"

"Oh! The DIY explosion decoupage box that she made where she had taken the time to cut out tiny, little pictures of us, the photos we took through the year. Yes, I remember that, baby. It's an origami box that pops open, and as soon as you take the top off, it reveals pictures, messages, and even gifts inside. Ohh... It's so, so beautiful. It's the first time someone has given me such a cute thing."

A few "ooohs" and "aaahs" could be heard from the audience. Mikha's acting was so convincing they were completely buying it, except for Aiah, who was now giving her a death glare that promised retribution later.

"So I opened that beautiful, little explosion box, and out fluttered these tiny, little hand-cut heart confettis..." Mikha emphasized with sweeping hand gestures. "...and once they cleared, I looked down and I saw... the most beautiful, big—"

"...fat nothing," Aiah finished her sentence. She was not letting her have this moment. "No ring."

"No ring?" Mamalol asked, confused.

"No. But inside that box... underneath all that crap... there was a little hand-written note with the address to a hotel, date, and time."

Another round of "ooohs" and "aaahs" from the crowd. This time, it was Mikha's turn to give Aiah an angry stare for her dramatic addition.

"Anyway, naturally, Mikha thought... she thought—"

"I thought she was seeing someone else," Mikha continued, expertly faking a heartbroken frown.

"What?" Mary asked, clearly invested.

"Yes, it was a terrible time for me. But I went to that hotel anyway. I went there and pounded on the door. But the door was already unlocked. And as I swung open that door... there she was..."

"Standing," Aiah insisted.

"Kneeling," Mikha corrected, leaning into the lie with relish, letting the room visualize it. "In a room filled with little scented candles and a bed of rose petals, in a sexy black Victoria's Secret dress... Your daughter... Your precious daughter... She was choking back soft, soft sobs. And when she held back her tears and finally caught her breath, she said to me—"

"I said, 'Mikha, will you marry me?' and she said yes. The end. Who's hungry?" Aiah declared, cutting the story off with a haste.

Applause and laughter erupted.

"That is gorgeous. Aiah, you are so romantic," Mamalol clutched Aiah’s hand like she’d just performed a miracle.

"Wow. That is quite a story," Aiah's mother said, wiping a sentimental tear. 

"Hey, let's see a kiss from the two lovebirds!" Stacey shouted, and the people started clinking their glasses like they were at a wedding reception.

Oh no. Not necessary.

"Give her a kiss, Aiah!"

"No. Come on, guys," Aiah politely waved her hand to decline. 

Yes, that's right. Tell them no.

But the crowd wasn't taking no for an answer. The clinking grew louder, the chant started, and people began to push them together. Mikha felt a surge of panic. There was no escape. She couldn't explain it, but she was suddenly feeling incredibly nervous.

"Okay. Alright. Here we go," she heard Aiah say.

The brunette grabbed her hand and quickly kissed it. Lame, yes, but hopefully crowd-acceptable.

"Ate Aiah, what the hell was that? Kiss her on the mouth like you mean it!" Stacey demanded. This little cousin was pure trouble.

The chant grew even louder. Mikha scanned the faces, everyone was leaning in, eager for the spectacle. Again, where the fuck is Maloi? If there was ever a time for Maloi to earn her keep, it was right now. This was exactly the kind of mess Maloi was supposed to handle. She was the one meant to keep the spotlight manageable, not turn it into a circus act. Yet here Mikha was, center stage, caught between Stacey’s loud mouth and Aiah’s panicked eyes.

"KISS HER! KISS HER! KISS HER!" the crowd chanted.

Aiah was clearly freaking out, droplets of sweat forming on her forehead. Mikha’s chest tightened, and a strange, unfamiliar flutter stirred somewhere deep in her stomach, but she had no idea what it was. Nerves? Panic? Some rogue, inexplicable feeling she didn’t have words for? She couldn’t tell. The only thing she was certain of was that this was a performance, and she had to keep it convincing.

A smack on the lips wouldn’t hurt, right?

As if Aiah had read her mind, she nodded.

Aiah leaned in. Their lips touched. Quick. Simple. Soft. Mikha noted the contact, the warmth, the brief pressure, but her mind is in a mess. This was not supposed to feel like… whatever this felt like. Weird. Confusing. Unsettling. But she kept her eyes half-lidded and her posture measured.

This is performance. That’s all.

"Aiah! Give her a real kiss!" Mamalol demanded. God, they were not letting them off the hook.

"Yeah, give her a real one!" someone shouted.

"Why don't we just do it?" Mikha whispered, voice low and tense. She really just wants to get this over with.

"Yeah, let's just do it very fast," Aiah replied, equally flustered.

Time slowed as Aiah leaned in again. Her hand brushed Mikha’s cheek, barely a touch, but enough to spark something sharp and electric beneath her skin. Then their lips met. 

It wasn’t the kind of kiss meant for show. It lingered… slow, deliberate, and far too real for an audience. It was the kind that stole your breath and rearranged the room around you, like gravity had quietly changed its mind. Aiah’s hands found Mikha’s waist with a care that felt almost reverent, a question asked in touch before it ever reached words.

The noise of the party melted into static. The lights blurred into soft gold behind her eyelids. Mikha didn’t know who moved first, only that when their lips finally met, it felt inevitable, like the moment had been waiting for them all along.

Mikha registered the warmth first, then the softness, the absurdity of being this close in front of a crowd, and then the way Aiah’s breath hitched against her own. Her stomach fluttered again… unpredictable, unfamiliar, and she had no clue how to interpret it. She focused on keeping her body language believable, trying not to think about what was happening beyond the surface.

The faint taste of champagne, peaches, and honey filled her mouth, painfully sweet, dizzying, and dangerous. For a moment, Mikha forgot the noise, the crowd, the pretending. There was only the heat between them, and the quiet hum of something that felt almost like… something she didn’t have the words for.

Her mind scrambled to make sense of it. This was too much, in all the wrong ways… but also exactly what the performance demanded. Butterflies? Probably. Confusion? Definitely. Understanding? Not a chance.

Then came the applause, the whistles, the clinking glasses, shattering the haze. Mikha’s eyes snapped open, and she ended the kiss abruptly. Aiah’s eyes mirrored the same shock and disorientation. Both of them froze for a heartbeat, caught between the act they were performing and the unexplainable tension they had just shared.

Okay. What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?

The applause and whistles finally ebbed, but Mikha’s pulse refused to catch up. Her lips still tingled, her mind still a slow-motion mess. It felt like her body hadn’t quite remembered how to exist without that kiss, like the air itself had changed density and she was the only one struggling to breathe through it.

She didn’t know if she wanted to scream, hide, or down her entire glass of champagne. Maybe all three. Her heart was beating somewhere in her throat, loud enough she swore people could hear it.

And then, like fate laughing in her face, Maloi appeared at her elbow with a plate stacked so high it could have fed a small barangay. She was happily chewing lechon, grease shining on her lips.

“Wait, wait—” Maloi mumbled around a mouthful, eyes darting between Mikha and Aiah. “Did I miss something?”

Mikha almost launched the nearest fork at her.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The champagne burned a little on its way down, or maybe that was just her nerves. Aiah leaned against the wall, trying to look casual, like someone who actually had a grip on things. She didn’t. Not even close.

She hadn’t planned on announcing the engagement tonight. Not here, not in front of everyone, not when she was already sweating bullets about the whole charade. But her father had pushed, leaving her no room to maneuver. Backed into a corner, she had no choice but to let it slip. And once it was out there, there was no stuffing them back in. She told herself it was fine. Better to rip the bandage off than drag it out.

And then… Colet.

The moment she saw her, Aiah’s chest tightened with a sharp ache of recognition. Years melted in an instant. That hug? God. She hadn’t realized how much she missed that until she was in the middle of it. Colet’s laugh, the way her eyes softened… it was all so painfully familiar. And dangerous.

Because Colet still looked at her the way she used to. Because Colet still uses endearing nicknames and Aiah almost flinched at how intimate it still felt.

And then Mikha’s performance started.

Aiah had to give her credit: she spun that story like she’d been rehearsing for weeks. Every pause, every exaggerated detail, every ridiculous flourish, pure theater. Aiah sat there, torn between horror at how wildly inaccurate it all was and admiration for how Mikha held the room in the palm of her hand. 

The “cinnamon bun” line? That flick of Mikha’s gaze toward Colet? Oh, Aiah caught it. It wasn’t random. It was deliberate, like Mikha was planting a flag. A silent little message that is as if to say: We have our own thing too. You don’t get to hold that kind of claim anymore. Mikha clearly wanted Colet to know her place. And the fact that Mikha cared enough to make that statement in the middle of a performance… yeah, Aiah wasn’t sure what to do with that.

But then came the chanting. The glass-clinking. The part she dreaded most.

The kiss.

The first one, on the hand, was fine. Stupid. Safe. Crowd-pleasing. But Stacey had to go and ruin everything, didn’t she? That girl had the persistence of a mosquito at three in the morning.

The second kiss wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that.

And yet, there she was.

Mikha’s lips. Warm. Unexpectedly soft. The faint tang of champagne and something sweeter she couldn’t quite name. Aiah’s pulse stuttered. Her head spun. She told herself it was a performance. All just performance. That the flutter in her chest was just adrenaline, the kind that hits right before stage fright turns into applause.

But then Mikha’s eyes half-lidded, her body leaned just slightly closer, and the crowd blurred into meaningless noise.

Time slowed. The world folded in around that single point of contact. It wasn’t supposed to feel this way… not sharp, not searing, not real.

Something in her chest twisted… tight, breathless, traitorous.

It was over in seconds, but it felt longer. Too long. Long enough for her to know something dangerous had sparked to life.

The cheers erupted around them, but Aiah couldn’t hear any of it. All she could hear was the pounding of her own pulse, loud and merciless, like her body was mocking her for pretending not to feel.

And then, like cosmic irony, Maloi appeared. Grease-stained, juggling a plate of lechon, eyes wide and innocent as she asked, “Did I miss something?”

Yeah. Just the whole unraveling of my sanity, Aiah thought bitterly.

She forced a laugh, forced a smile, forced herself to keep breathing. But deep down, she knew: whatever this thing was with Mikha, it had just gotten a lot more complicated.

Mikha had barely shaken the sound of the crowd’s whistles out of her ears when Stacey plopped down beside her, balancing two half-full glasses of red wine with surprising steadiness for someone whose cheeks were already flushed.

“Here. You look like you need this more than I do,” Stacey announced, shoving one glass into Mikha’s hand without waiting for an answer. The wine sloshed dangerously close to the rim, and Mikha had to steady it quickly before it stained her clothes.

Mikha blinked. “Do I?”

“Oh, absolutely. You just survived a baptism by fire. Or, you know, a baptism by tongue,” Stacey giggled, her voice pitched higher than usual. She clinked her glass against Mikha’s with exaggerated ceremony, nearly spilling again in the process.

Mikha almost choked on her first sip. “It was a kiss, not a—”

“Relax, Ate Mikha. I’m not judging.” Stacey leaned in, her breath warm with wine, lowering her voice as if the chandeliers themselves might overhear. “But since you’re officially ‘in the family’ now, I should probably give you a little… background check. For your own good.”

Mikha froze, torn between curiosity and dread. She set her glass down on her knee and ran a finger along its thin rim, anything to distract from the way her stomach had just knotted. “Background check?”

She wanted to roll her eyes. First Maloi with the whole Arienza 101 Crash Course, and now Stacey with her unsolicited background check. Seriously, was there some kind of seminar that came with kissing Aiah? Like every family member took turns handing her a syllabus? Because as brilliant as she liked to think she was, her head could only hold so much clan trivia in one night without short-circuiting. And yet… a traitorous part of her still leaned forward, waiting, curious in spite of herself.

“Colet,” Stacey said simply, as if the name explained everything. “She wasn’t just Ate Aiah’s girlfriend. She was the girlfriend. The one we all thought was gonna last forever. Aunt Mary already had them married off in her head. Present in all family vacations, matching Christmas pajamas, the whole nine yards.”

Mikha tried to keep her face neutral, but her fingers tightened around the delicate stem of her glass. Her throat felt suddenly too tight for wine.

“They were so gross together,” Stacey continued, her eyes sparkling mischievously as if she were narrating a school play. She leaned back in her chair, nearly spilling her wine again, then casually scanned the crowd like she half-expected Aiah to appear. “Aside from all those cute little pup nicknames, Ate Colet used to call Ate Aiah Cinta. Can you imagine? And Ate Aiah used to wait outside her classes just so they could do pungko-pungko every afternoon, like some hopelessly lovesick university girl who thought carbs and street food could keep a relationship alive. We were all convinced she’d never get over her.”

Mikha’s smile wavered, caught between polite interest and the very real urge to throw her wine in Stacey’s face. Not that she would. Probably.

A sharp, inconvenient thought pressed at her anyway: if they were that perfect, why did it end? For a second, Mikha almost wanted Stacey to go on, to spill the missing piece of the story. But she knew, with an annoying stab of restraint, that it wasn’t Stacey’s tale to unravel. Not tonight.

She shifted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, and pretended to study the chandelier above them so she wouldn’t have to look Stacey straight in the eye.

“And now,” Stacey added with a lopsided grin, tipping back her glass as if toasting fate itself, “here you are. Sitting in her spot. Kissing her girl in front of the whole clan. No pressure, Ate.”

Mikha forced a little laugh, the kind that came out far too high-pitched to be convincing. “No pressure at all. Thanks, Stacey. Really helpful.” She straightened in her chair, chin lifting with an almost regal tilt, her words cutting through the hum of the party. “But let me make one thing clear. I’m not worried. Aiah and I, we’re stronger than that. Whatever history she had, whatever fairytale her ex thought she was living, that’s over. No one, certainly no ex, is coming between us.”

Stacey blinked at her, startled by the steel laced beneath her tone, then grinned like she’d just discovered a whole new layer of Ate Mikha she hadn’t expected. “Oh, yes, I know. Believe me, I do. That whole kiss practically screamed how much you two love each other. If anyone in this family had doubts before, well, that kiss just burned them away.”

Mikha let out a quiet breath, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “Thank you, Stacey. For… looking out for me.”

The younger girl’s grin softened, almost conspiratorial. She winked, already distracted by her friends waving from across the hall. “Anytime, Ate. Consider it my gift to the happy couple. Ate Colet and I might be close, but between you and me… I’m starting to really like you, too.”

That last line tugged an involuntary laugh out of Mikha, surprised and a little touched despite the knots still coiling in her stomach. “I’ll take that as a win,” she murmured, shaking her head.

Stacey pushed herself up from the chair, nearly stumbling as she stood. She giggled at her own clumsiness, patted Mikha’s shoulder like they’d just shared some sacred secret, and then wove her way toward her group, humming off-key as she went.

And then she was gone, leaving Mikha alone now, with an empty glass and a stomach full of knots, lechon, and wild butterflies. She stared down at the half-moon of lipstick Stacey had left on her abandoned glass and told herself it was fine. That it didn’t matter. That Aiah’s past was just that, past.

But the image wouldn’t leave her head: Colet calling Aiah Cinta. That was a deep Filipino word for “beloved,” wasn’t it? And Aiah waiting around after class like some smitten fool. Colet in every family vacation. In matching pajamas.

Her chest wouldn’t unclench. It was ridiculous, she scolded herself. She’d never been in this kind of situation before… paraded in front of a clan that wasn’t hers, kissed like it meant something—too much, too loudly, for it to just be pretend, when they both knew it was… and then force-fed the ghost of an ex who sounded like she’d been written into the family Bible. Of course she was uneasy. Anyone would be.

She blamed the noise, the suffocating warmth of so many bodies in this ridiculously enormous mansion, the wine humming through her veins, the endless clamor of a “welcome” that felt more like a trial.

She blamed the kiss most of all, the way it still burned on her lips, making everything Stacey said weigh heavier than it should. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was just drunk on attention, nerves, and spectacle.

Yes, that had to be it. Not jealousy. Not insecurity. Just too much happening in one night: Aiah’s high-profile family, their pointed eyes, their knowing smiles. The kind of stage Mikha had never rehearsed for.

She pressed her lips together, hard, as if that could stop the thought circling in her brain. She had no right to care, none at all. This was all a performance, a charade. She was supposed to be in control of it.

So why did it feel like she’d just walked into the middle of a competition she never signed up for?

Aiah spotted her across the room, sitting straighter than usual, glass empty but jaw tight, like she’d just fought through another round of family theatrics on her own. The sight tugged at something protective in her chest… confusingly protective.

Wasn’t this what she wanted? For Mikha to suffer a little? To finally feel the weight of dragging her into this whole fake relationship mess? Yes. She deserved to squirm. To choke a little on the chaos she had started. That should’ve been satisfying.

And yet, it wasn’t. Instead, something restless prickled under Aiah’s skin. Watching Mikha look cornered made her stomach twist in a way that was anything but satisfying.

Why did it bother her now? Why did it make her want to step in, shield her, smooth away that tightness in her face?

It wasn’t because of the kiss. Absolutely not. That had been nothing but theater, a trick of timing and proximity, a move to shut the crowd up. Performance, plain and simple. She refused to let her brain rewrite it into anything more. 

It meant nothing. Nothing at all.

And yet… her pulse still stumbled when she remembered the warmth of it.

Grinding her teeth against the thought, Aiah shoved through a knot of visitors and finally reached Mikha’s side, her hand brushing lightly against her arm.

“You holding up?” she asked softly, leaning down so only Mikha could hear. There wasn’t time for an answer, Mikha’s lips barely parted, before Mamalol descended and swept them both into her arms.

“I am so happy for you two! So happy!” her grandmother exclaimed, voice trembling like she might burst into tears if she held on any tighter. Aiah could smell the faint trace of lavender perfume, the same scent that always made her feel eight years old again, sneaking candy before dinner.

Mamalol’s arms locked around them, and suddenly Aiah was in the worst sandwich of her life. Her lavender-scented grandmother on one side, and Mikha’s very distracting body on the other, close enough to blur the line between comfort and something far less innocent. It was absurd, like the universe had staged the most inappropriate threesome hug imaginable, with Mikha’s curves pressed flush against her while her grandmother clung to her like she was eight again. She tried to focus on the soft croak of Mamalol’s voice, but all she could register was Mikha’s hip brushing against her body and the fact that her own face was probably turning redder than Stacey’s wine. Fantastic. Exactly the image she wanted immortalized: trapped between family affection and something that definitely wasn’t supposed to feel this… electric.

Stacey’s voice broke the spell.

“Let’s get more booze! Let’s celebrate the love of these two!” Stacey whooped across the room, sloshing wine dangerously close to the carpet. She was already so tipsy, cheeks flushed, grin wide. She’d been sipping since the yacht. Of course she had.

Aiah rolled her eyes over Mamalol’s shoulder, grabbing the lifeline in the crowd and seizing the chance. “Gwen,” she called, muffled by the hug but urgent all the same, “I think we need to rest upstairs. It’s been a long day. Can you hold down the fort? Keep an eye on your sister?”

Her cousin arched a brow, lazily twisting the beer bottle in her hand so the light caught the amber glass. “Really, Ate? Stacey’s a grown woman. Let her pass out on a couch for all I care. I’ve actually got someone dropping by later, so babysitting duty isn’t exactly on my schedule.”

Still, Gwen’s smirk betrayed her. “But fine. Since it’s you asking, I’ll handle it. Just don’t forget I’m cashing in a favor later. Also, don’t be too loud. I’ll be using the room next to yours.”

“Shut up,” Aiah muttered, playfully tugging Gwen’s hair as soon as she was free enough to move. 

Her mom and Mamalol were already herding them toward the staircase, each armed with the kind of maternal insistence you couldn’t fight. “Here it is,” her mom said proudly as Mary pushed open the door like a YouTuber doing a room-reveal.

Aiah froze on the threshold. The room was exactly as she remembered, calm blue walls, the tall glass doors leading to a balcony, the scent of salt and faint pine drifting in through the cracks. It had been tidied up for their arrival: fresh linens, polished floorboards, curtains drawn back to frame the endless sea and the sprawl of stars above it. This was the room she had chosen years ago, her little sanctuary from the chaos of the world. Tonight, though, it felt less like a sanctuary and more like a stage.

“Wow,” Mikha breathed, stepping inside. Her eyes darted to the balcony doors, reflecting the silver wash of moonlight. “This is… beautiful. The view is magnificent.”

For a heartbeat, Aiah forgot to breathe. The moonlight caught Mikha just right, painting her in silver, softening the sharp lines of her face until she looked almost unreal… like something out of a dream Aiah wasn’t supposed to be having. Ethereal. Untouchable. And for a second, Aiah almost reached for her, just to see if she was really there.

But then she remembered  the cardinal rule of a staged relationship: keep it casual, keep it cool, keep it pretend. Act like this is nothing. Feel nothing.

“And here’s the bed,” Mamalol announced proudly, voice slicing through Aiah’s haze like a brass horn, pulling her back to reality.

Mamalol’s eyebrows wiggled as she presented Aiah’s bed, like she was about to narrate the juicy climax of a telenovela.

Oh, come on.

“Wow. Exquisite bed… Lovely,” Mikha said, clearly awkwardly fishing for words, each one duller than the last. “So, uhm… where is Aiah’s room?”

Her mom chuckled, a mischievous lilt in her tone. “Sweetie, we’re not under the impression that you two don’t sleep in the same bed. She’ll be with you.”

“Oh… great,” Mikha stammered. “Because we love to snuggle. Don’t we, baby?”

“Yeah,” Aiah deadpanned, her lips twitching. “Huge snugglers.”

Before Mikha could dig herself deeper, a tiny bundle of fur came tearing into the room, claws clicking on the hardwood.

“Oh my god. What is that? What is that? What is that??” Mikha shrieked, vaulting behind Aiah like they’d just been ambushed by a wild beast.

“Nini,” Aiah said with a laugh, scooping up the little Chow Spitz. His fluffy body wriggled happily against her chest. “They just rescued him last month. Sorry, Mom should’ve warned you.”

“Just make sure the door stays closed or the eagles will snatch him,” Mamalol said with mock gravity, wagging her finger.

“Oh, sure. No pressure,” Mikha muttered, glaring suspiciously at the pup as if he might sprout fangs.

Her mom opened the cabinet by the bathroom with the practiced air of someone conducting a tour. Towels, toiletries, neatly stacked essentials, all revealed with a sweep of her hand. 

“And if you get cold, you can use this.”

Mamalol pulled out a thick blanket like it was a prized artifact. “It has special powers.”

Mikha blinked. “What kind of powers?”

“I call it the Baby Maker.”

“…Oh. Oh, okay.” Mikha held the blanket like it might detonate at any second. “Guess we’ll, uh, be super careful with that one.”

Satisfied with them settling in, the women finally made for the door. Aiah kissed her mom and Mamalol on the cheek, slipping in a quick request: “Check on Stacey, please. And Gwen too. And tell Maloi she can stop saving the buffet from extinction. She’s been shoveling lechon onto plates for twenty minutes. She’ll pass out if no one helps her.”

Her mom chuckled and nodded. “I will. Good night, lovebirds.”

“Good night, ladies,” Mikha waved with exaggerated politeness.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

For the first time that day, it was just the two of them. No family members barging in. No champagne-fueled chanting. No excuses left to cling to. No escape.

Aiah sat down on the edge of the bed, fingers curling into the blanket like she needed something solid to anchor her. Mikha hovered by the dresser, pretending to adjust a perfectly straight frame, then brushing away a speck of dust that wasn’t really there.

Neither of them spoke.

The air felt thick, charged with something unspoken, the kind of quiet that made every tiny sound like the creak of the floorboard or the rustle of sheets, sharper than it had any right to be.

Mikha finally crossed to the bed, setting her clutch bag a little too carefully on the nightstand before sitting down, closer to Aiah than she meant to, probably. Aiah shifted, just enough space left between them to feel like a deliberate line.

“So…” Mikha said finally.

“So…” Aiah echoed.

A beat.

Their eyes met, then darted away just as fast.

Mikha cleared her throat. “Sleeping arrangements.”

“I don’t have the energy to argue with you,” Aiah muttered. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Well, good,” Mikha said, plopping onto the bed like she was claiming territory.

As much as Aiah longed for the mattress, the familiar comfort of it, the cool sheets waiting for her, she didn’t want to fight anymore. Not after the trip. Not after her father’s stunt. Not after Colet. Not after… the kiss.

Dragging a pillow to the floor, she slipped out to the balcony for air. The night met her instantly, cool and briny, the forest and sea blending into a fragrance that usually soothed her. Waves beat a steady rhythm against the sand below, the stars scattered sharp and bright overhead. She gripped the railing, grounding herself in the dark.

But instead of calm, all she could hear was the ghost of her own pulse and the memory of Mikha’s lips.

What have I gotten myself into?

Chapter Text

Mikha’s blissful island sleep was ambushed by the shrill, merciless cry of her phone. Of course. Because heaven forbid she enjoy one single night without deadlines or office drama. She hadn’t slept this good since the last time she was sedated, and now some lunatic had the audacity to call her at… whatever ungodly hour this was.

Who could it even be? She’d made it painfully clear to the entire office, in a formal email with an out-of-office signature, and bold fonts, that she was on vacation. On an island. With her “fiancée.” (The quotation marks were loud in her head.) But apparently the universe and her phone did not get the notice.

After several agonizing minutes, the lady chief forced her eyes open, blinking into the morning light filtering through gauzy curtains. Her head felt heavy, like someone had stuffed it with cotton. 

But this wasn’t her usual self. She was Mikha Lucero, editor-in-chief of Bloom Publishing, queen of crisis management, slayer of typos. Normally, she thrived on work emergencies. But this whole fake-engagement charade had forced her to pretend she cared about vacation. If someone had the guts to call her now, it had better be God himself with line edits.

Except… where was her phone? The damn thing had been ringing for five minutes straight, but it was nowhere on the bedside table.

"Aiah..." she hissed, frantically patting the luxurious covers. "Aiah!"

"Hmmmm," came a muffled sound from the floor below the enormous bed.

"Crap. Aiah! Phone!" Mikha scrambled over the pillows, knocking aside books and a couple of Aiah's inexplicably charming childhood pictures on the bedside table. "Aiah, where is it??"

For two years, Aiah had handled Mikha's essentials, placing them in their designated, orderly spots. Though Aiah had declared her PA duties defunct for this trip, the brunette still did the simple things, like keeping her phone in its usual place out of habit.

Through her sleepy haze, Aiah mumbled, “Handbag… inside pocket…”

Mikha lunged for the bag, yanked the phone out like she’d just retrieved Excalibur, and barked into it: “Hello?? Hello?? Hellooooo??” she practically yelled into the receiver, struggling to hear. "Nathan? Nathan of Born To Win? Oh, right! Wait... Wait. Are you there?? Hellooooo??"

The line kept crackling, a digital slap in the face. Mikha began to pace across the room, desperate for reception. Aiah groaned and pulled a pillow over her head, clearly annoyed.

“I have horrible service, Nathan, just… just give me a second!” Mikha whisper-yelled.

“What the hell, Mikha?! I am fucking sleeping!” Aiah roared from under the pillow, very unamused.

Yikes. Aiah cursing meant the brunette was genuinely at her breaking point. Mikha knew their travel day had been utterly exhausting, so she definitely understood Aiah's frustration.

“Nathan, hang on. Please,” she whispered, tiptoeing like a burglar as if being quieter could undo the damage.

She yanked on her robe over her flimsy nightdress, mentally cursing Aiah’s snark from last night: That’s the pajama you brought to Cebu? Well, she wasn’t exactly planning on sharing a room with anyone, much less Aiah Arienza, the human embodiment of her bad decisions.

Still juggling the call, sandals half-on, Mikha bolted out the door, across the poolside, and onto the sprawling front lawn-slash-beachfront. Honestly, this mansion had more wings than an airport, she had given up naming its parts.

Finally, a couple of bars flickered alive. “Yes, Nathan, I can hear you now. No, no, don’t worry about my visa situation… it won’t affect the release date. Everything’s fine. Totally fine.” She poured every ounce of fake calm into her voice. This was too important of a business deal to miss.

"Yes. Of course, I'm listening to you, Nat—"

"Arf arf!" A high-pitched bark sounded directly behind her.

Mikha froze.

Oh, god. She’d left the door open.

A tiny fur missile shot across the grass. It was Nini, the Arienzas’ spoiled little ball of fluff. Mikha’s pulse spiked. She did not do animals. Not since the childhood trauma greatest-hits collection: the zoo monkey snot incident, the tiger-bites-tourist’s fingers fiasco… the list went on. She could catalog her animal encounters from now until sunrise, and they all ended in horror. And now here she was, in satin pajamas, negotiating multimillion-dollar contracts while babysitting a yap-happy gremlin.

“Shhhhhh! Sit! Sit!” Mikha hissed, waving one hand like she spoke fluent Dog. Then into the phone: “Not you, Nathan! Of course not, no, ha-ha…”

“Arf! Arf! Arf!” Nini barked harder, zipping across the grass like an espresso shot in fur form.

"Yes, of course! I can email you the plan and…"

An angry screech sliced through the salty morning air. Mikha squinted toward the trees, trying to locate the source of the unusual sound.

"Arf arf! Arf arf! Arf Arf!" The little dog started barking hysterically at a specific, looming tree.

“Shhh, dog! I’m on the phone!” Mikha snapped.

A confused “…What did you just call me?” came from the man on the other line.

Mikha nearly swallowed her tongue. “No, no, not you, Nathan. You’re not a dog. You’re…uh… amazing. I was talking to…”

A blood-curdling screech sliced the air again, and something enormous and winged launched itself skyward.

Please let that be a drone. Please let that be… nope. 

There it was: a huge, terrifying eagle, a massive brown and white predator, eyes locked on Nini like it had just spotted breakfast.

Oh, hell no.

“Yes, Nathan, the marketing plan is brilliant…” she babbled, eyes locked in horror as the eagle began to circle overhead.

“Arf! Arf! Arf!” Nini yapped like it was trash-talking the bird.

“SHUT UP!” Mikha shrieked at the dog. “No, not you, Nathan! God… what I mean is… win-win situation… projections sensational…”

The eagle dove. Mikha froze, words stuck in her throat, as talons closed around Nini like a claw machine from hell.

“NO, NO, NO, NO, GIVE ME THAT DOG!” Mikha shrieked as the eagle snatched Nini mid-bark.

“Oh my god, hold on! Just… hold on a sec, Nathan!” Mikha sprinted after the bird like a lunatic, yelling, “PUT THE DOG DOWN!”

She couldn't believe the embarrassing, surreal situation she was in. She was talking to the biggest client of the season while chasing a flying creature trying to steal a canine.

And here was the thing: under normal circumstances, Mikha would’ve let nature do its thing. Circle of life, food chain, etc. But this wasn’t just any dog. This was the Arienzas’ beloved baby. Aiah’s family worshipped this puffball like it was their heir. If it died on her watch, she might as well swim back to the mainland herself. 

Also, she had seen the genuine adoration in Aiah's eyes when she picked up the creature last night. She pictured the brunette’s devastated face and, oh God, she couldn’t let that happen.

Aiah. Why was she thinking of Aiah's name so clearly, mid-chase?

She was confused for a moment, but one thing was certain: her fiancée's family would be utterly devastated if their precious puppy became bird food.

“GIVE ME THAT DOG!” Mikha hurled her phone at the eagle. Miraculously, it clipped the bird’s wing. The eagle wobbled, loosened its grip, and…

“Niniiiiiiiiii!”

The dog was plummeting. Nini tumbled through the air like a squeaky toy shot out of a cannon.

Mikha dove forward, arms outstretched, and against all odds, she caught the wriggling pup like some deranged goalie. “I gotcha, I gotcha,” she panted, setting aside her entire philosophy about avoiding the animal kingdom as she clutched Nini to her chest.

Cradling Nini, she scrambled back toward where her phone had landed. “Nathan? Nathan, are you still there? So sorry, I dropped you… yes, yes, legacy, of course this book is your legacy…” 

Another screech split the air. The eagle was back, furious and pup-less.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Mikha clutched Nini tighter, sprinting in zigzags like a terrified quarterback. “Call me tomorrow with your decision, Nathan! My phone’s always on… oh, wait, no it’s not… BYE!”

The eagle swooped. Mikha flailed an arm, the one not holding the dog, in a pitiful attempt at defense. Instead of snatching the dog, the eagle snatched her phone.

Her business phone. Her everything-phone.

“No, wait! No, no, no!” she shrieked. Her life… contacts, contracts, calendar, Born To Win, flapped away in the claws of a prehistoric monster.

Mikha stood frozen, robe flapping, hair a mess, clutching a dog she didn’t even like.

And then, in sheer desperation, she hoisted Nini high above her head like an offering and started shouting into the salty morning sky.

“Take the doggie! Please! Just give me back my phone!”

She ran in circles under the eagle, waving the Chow Spitz like a sacrifice. Nini dangled, unimpressed.

“Take the doggie! Look! Juicy doggie!” Mikha cried, waving the trembling furball toward the sky like a deranged Lion King moment. “Just bring back the phone, please! I NEED THAT PHONE!”

But the eagle didn’t even spare her a glance. It soared higher, majestic and merciless, until it was just a dark dot in the morning sky, her phone glinting in its talons like a trophy.

Mikha froze, chest heaving, satin robe sliding off one shoulder. Nini squirmed in her arms, tail wagging like this was the best morning ever.

Mikha stared up, mouth open in disbelief on how fast everything just happened.

The puppy barked once, proud of its contribution.

“Perfect,” she muttered. She now probably looked like a woman who had just watched her entire life fly off into the horizon… literally.

The waves kept rolling in, lazy and cruel. The breeze smelled like salt, sunscreen, and humiliation. She could still hear Nathan’s faint “Hello? Hello??” echoing in her mind, right before the line went dead in the air, just like her dignity.

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed.

“Great. Even the chickens are mocking me.”

Aiah couldn’t go back to sleep. She’d tried everything. She tried switching sides, counting imaginary sheep in her head, even burying her face under the pillow. But all she did was toss and turn like a restless pancake. The hard floor wasn’t helping either.

When Mikha stepped out earlier, Aiah had thought, Finally, peace. But no. Even the bed, which she claimed as soon as her “boss fiancée” left, refused to cooperate. It smelled faintly like Mikha’s perfume, expensive, sharp, and irritatingly addictive.

Speaking of the devil, this was all Mikha’s fault. Who wakes up at seven in the morning, on vacation, to take a work call? Normal people sleep in. Normal people don’t hold business meetings before breakfast.

Aiah groaned loudly and sat up, hair sticking out in all directions. 

She decided to give up on sleep altogether. Maybe coffee could fix her mood or at least stop her from plotting Mikha’s mysterious disappearance.

After splashing her face with water cold enough to wake the dead, she changed into something casual and slipped out, quietly closing the door behind her.

The morning light was soft through the hallway’s tall windows, spilling across the marble floor in strips of gold. Everything about Casa Arienza looked calm and picture-perfect, which only made her feel more chaotic inside.

As she turned the corner, she spotted someone at the far end of the hallway, locking a guest room door. Familiar posture. Familiar brown hair.

“Colet.”

The girl turned, offering a sleepy but charming smile. “Morning.”

Aiah blinked, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh… Staks had too much to drink last night. She passed out by the pool.”

“Oh, that kid,” Aiah sighed.

“Yeah. I carried her to her room. I tried to leave, but she asked me to stay. Gwen was already scolding her for drinking too much, but Staku said it’s been a while since you came home. Wouldn’t listen. So I told Gwen I’d stay and watch her so she could focus on her guest.”

That sounded exactly like Colet. She has always been reliable, sweet, annoyingly kind. Colet was the type who showed up to birthdays with handmade gifts, remembered everyone’s coffee orders, and helped fix things that weren’t even hers to fix. According to Stacey, even after the breakup, she still cared about the family like nothing had changed. Classic Colet.

When they were together, she was the picture-perfect girlfriend. She was the type who never missed a family gathering, always offered help without being asked, and somehow made everyone’s problems her personal side quests. Sweet, loving, and borderline too selfless for her own good.

And the kicker? She was good at everything. Talented, charming, and dangerously dashing. Honestly, Aiah could run out of adjectives before she ran out of nice things to say about her. She’d once joked that she was the lucky one in the relationship, and everyone agreed. 

She was the kind of woman people wrote songs about. And Aiah, at one point, had been lucky enough to call her hers.

Being the only daughter, Aiah had always treated Gwen and Stacey like her own sisters, so when word got out that Aiah was dating Colet, Stacey practically threw a party. She was thrilled to have another Ate in her life. Gwen didn’t say much about it (typical Gwen), but the way she treated Colet, you’d think they shared DNA.

“My cousins are really fond of you,” Aiah said softly. “Thank you for always looking out for them.”

Colet shrugged, smiling that gentle smile. “Nah. They’re family. That’s what we do.”

Aiah smiled back, genuine and a little wistful. “Right.”

They stood there for a beat too long, the silence stretching, charged, but not uncomfortable. This was the first real conversation they’d had since the breakup. Last night didn’t count. Too many people. Too much noise. But this… this quiet moment in the hallway felt heavy in a way that only familiarity could make it.

Colet cleared her throat. “So… I think I’m gonna leave the brat to you.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Why don’t you join us for breakfast first?”

Colet laughed, low and warm. “I was kinda hoping you’d say that. Hell, I’m starving.”

“Of course, you are. I know your appetite,” Aiah laughed, relieved that the earlier tension had finally packed its bags and left the table. For the first time in what felt like forever, they were easing back into that easy rhythm again, like no time had passed at all. But then again, Colet had always been… warm. Effortlessly comfortable. She had that talent of making any room feel like home.

And that… that, was exactly the problem. It all made Aiah’s chest tighten with a nostalgia she wasn’t ready for.

But that familiar, heart-tugging feeling creeping back into Aiah’s chest? Yeah, it belonged in a museum. Or a time capsule. Preferably buried.

Because there was a reason it ended. And Aiah reminded herself of that, hard. She had a fake fiancée to handle, a career to protect, and zero time for old feelings to stage a comeback tour.

What mattered was that things between her and Colet were fine. Normal. Civil. They were on good terms, talking terms even, and that was more than enough. Especially since her cousins basically treated Colet like family. The last thing Aiah needed was awkward tension over Sunday breakfast.

She forced herself to smile. “Alright then. Breakfast first.”

Colet nodded, grinning. “Lead the way.”

The two made their way to the dining room, greeted by the smell of fried rice and Chorizo De Cebu somewhere nearby, making Aiah's mouth water instantly. The scent hit Aiah like a warm hug and made her stomach grumble on cue. There was already food set out on the table, still steaming. But no one was around.

“Where’s everyone?” Colet asked, peering around.

“I have no idea. Have a seat, I’ll go check,” Aiah said, already turning on her heel.

She wandered off to the main living room of their island home, half-expecting to find anyone there. Instead, she found her Mamalol and her mom pressed up against the window, both giggling like teenagers.

Her fiancée was still nowhere in sight. Aiah wondered where Mikha had gone after taking that very loud phone call, which, by the way, was the reason she was already awake in the first place.

“Good morning,” she greeted, suspicious. “What are you two doing here? Have you seen Mik… oh.”

"Oh, Aiah!" her mom exclaimed, clapping her hands together like she’d just watched a baby’s first steps. "Look at Nini and Mikha! They are so cute together!"

“Cute?” Aiah blinked, squinting through the glass. “What is she doing?”

Sure enough, there was Mikha… her ever-composed, city-bred, allergic-to-fun fiancée, running around the lawn like a deranged pageant queen, holding their tiny pup up in the air like Simba in The Lion King. Nini’s little paws flailed helplessly.

The morning sun caught in her messy hair, and from a distance, it did look almost wholesome. Almost.

"She’s playing with Nini! We thought she didn’t like him," her grandmother said with a soft laugh.

That made Aiah pause. Mikha? Playing with an animal? That was like seeing a designer bag in Divisoria, you’d look twice just to make sure it’s real. Technically possible, but deeply suspicious.

Her grandmother turned to her. “Will you go get her, Aiah? Tell her breakfast is ready. She needs all her energy today. We have a full itinerary.”

“Hmm. Sure,” Aiah muttered, still trying to process what she was seeing.

The morning breeze was crisp as she stepped outside. The sun glimmered against the waves beyond the garden, and for a moment, it almost felt peaceful, until she heard Mikha shouting.

"Look! Just give me my phone. Come on. Please... Give it back!"

Aiah blinked, stopping mid-step. Mikha was clearly talking to no one in particular. The poor woman was sweaty and out of breath, robe half open, hair sticking to her face. And Nini, dear, innocent Nini… was dangling in her hands like a hostage begging for rescue.

"What the hell are you doing?" Aiah asked, making Mikha freeze.

"Oh my god," Mikha gasped, her eyes wild. "Your grandmother was completely right! The eagle came and tried to take the dog. But then I saved him. Then it came back, and it took my phone..."

Aiah stared at her fiancée for a long, silent beat. "Are you high? Did one of Gwen’s friends give you some weed last night?"

"What? No! I’m serious! He’s got my phone, and Nathan is calling me on that phone!"

Okay, maybe she was telling the truth. Mamalol did mention eagles on the island.

Still. An eagle stole her phone? That was a new level of absurd.

"I am not lying. Why would I make that up?" Mikha said, reading her mind with terrifying accuracy.

"Alright, alright. Relax. We’ll get another phone with the same number."

"Well, what about the things I stored there?"

“Like what? Porn?”

“What? No! Work files!”

“Oh.” Aiah cleared her throat, face heating. Why did she even think that? "Don’t worry. I had that phone’s memory backed up to a cloud drive. Everything you stored there can be easily retrieved."

“Oh. That’s… possible?”

“Yes, Mikha. Welcome to modern civilization,” Aiah deadpanned. She had long accepted that Mikha was not exactly tech-savvy, which was why she’d backed up everything for her in the first place. "I’ll make a call to order the phone. Don’t worry about it anymore."

"Really?"

"Yep."

“Okay, well, you go then,” Mikha muttered, setting Nini down like she’d just survived a kidnapping. The pup immediately bolted back to the house, tail wagging in relief.

"I still need to use your computer to send an email," Mikha added.

"You can’t. There’s no internet."

"What? I thought your family is rich?"

"Yeah. But this is a freaking island. The internet connection is intermittent. It’s under maintenance. We’ll just have to wait for your phone. You’re on vacation, Mikha. People at work will understand."

"Well, I hope Nathan understands."

"He would. Come on, breakfast is getting cold. And you also need to get ready."

"For what?"

"You’re going out with Mom and Mamalol."

"I don’t wanna go out."

"Shopping, sightseeing, family business tours."

"I don’t wanna go shopping."

"You’ll love it."

"No. I don’t wanna go sightseeing either."

"You’re going."

"No. I don’t wanna go."

"You’re going."

"I’m not going."

"Yes, you are."

"I’m not going."

"Yes, you are. Now, give me a nice big hug because they are still looking at us from the window."

"No, I don’t wanna touch you."

"Come now. We don’t want them to think we’re fighting."

"I don’t want to."

"Come on. Hug time. Hug time," Aiah said, already reaching out like a cat about to grab a very fancy, very annoyed pigeon. She caught a handful of Mikha’s robe and tugged her forward, not-so-gently.

She sneaked a glance toward the window, and yep, there they were. Her mom and Mamalol, watching from inside with matching grins and the kind of sparkle in their eyes that screamed wedding bells and grandbabies. Fantastic.

Aiah forced a bright, slightly manic smile. If Mikha wanted to keep this fake engagement believable, skinship was part of the package deal. Unfortunately for Aiah, that package came with a side of emotional chaos.

Because the thing is, last night happened. The kiss. That stupid, mind-short-circuiting, world-tilting kiss. Aiah had spent half the night pretending it didn’t mess her up and the other half questioning her entire sanity. She’d woken up this morning determined to build a metaphorical wall between her and the memory of it. A tall one. With barbed wire. Maybe even electric fencing.

So when Mikha’s robe brushed against her bare arm and that familiar, infuriating scent hit her again, something floral and annoyingly expensive, Aiah could practically feel the static running through her veins. Nope. Not this time. She was not going to melt. She was fine.

"Ohhh. There we go," she cooed, pulling Mikha fully into her arms and rubbing her back with exaggerated tenderness. "There’s my fiancée. See? We’re totally in love."

Mikha stiffened like a board, and Aiah almost laughed. The irony wasn’t lost on her, Aiah was the one playing it up for show, yet somehow, she was the one whose heart was doing backflips.

She told herself to relax, to focus on the act. You’re just hugging her, Aiah. For the performance. For the cover story. For your career. Totally not because her hair smells nice or because her heartbeat feels stupidly close.

Right. Totally not that.

"What are you doing?"

"Hugging my fiancée. That’s what people in love do."

To her surprise, Mikha didn’t resist. The lady chief’s stiff body slowly relaxed in her hold.

"See? Isn’t this nice?" Aiah teased.

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"Yeah?"

"Right."

Then… oh no. Mikha’s arms circled her waist. And was she… was she caressing her back now? The shift caught Aiah off guard. The warmth of Mikha’s body pressed flush against hers, her perfume faintly floral, the kind that lingered just long enough to short-circuit your entire nervous system. And her breath… oh, her breath brushed Aiah’s ear like a whispered dare.

“You want this, huh?” Mikha murmured, voice low and way too close.

Aiah’s brain immediately blue-screened. She could almost see the error message flashing across her internal monitor: Internal Server Overload. Please try again never.

The air between them thickened faster than a bad latte.

"Isn’t this sweet, mahal?" Mikha added, and the word mahal rolled off her tongue like she’d been saying it her whole life.

Aiah felt her entire face go up in flames. No. Nope. Absolutely not. This was not part of the plan. She was supposed to fake being in love, not spontaneously combust in broad daylight.

She opened her mouth to throw a sarcastic comeback, but Mikha’s face suddenly buried against her neck.

Aiah froze. Her blush deepened into something nuclear, capable of powering this whole island. Her heart was pounding loud enough to be its own drumline, her brain screaming for logic, but her body had clearly decided to take the morning off.

"This is so warm," Mikha murmured.

Aiah screamed internally. And then… oh no. Those hands. They were moving. From her back... lower...

Aiah’s eyes widened.

The first tap was innocent enough. Then came the second. And then… the grab.

Aiah went rigid, muscles stiff, dignity hanging by a thread. Her mom and Mamalol were still at the window, watching like it was prime-time TV. If she pulled away now, it would look like a lovers’ quarrel. If she stayed, it would look like she had no self-respect.

"So nice... Right, babe?" Mikha said sweetly, feigning innocence like she hadn’t just committed emotional arson.

"I–if you..." Aiah cleared her throat, trying to sound calm despite the riot in her chest. "If you touch my ass one more time, I will cut your fingers off in your sleep. Okay?"

"Hmmm. Okay."

"Good."

They finally released each other. Aiah felt like she’d just finished an intense CrossFit session. Her knees were weak, her soul was tired, and she was seriously rethinking every life choice that led her to initiating that stupid hug.

Dealing with Mikha was exhausting. Spiritually. Emotionally. Physically. And hormonally, apparently.

“Come on. Food’s waiting.” She took Mikha’s hand and intertwined their fingers, mostly for show, but also because her legs were jelly and she needed some sort of stability, emotional or otherwise.

Big mistake. Huge mistake.

Because apparently, her brain hadn’t suffered enough.

Even the simple act of holding Mikha’s hand was chaos incarnate. The warmth, the slow squeeze of their fingers… Aiah swore she could hear the romantic soundtrack starting somewhere in the distance.

Her palms were sweating. Her knees are still weak. Her thoughts are an unholy mess of don’t read into this, don’t feel anything, stop noticing how soft her hands are.

But she couldn’t let go. Not when her mom and Mamalol were still glued to the window,  grinning ear to ear like they were witnessing the greatest love story ever told.

If only they knew this love story came with terms and conditions.

So she held on. Pretending. Acting. Dying internally.

Mikha still couldn’t believe she’d lost her phone to an eagle. 

She can still clearly see her phone blasting Nathan’s name into the air because of course the one time the universe decided to go feral and stage an absurd wildlife drama, the client of the biggest project of her life had to be on the line. The entire saga could have been laughable except for the part where Nathan is calling, which made the situation not funny in the slightest. The man was a client with a temper and a brand to protect.

If someone had told Mikha Lucero, in another life, that she’d spend a crucial morning negotiating with a predatory bird, she would’ve laughed and scheduled a mandatory training session on zoological hazards.

The dog stared up at her, blinking in confusion, then burrowed into her neck. Tiny heartbeat. Little wet nose. It was completely absurd how a warm, wiggly creature could completely undo a woman who had spent years running a publishing house.

She had not felt heroic. She had felt furious.

And then Aiah appeared, as if Mikha needed an audience to audit her shame. Aiah’s arrival turned the situation from wildlife documentary to a live broadcast. The way she looked at Mikha, all raised eyebrows and quiet judgment, said she was not here for this level of chaos.

Mikha sucked in a breath, attempted to look collected, and failed spectacularly. She was sweaty, her robe was barely staying on, and her hair looked like a category-five event. Nini wriggled in her arms like a squirming, furry hostage.

“Your grandmother was right, the eagle came,” Mikha blurted out, figuring saying the truth felt less embarrassing than fabricating a lie about a bird. “Then it took my phone.”

Aiah’s first reaction was to ask if she was high. 

That made Mikha want to laugh. The sharp, borderline-hysterical kind that said the world has deeply misunderstood me. She wasn’t high. She was birded. And somehow, Aiah made it sound like being high would’ve been the more reasonable option.

Aiah offered a reasonable solution about backups and clouds. Efficient, precise, the kind of answer that made Mikha remember exactly why she kept her around. Aiah probably had a contingency plan for the zombie apocalypse too.

Mikha didn’t bother admitting she hadn’t synced anything properly. Why would she? She was the boss. Delegation existed for a reason. And if her entire work life now depended on Aiah’s perfectly organized drive, well, that only proved Mikha had excellent taste in secretaries.

“Okay, well, you go then,” Mikha muttered, setting Nini down. The pup bolted back to the safety of the mansion. “I still need to use your computer to send an email,” she added.

Aiah said the thing that made her stop breathing for reasons that were not purely oxygen-related. “You can’t. There’s no internet.” 

No internet. Of course.

The absurdity folded neatly into irony: an island, a bird, a line maintenance, all the ingredients for a slow professional death. Nathan would have to wait. The launch could implode. But panic was beneath her pay grade, so she straightened her spine and told herself she was fine.

Aiah stayed steady, calm as ever. “I’ll make a call to order the phone. Don’t worry about it.” Mikha nodded, pretending she wasn’t staring at the precise angle of Aiah’s jaw or how her voice stayed annoyingly calm. The unfairness of it.

Then Aiah mentioned breakfast and an itinerary. An itinerary. Mikha almost laughed again. She felt like she’d wandered into a poorly written travel vlog, one who definitely missed the fine print warning about predatory birds and missing WiFi.

She didn’t want to go out. She didn’t want breakfast. She wanted her phone. Or caffeine. Or the illusion of control. But Aiah’s hand brushed her robe, tugging her gently closer, and Mikha let it happen. Partly for the audience at the window (those bright, approving in-law eyes), partly because she was tired of fighting the morning.

And then Aiah, for reasons that were definitely more complicated than just simple optics, pulled her into a hug. It was a performance, she knew that. The moment required closeness, warmth for the audience. She let it happen because she needed an anchor and because pretending was easier than feeling.

She froze at first, naturally. Mikha always did. It was a reflex. She told herself to keep it together, make the hug look casual, professional even, nothing that could be misread.

But then something in her… gave. Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline, maybe the absurdity of almost getting bird-napped. But whatever it was, her body stopped listening to the script. Her shoulders eased, her pulse steadied, her brain finally shut up. And for a moment, she just… stayed there… quiet, unguarded.

It was against every rule she’d ever written for herself about boundaries.

Warmth wasn’t supposed to feel this… right, but somehow, Aiah’s arms made sense in a way Mikha refused to calculate. It’s just exhaustion, she fiercely decided. Definitely doesn’t feel good.

When Aiah teased, “See? Isn’t this nice,” Mikha took it as a challenge. She did what any self-respecting boss would do when cornered by sincerity: she performed harder. Aiah had initiated the contact, and Mikha would finish it. Her reply was a murmur, low enough for the audience but sharp enough for Aiah to hear. “You want this, huh?” she purred, noting with a horrified fascination how the sound landed against Aiah’s skin like an intimate dare.

The words landed exactly how she wanted. Part tease, part counterattack. A little reminder that Aiah didn’t have a monopoly on control.

When Aiah didn’t let go, Mikha smirked and went for the finishing blow. “Isn’t this sweet, mahal?”, a word chosen for maximum theatricality, designed purely to throw Aiah off. Instead, it threw her off. It tasted wrong and right at the same time. It was thrilling, more dangerous than the wild eagle from earlier. 

The proximity did things. Unwanted things.

She noticed the way Aiah turned red, a satisfying crack in the brunette's composure. Mikha should’ve pulled away, armed herself with sarcasm and distance. Instead, she buried her face into Aiah’s neck because the neck smelled like home and forbidden coffee. 

Nope. It’s purely for tactical reasons, of course. Self-defense. Again, definitely not because it felt good.

She wasn’t supposed to feel anything else. It wasn’t supposed to matter that Aiah smelled like something warm and maddeningly addictive, or that the curve of her back fit too easily beneath Mikha’s palm. It was supposed to be optics. Just optics.

Then her hand moved automatically, just a polite tap for the audience. But it shifted, lingered, explored. Tap became palm, palm became grab, and before she knew it, she’d drawn a startled gasp from Aiah that felt like victory.

That’s what Aiah gets for making her hug her.

She really wanted to believe it was just part of an act, that the tough-boss persona she always wore was immune to actual feelings. But deep down, something was tallying up a score she couldn't ignore, and Mikha couldn't deny that something warm, reckless, and way too real had slipped through her bulletproof armor. The eagle might’ve flown off with her phone, but whatever this was had landed hard, leaving proof of just how fast her life, and all her rules, could get completely flipped upside down.

When Aiah threatened to cut off her fingers if she tried anything again, Mikha just laughed, low and stunned. Then she let go, smoothing the moment back into composure.

Walking back into the house, their hands still linked because stage directions required it and because, fine, maybe her knees needed the help. Mikha reassembled her face into neutrality. The family watched with the kind of fondness reserved for weddings and happy endings. If this were a movie, this would be the part where the cheesy background music starts.

Aiah, on the other hand, looked like she’d just survived a minor emotional breakdown. Shoulders stiff. Breathing uneven. On-guard. Eyes everywhere but her. Mikha noted it automatically, like she was filing a report she’d pretend not to read later.

Mikha had no idea if her boundary-pushing tactics had been strategically sound, but they were certainly effective.

The morning had gone completely off-script. She felt stuck in the middle of something she was supposed to understand, only no one had sent her the rules of the game. She told herself, sternly, again and again, that it was all performance. Just good PR. Just for the show. She’d said that out loud once or twice, mostly to convince herself.

But in the small moments that followed, like how Nini trotted past like none of this had been a near-death, bird-related disaster, and the sea breeze reminded her that her robe was still damp, Mikha… looked at Aiah. Really looked.

And that was dangerous. Because she wasn’t supposed to look. She was supposed to be functioning in line with her original operating model: keep it neat, keep it business, keep it contained.

She didn’t know what it meant, only that somewhere between the eagle attack and that stupid hug, she’d felt something soft. Something unplanned. And it made her both furious… and alive.

So yes, she’d call Nathan. Yes, they’ll order a replacement phone. Yes, she’d drag herself to whatever “bonding day” Mamalol had planned. But she would also, privately, remember the way Aiah’s neck had smelled, the way Aiah’s neck curved when she leaned in, the sound of her breathing, that stubborn heartbeat that didn’t seem to know this was supposed to be all fake.

Mikha adjusted her robe, straightened up like the editor-in-chief she was, and walked inside with the calm of someone who faced chaos for a living. Breakfast waited. So did the family.

And annoyingly, so did the thought that maybe, just maybe… someone might one day look at her the way she had just been forced to look at Aiah.

She hated how much that thought made her grin.

The breakfast table looked like a crime scene. At least, that’s how it felt to Aiah. Her ex, her fiancée, and her hangover were all sitting next to her like three witnesses waiting to testify.

“How’s the food, Mikha?” Mamalol asked with a warm smile that could melt butter.

Aiah tried to play it cool, but inside, she was already sending a desperate prayer to the heavens. The only reason they were all seated here together was because she’d impulsively told Colet to stay for breakfast, forgetting a very minor detail, that she was now engaged to someone else. And now here she was, sitting between Mikha and Colet like a human buffer, trapped in a very live episode of My Past, My Pretend, and Me.

She wanted to evaporate. Just vanish, poof, gone.

“Oh, I am enjoying it! It’s amazing,” Mikha said, flashing her polite smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve had an authentic Filipino breakfast. I’ve gotten too used to oats.”

Of course she loves it, Aiah thought, glancing sideways. Who wouldn’t? Her Mamalol and mom were legends in the kitchen. The air smelled like fried garlic and nostalgia. The longganisa glistened like treasure under the sunlight. It was heaven on a plate. Aiah had grown up spoiled by home-cooked meals so comforting they could heal emotional trauma. There was always something special about them, the taste of love, warmth, and the exact opposite of oatmeal.

She watched her Mamalol beam proudly at the compliment.

“How about you, Colet?” the old lady asked the girl sitting to her right.

“You know I always love the food you make, Mamalol. This is delicious as always,” Colet said, flashing that megawatt smile that used to make Aiah forget how to breathe during college.

Aiah noticed Mikha suddenly stop chewing. The woman blinked, then let out a tiny cough.

“Water?” Aiah whispered under her breath.

Mikha shook her head, eyes flicking toward Colet for a second before mouthing, “I’m good.” before going back to eating, though Aiah swore she saw a flicker of irritation.

Was Mikha choking? Or was she reacting to the way Colet sounded like she’d been having breakfast here for years? Aiah couldn’t tell. Probably the former. Mikha wasn’t the jealous type. She didn’t even like her, right? They were in this whole engagement thing for business. Citizenship, papers, convenience. That’s all. There were no emotions here.

Absolutely none.

She told herself to relax. She was on vacation. Overthinking would only ruin her appetite, and garlic rice this good didn’t deserve that.

That’s when Stacey walked in, hair in chaos and soul still half asleep.

“Morning,” she yawned, dragging herself to the table.

Aiah could already sense trouble.

“Ate Colet, you’re still here?” Stacey asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Yeah,” Colet said with a chuckle. “Aiah invited me to stay for breakfast, probably as a thank-you for taking care of your drunk self last night.”

Oh, perfect. Exactly what this meal needed, a public reminder of Aiah’s finest hour, inviting her ex over for breakfast with her current fiancee.

Stacey squinted at the table, her gaze hopping from Mikha, to Aiah, to Colet, and then back to Mikha again. “Oh,” she said slowly, lips twitching into a smirk. “This is interesting.”

The whole table went silent.

“Staks,” Aiah said sweetly, shooting her the shut-your-mouth-or-I-will-never-let-you-use-my-boat-ever-again look.

It worked. Stacey rolled her eyes and mouthed, Fine, before plopping into the chair beside Aiah’s mom, dramatically filling her plate.

Crisis averted. For now.

Aiah took a slow sip of water, pretending her family breakfast wasn’t slowly turning into a social experiment on emotional endurance. She’d just told herself not to overthink things, and here came Stacey, ready to ruin that promise.

“My head hurts like hell,” Stacey groaned, pouring herself a tall glass of milk.

“Oh yeah?” Aiah said, eyebrows raised. “It’s probably because you were so drunk last night you couldn’t even walk yourself back to your room.”

“Ate, I was just so happy you finally came home!” Stacey grinned. “Plus, there’s your shocking announcement that you’re getting married to Ate Mikha. I just couldn’t contain my excitement. You can’t blame me for celebrating you.”

Fork halfway to her mouth, Colet froze.

The words ‘getting married’  hung in the air like a grenade.

“Ate Colet, are you okay?” Stacey asked, oblivious.

“Uh, yeah. I just need a second,” Colet said, recovering fast. “I was so hungry, I realized I was practically inhaling the food.”

Mamalol chuckled, clearly buying it. “You young people, always rushing your meals.”

Aiah reached for Colet’s glass and filled it to the brim, mumbling, “Drink,” like she was on autopilot.

Colet gave her a small, polite smile that Aiah pretended not to notice.

Breakfast continued like nothing had happened, but Aiah felt the weight of every conversation thread like it was balancing on her head. Stacey chatted away with Mikha about her work in New York, Mamalol launched into a story about how she met Papalol, complete with unnecessary hand gestures, while Mom offered simple breakfast recipes to both Mikha and Colet, blissfully unaware that her daughter was actively short-circuiting between them.

Just then, the sound of slippered footsteps and muffled yawns echoed from the hallway. Gwen appeared first, hair still a war zone, sunglasses on, which was bold considering they were indoors. “You people are too loud for 9 A.M.,” she grumbled.

Trailing behind her was Sheena, looking freshly showered but slightly sheepish, wearing one of Gwen’s oversized shirts that could double as a dress. She offered an apologetic smile to everyone at the table.

“Good morning po,” she greeted, voice soft but steady.

Mamalol’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh, Sheena! You’re still here! Did you have breakfast?”

“She will now,” Gwen said quickly, guiding Sheena toward the seat beside her. “Everyone, Ate Mikha, this is my girlfriend, Sheena.”

Mikha smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh! And fun fact,” Gwen continued, “Sheena is Ate Colet’s cousin.”

Aiah blinked.

That little fun fact.

How could she have possibly forgotten that?

Not only was Colet practically family, her actual family was dating Gwen. No wonder everyone acted so normal about Colet being here, she literally had a bloodline pass to the breakfast table.

Beside her, Mikha’s eyebrow twitched… barely, but Aiah caught it. Aiah noticed. Because her brain had apparently decided to catalogue every single micro-expression Mikha made now. Fantastic.

A few steps behind them, Maloi emerged, yawning like she hadn’t slept in a decade. Her hair stuck up in about five different directions. She blinked blearily at the crowd, until her gaze landed on Colet.

She stopped.

Smirked.

Then said, “Well, well. You didn’t tell me we had a hot visitor, Aiah. This must be the Colet Villegaz.”

Aiah nearly spat out her water.

Of course Maloi would say that. Loudly. In front of everyone.

Across the table, Colet blinked in surprise, then let out a soft, polite laugh. “You must be Maloi,” she said, reaching out a hand. “I’ve heard about you.”

Maloi took it, her grin widening. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly funny ones,” Colet replied smoothly, her tone light.

Aiah wanted to melt into the floor tiles. Or better yet, be buried under the longganisa platter.

She didn’t need this crossover episode.

They knew of each other, of course they did. Maloi knew there was once a Colet in Aiah’s life, just as Colet knew Maloi was one of the constants who’d survived all of Aiah’s questionable decisions. But they’d never met in person. Back when Colet was the center of Aiah’s college universe, Maloi and Jhoanna were both in the U.S. for university, safely an ocean away from the mess Aiah made of her love life.

And now here they all were. The ex. The fake fiancée. The best friend. Her cousins. Her cousin’s girlfriend. Mamalol. Mom.

Breakfast of champions.

Might as well call her Dad and Jhoanna so they have the full cast here.

Maloi leaned back in her chair, giving Colet a once-over that was more amused than serious. “Just saying, Aiah, next time you have a guest this pretty, maybe give us a heads-up. I would’ve at least brushed my hair.”

“Stop talking,” Aiah muttered under her breath.

Maloi snorted. “What? I’m just appreciating good genes.”

Aiah kicked her under the table. Maloi winced, but her grin didn’t fade.

Before Aiah could scold her more, Gwen let out a low groan from across the table. “Of course she’d flirt before coffee.”

Maloi shot her a look. “Says the one who kept everyone up till three shouting ‘isa pa!’ like it was a war cry. You’re just mad you lost at beer pong.”

“I didn’t lose,” Gwen shot back immediately. “I just retired early.”

“After spilling half the beer on yourself?” Maloi countered, already reaching for the pitcher of water.

Sheena hid a laugh behind her hand. “To be fair, she did spill some on me, too.”

The table erupted, and for a moment, even Aiah managed a laugh.

No one seemed to find it strange that Colet and Mikha were sitting at the same table. Maybe because Colet had always been “family,” no matter what their past had been. Mikha wasn’t saying anything either. She was too composed. Too calm. Almost suspiciously calm.

Aiah started to think maybe, just maybe, everything was fine. And that she was the only one overthinking things. 

Then her phone rang.

She ignored it. Whoever it was could wait. Probably Debbie, reminding her about that cardigan lunch deal.

It rang again.

“Answer it, love,” Mikha said casually, her tone all sweet but her eyes sharp. “Might be important. Might be our client Nathan.”

There it was again. Love.

That word alone was enough to short-circuit Aiah’s brain. When had this started affecting her like this?

Maybe it was back at the office, when Mikha had first called her baby in front of Chairman Anderson of all people, just to make their little performance look convincing. Or maybe it was when she’d said babe in front of Sarah Gibson, with that smooth, no-hesitation delivery that made it sound like they’d been together for so long.

Then there was mahal. Said softly this morning, right before Aiah’s brain fully booted up. It was almost unfair how effortlessly Mikha dropped those words, and each time it happened, it threw Aiah off-balance.

Like Mikha had found the exact buttons that made her lose grip of reality, and was pressing them on purpose.

And now, love. The word rolled off Mikha’s tongue so easily, so naturally, it almost felt… real. Like maybe they weren’t pretending. Like maybe Aiah wasn’t a fool for feeling something twist in her chest every time Mikha said things like that.

Each new endearment hit like a rogue wave, unexpected, disarming, and completely illegal for her blood pressure. 

But every one of them was for show. She knew that. She knew that.

So why did her stomach flip every time Mikha said them?

Then the rest of Mikha’s sentence registered.

“Might be our client Nathan.”

Oh. Right. Nathan. Work. Of course. It was always work.

Aiah blinked. Right. This wasn’t real affection. It was a strategy. Everything Mikha did, every word she said, had a purpose. Even her loves came with an agenda.

She hated that it worked.

She hated that she noticed.

And most of all, she hated that for one tiny, stupid second, she almost believed it. Because why would she? Mikha doesn’t care.

She reminded herself to stick to the script. This is just all part of the act. Affection is strategy, chemistry is coincidence, and whatever she’s feeling right now? Irrelevant.

She forced herself to smile, to sound normal. “Right. Yeah. Got it.”

Then she grabbed her phone, muttering, “Excuse me,” before stepping out of the dining room to answer the call.

“What now?” she said into the phone.

“Surprise,” came Jhoanna’s chipper voice. “I’m at the airport. Pick me up.”

“What? When did you…”

“No time to chit-chat, Aiah. My phone’s dying. I’ll wait at the arrival area. Don’t be too long! Bye!”

“Wai—” Click.

Aiah stared at her phone, brain buffering. It was just the other day that Jho wasn’t sure if she was even coming. Now she was already at the airport.

Of course. Of course this was happening.

When she came back to the table, Mikha looked up from her plate. “Who was that?”

“That was Jhoanna.”

“Oh.”

“Mom,” Aiah said, clearing her throat. “I need a driver. Jho’s at the airport.”

Stacey squealed. “Ate Jho is coming?!”

“Yeah,” Aiah sighed. “She just landed. I need to pick her up.”

Her mom frowned. “Mang Rick took the day off, honey. Most of the drivers too”

Aiah blinked. “Wait, what? Why?”

Mary laughed softly. “Your dad drove himself to the city this morning. He decided to give the drivers and most of the helpers a paid vacation, saying they should spend time with their families while you’re home.”

Mamalol chimed in proudly, “We also wanted the house quiet after that party last night. Just family for a while.”

Mary nodded. “Even the kitchen staff’s off today. Your Mamalol and I insisted on doing all the cooking. We missed cooking for you, anak.”

Mamalol smiled. “Some of the yacht and banca crew insisted on staying, though. So we can still get in and out of the island if needed.”

Mikha smiled politely, setting her fork down. “That’s really thoughtful,” she said.

“Your Mamalol’s been excited to cook for everyone,” Mary added. “You should see the spread she planned for the week.”

Aiah exhaled, somewhere between fond and stressed. “Right. Okay. So… about the driver?”

“You can’t drive?” Mikha asked, tone light, genuinely curious.

“Aiah doesn’t have a driver’s license here,” her mom answered before she could.

“She doesn’t have an international license either,” Gwen added.

“I could drive you,” said Mikha.

“Let me drive you,” said Colet.

In unison.

The air went still.

Aiah froze, eyes darting between the two women sitting on either side of her.

The universe must be laughing at her.

If there were ever a time for a meteor to crash through the roof, it was now.

Chapter Text

“I could drive you.”
“Let me drive you.”

Mikha and Colet said it at the exact same time.

Aiah blinked. Once. Twice. Across the table, Stacey’s eyebrows shot up. Maloi, sitting beside her, leaned back in her chair with the slow grin of someone watching a love triangle drama unfold in real time.

“Ohhh,” she whispered to Stacey. “Battle of the chauffeurs. This should be good.”

Stacey covered her mouth and whispered back. “Wait, are we supposed to vote? Because I’m low-key invested.”

Well. This was… fun.

Aiah looked at Mikha, then turned her gaze to Colet. The brunette froze for a moment, her brain going full loading screen as she tried to process the situation. How was she supposed to respond to this? How could she accept one simple offer without accidentally offending anyone and triggering World War III over a car ride?

This was why she avoided love triangles. Or any triangles, really. Circles were safer.

Aiah was pretty sure that Mikha was only offering because she wanted to play the role of “thoughtful fiancée”, you know, the type who insists on helping their beloved with errands for show, not sincerity.

What actually worried her was Colet. Sweet, soft-hearted Colet. The girl was all warmth and kindness but wore her emotions like neon signs, impossible to miss. The last thing Aiah wanted was to see that flicker of disappointment cross Colet’s face again. She’d already done enough damage two years ago when she’d flown off to New York and left Colet behind with a heart cracked in high-definition.

She knew she was overanalyzing. Like, seriously, this was just about a car ride, not an oath of loyalty, but she couldn’t help it. A huge part of her wanted to just agree to Mikha’s offer. Technically, she was her fiancée. That should be the obvious choice, right? Go with the current one, not the ex. Logical. Practical. Totally non-explosive.

But then again… saying yes to Mikha would sting Colet. And Aiah couldn’t ignore that tiny voice of guilt reminding her she still owed the brunette at least a sliver of kindness after everything she’d done to her.

But also, there was the added bonus that going with Colet might raise eyebrows from her family, which meant more explaining, and explaining led to more headaches.

Speaking of headaches… yep, there it was. Right on cue. Aiah could practically feel her temples throb as her brain screamed, why does the universe clearly have a twisted sense of humor?

Maybe she could fake a sudden allergic reaction.

And then Stacey, bless her chaotic heart, decided to jump in.

“Well, I’d offer too,” Stacey said, grinning, “but I failed my driving test last week. The examiner said I ‘panicked in reverse.’ Whatever that means.”

Maloi snorted. “Yeah, you said you nearly reversed into a banana cart, Staks. That was dramatic.”

“Keyword: nearly,” Stacey shot back. “That cart came out of nowhere!”

The table chuckled, except Aiah, who was still mentally rewriting the laws of physics trying to disappear.

“Uhm… Gwen, why don’t you drive your Ate to the airport?” her mom suggested, clearly trying to help.

“Can’t,” Gwen replied without missing a beat. “I’m meeting Sheena’s dad today. He’s giving me a tour of their ecofarms. Uncle Miguel’s orders. I’m fully booked. Busy.”

Aiah shot her a look that screamed traitor.

Gwen only shrugged, totally unbothered. “Love you though!”

Aiah internally sighed. She was so screwed.

But then, like a pair of guardian angels in floral blouses, her mom and Mamalol swooped in.

“But Mikha, honey,” Mamalol began, “we already planned the day with you. We’re so excited to show you around the city! Aiah mentioned it’s your first time here in Cebu.”

Her mom nodded. “Right. I think it’s best if Colet takes Aiah instead. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

Aiah almost heard a choir of angels. Hallelujah. Problem solved. She didn’t even have to come up with an excuse, her family had done it for her.

She risked a glance at Mikha, who looked… well, like someone doing mental math on how to politely say no without sounding… possessive? She watched as Mikha glanced between her mom and Mamalol, probably trying to figure out how to say “Actually, no, I’d rather not let my fiancée ride with her ex, thanks.” Mikha looked conflicted, like she was silently drafting a press statement in her head.

"Is it okay with you, love?" Aiah finally asked, voice soft but deliberately laced with that sweet little endearment. She threw in love like it was nothing, casual, effortless… just like how Mikha always did to her. Except this time, Aiah wasn’t even sure what it would do to Mikha, or how she’d react to it. She just… wanted to see. To see if it would throw her off, or if Mikha would stay unbothered, untouchable as always.

Inside, she could practically hear her brain screaming, “Girl, what are you doing?” because never in her entire existence did she think she’d use that word on Mikha freaking Lucero. And yet here she was, tossing it out like she was some seasoned romantic. She half-expected lightning to strike her dead right there.

But it wasn’t just for Mikha. The word was also for them, the audience. For her mom, for Mamalol, for anyone who might be quietly wondering how she felt about her fiancée while she was about to head off with her ex. If she was going to ride with Colet, she needed to make it clear where her supposed loyalty still lay. A little verbal PDA to keep the peace, to play her part.

"Oh. Of course," Mikha said, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected sugar in Aiah’s tone. The lady blinked once, paused, then gathered herself with her usual calm composure. "It’s fine with me, as long as you catch up with us after getting Jhoanna, love."

The audacity. The woman had just Uno-reversed her fake-affection and weaponized it.

Now it was Aiah’s turn to freeze, because wow, this little devil was learning fast. Aiah almost wanted to applaud. Every time Aiah thought she had the upper hand, Mikha somehow managed to flip the script.

Cause there it was again… Mikha saying that word. Love.

It always did something to her, that stupid endearment coming from Mikha’s lips. No matter how casually Mikha said it, it always seemed to slide under Aiah’s skin like a spark she couldn’t shake off. It threw her off every single time. It always made her pulse skipping, her stomach tightening, and her brain betraying her with thoughts she shouldn’t be having about someone she was only pretending to love.

And the worst part? Mikha had no idea. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the problem.

And yet… Aiah’s eyes caught it too. A tiny flicker in Mikha’s expression, that tiny hitch before she recovered. It was there, for half a heartbeat, and then gone, smoothed over by that annoyingly serene smile. And damn it, Aiah didn’t even know why she felt a little… disappointed? Maybe because she’d expected more of a reaction, something that would prove she’d managed to rattle Mikha for once. Maybe because she’d expected Mikha to stay flustered longer. Or maybe because it bothered her how easily the woman could collect herself, act unaffected, like none of this playful pretending ever landed.

Which was stupid. Obviously. She shouldn’t care.

Still, the moment lingered just a little too long before Aiah exhaled and straightened, deciding that if Mikha wanted to play it cool, fine. Two could play that game.

“Will do,” Aiah said smoothly, her tone light, as if nothing had passed between them.

Mikha just nodded, all calm composure once again, while Aiah silently vowed to get her back for that one later.

"Well then, we all better get going," Mamalol chimed in as she stood, ever the peacemaker, dusting off her hands like she was ending a family meeting. "We have a long day ahead of us."

Mikha watched as a couple of cabin crew bustled around the luxurious yacht, prepping it for the trip like they were setting the stage for a show finale. She was still in awe of its beauty and size. The thing was basically a floating mansion. Even though she was, admittedly, terrified of the water, which is a mild understatement, she couldn’t help thinking, Okay, I could actually live here. Maybe. With enough life vests.

She noticed a few smaller boats bobbing nearby, and for a brief, sensible second, she wondered why they weren’t just using one of those instead. I mean, why deploy this colossal yacht for a short trip to the port? It felt excessive, even by rich-people standards. Mikha, being Mikha, thought it was an absolute waste of resources, but Aiah had other ideas.

Aiah had insisted on taking the yacht. She said something about Mikha being afraid of open water and how she “understood what it felt like to confront your fears.” Then, with that infuriatingly gentle tone, she added that she wanted Mikha to feel comfortable.

Mikha had no idea how to react to that kind of softness, so her brain did what it always did, defaulted to sarcasm.

“Well then, I won’t ride the small boats either, even if you insist,” she replied, her chin tilted just enough to look smug. “I deserve nothing but the best.”

Aiah just rolled her eyes and fired back, “God. Remind me again why I’m marrying Satan’s mistress,” she’d muttered before turning on her heel and heading back into the mansion to change, leaving Mikha alone with her thoughts and, unfortunately, her feelings.

The brunette really confused her. Back in New York, Mikha had Aiah perfectly categorized: her super hardworking, always-composed assistant who followed orders like her paycheck depended on it, which, technically, it did. Aiah was the kind of employee who made every deadline, carried every extra file, and handled Mikha’s temper like a pro bomb defuser. She was organized, polite, and unreasonably well-mannered, even though Mikha basically made her daily existence a living nightmare.

For two years, Mikha had watched her from behind her editor-in-chief desk, pretending not to notice how everyone adored Aiah. She treated everyone with warmth, with patience, with this maddening ability to make even the most annoying interns love her. Aiah was the total opposite of her. Where Mikha preferred silence and distance, Aiah radiated friendliness and grace. Despite everything, she never once crossed the line. She never bragged, never overshared, never made things awkward. She was, annoyingly, perfect.

The perfect assistant.

But this? This was a whole new Aiah. Outside Mikha’s office kingdom, the brunette was showing an entirely different side. The Cebu version. The confident, bold, rich kid version who wasn’t afraid to tease, challenge, or say things like “love” without blinking. What was she even thinking, casually calling Mikha her love earlier like they were in a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers trope?

Mikha could still feel it. How her heart skipped a bit. The audacity. 

Well, if Aiah thought she could make Mikha flustered, she had another thing coming. Mikha Lucero does not get flustered. She intimidates. She dominates. She wins.

Two can play this game.

“The yacht’s ready. Let’s go, babe,” came Aiah’s voice again, breaking through her thoughts. Mikha turned and, of course, there she was. The brunette, effortlessly radiant, striding toward her with that annoying sunshine energy… and right behind her, Colet.

That Colet girl was another story altogether. Mikha tried to keep her expression neutral, but her inner monologue was rolling its eyes. Sure, she got that Colet was close to Aiah’s family, and yes, she clearly still had feelings for her fiancée (it’s pretty obvious), but did she have to hover like a loyal puppy every single time?

Was it necessary? Was she auditioning for the role of “Ex Who Can’t Let Go”?

Mikha didn’t care about their history, not really. She wasn’t the jealous type. (Well… not out loud.) But she couldn’t shake the nagging thought that Colet’s constant presence might eventually cause problems. And if there’s one thing Mikha Lucero hates, it’s complications. Especially ones that could mess with her plans.

She crossed her arms, watching Aiah and Colet approach. She told herself it didn’t bother her. Of course it didn’t. Why would it? But her chest tightened anyway, betraying her own logic. Maybe it was the way Colet lingered too close, or how Aiah’s attention seemed to pull in that direction just a little too easily.

Whatever it was, Mikha decided she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Riding the yacht seemed fine, and she wasn't getting seasick as she usually did. As she gazed out at the vast sea while sipping on the fresh berry smoothie that Stacey had made for her, Aiah approached her.

"Hey," the brunette greeted.

"What?"

"Can we not fight? It's tiring."

"I'm not fighting with you. I'm just asking what you want."

She observed Aiah let out a heavy sigh through her peripheral vision. "Don't do anything stupid while you're with Mom and Mamalol."

Mikha met Aiah's eyes with her left eyebrow raised. "Excuse me? I should be the one telling you that. You're the one messing with an ex."

"What? No. It's not like that. She's... Colet's a friend," Aiah defended.

"Right. Whatever."

"Look, if you're worried about me messing up this whole arrangement, you shouldn't be. The editor position is the most important thing for me. That's the sole reason why I left Cebu. If I have to suck up everything and be married to you to get it, I will. We're already here, and we've already started this. There's no going back now. We had a deal."

Mikha processed what Aiah had said. The brunette seemed sincere, so Mikha tried to feel at ease about it.

"Fine. It's good that we're still on the same page."

"Just try to be nice to everyone, okay? Keep your negative or offensive remarks to yourself. We don't want my family to think that you're truly this heartless witch that I somehow decided to marry."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on. Let's not pretend you didn't make my life miserable for two years and counting."

"Shut up," she gave Aiah a glare, and the brunette responded with a zipping-mouth gesture.

After a brief silence, Mikha felt the urge to continue the conversation. She didn't want things to become awkward between her and the brunette while they stood together behind the railings, gazing at the calm sea waves. Besides, she had some questions she was curious about.

"I wonder how life in your enormous mansion functions. Like, how does transportation work? You were heading to the airport, and we're on our way to the city, but the cars I saw back at the mansion were never loaded for shipment to the port."

"We have a private parking lot near the dock. The cars used for traveling around Jeju are parked there and ready for use. Visitors to our home also park their vehicles there, so you just need to take the boat ride to get to our house. Colet's car is there, as well as Mom's other car, which you'll be using with Mamalol. The cars you saw back at the mansion are the ones used for traveling around the island. Having a separate set of cars for both islands saves the hassle of having to ship the cars back and forth."

"Wow. Just how many cars does your family have?"

"I don’t know. A few. Fifteen maybe."

Fifteen?? That's a few??

It amazes Mikha how casual Aiah is about it, as if it's not a big deal at all. Well, all rich kids are basically like that.  They know they have money, but they usually downplay it or remain humble about it. That's when you know they are THAT rich. Generational-wealth rich. Soft-hands, old-money, “I don’t check price tags” kind of rich.

Aiah could easily have asked her parents to establish their own publishing house and put her in charge of her own company, but she never did that. Instead, she ventured to New York, far from her loved ones, and started from scratch.

Mikha deeply admires her for that, for not using her wealth and influence to attain her dreams. She’d never admit it out loud, but it was one of the first things that made her respect Aiah. Maybe even like her. Just a little.

The only very spoiled rich kid thing the brunette has done since they arrived here was requesting a driver to drive her. Back in New York, Aiah was the one who chauffeured her around. Whenever Mikha needed something, she would turn to Aiah. When tasks needed to be completed, she would ask Aiah to handle them. Now that Aiah is the one asking like a little kid, it's kinda cu—

"Hello? Earth to Mikha!"

Mikha's thoughts were disrupted by Aiah snapping her fingers in front of her face.

"What?"

"You were spacing out."

"Oh. What were you saying?"

"I said we're here. You're going to be fine, right?"

"Come on, Aiah, I'm a grown woman. I'm not a baby."

"Right. Just a reminder. Don't do anything funny."

Mikha could not even count how many times she had rolled her eyes today because she kept forgetting how annoying Aiah is. Aiah does not need to micromanage her to do her part in this arrangement that they have. She fully understands the assignment and she would deliver it with flying colors.

"Mikha, honey, are you ready?" Mary called from behind them. Mikha smiled and nodded at her.

"Alright, babe. You take care," Aiah said and Mikha knew they had to keep up the act, given they were in the presence of the brunette's mother. But what really caught her off guard was when Aiah planted a kiss on her cheek before heading over to her forever-waiting ex.

For half a second, Mikha froze. The warmth lingered longer than it should have. Then she caught sight of Colet already watching, already smiling that too-familiar smile, and something inside her snapped right back into place.

It wasn’t even a smug smile. That was the worst part. It was polite, composed, and maddeningly gentle. The kind of smile that said she’s happy for you, but she knows she’s part of a chapter you’ll never quite erase. It carried quiet confidence, the kind that came from shared history, from years of knowing Aiah in ways Mikha never could.

And Mikha could feel it, the weight of that familiarity, that sense of belonging Colet had. The easy comfort with Aiah’s family, the natural warmth, the unspoken bond. It wasn’t arrogance. It was worse. It was effortless.

It made Mikha’s chest tighten and her smoothie suddenly taste too sweet.

This just pissed Mikha off even more. Not because of the kiss. Definitely not because of the kiss. But because Colet’s presence alone had this irritating way of making her feel like the outsider in her own story.

“Did the manager already report for duty?” Aiah asked as she led Jhoanna toward the airport parking lot, weaving through the crowd of passengers dragging their suitcases under the midmorning heat.

She’d insisted that Colet wait in the car while she fetched her best friend, no point making Colet walk all the way in and deal with the chaos. Colet had already done enough by driving her to the airport, and Aiah felt guilty enough about that.

“Nah,” Jhoanna replied, her voice low, tired. She was trying to smile, but the travel fatigue was written all over her face.

“Then what are you doing here?” Aiah frowned, half-concerned, half-incredulous.

“I closed the shop.”

“What? Why?”

“Why not?” Jhoanna said flatly, her tone as unreadable as ever. Then, after a beat, she added, “Didn’t want to miss out on all the fun of your little escapade with your fake fiancée in your hometown."

Aiah froze mid-step. “Jho…”

Jhoanna stopped too, raising an eyebrow in that calm, vaguely judgmental way she did best.

“This is the last time you’ll call it fake, okay? Please. I don’t want to get in trouble,” Aiah whispered, lowering her voice like the walls had ears. “It might slip out one of these days, and it'll be a mess when it does. Just… try not to mention our little arrangement.”

“Little arrangement,” Jhoanna repeated, tone bone-dry. “It’s only been what, two days? And you already sound guilty.”

Aiah sighed, rubbing her temple. “You make it sound like I committed a crime.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Jho.”

That earned her a faint chuckle from the taller girl, a rare sight.

"Please?” Aiah asked, she needs confirmation that Jhoanna will cooperate. “You and Maloi are the only people who know about this because you're the only ones I trust enough to know. Even Stacey and Gwen have no idea. Let's just have fun and pretend it's real, okay?"

"And now you're including me in your little game because now I have to pretend too? Mariah Queen, your spoiled ass is asking for too much."

"Just a few more days. A few more days and this'll be over. So, please?" She added a little pout to her pleas.

"Should I pity your situation because you're giving me that famous puppy look of yours? You should know by now that you just look cute doing that."

Aiah pouted even more, with her sad, cute little eyes looking straight into Jhoanna's soul.

"Oh, God. You're cute. Fine. Just stop it," the tall girl said as she facepalmed Aiah.

"I love you, Jho."

"I hate you. You know it'll work every time."

"But still, you love me."

"I hate that I love you."

"Alright, Rihanna."

Aiah grinned in triumph as they approached the parked car. She tapped on the trunk to signal Colet, who popped it open from inside.

After helping load Jhoanna’s luggage, Aiah opened the backseat door for her friend, only to find Colet’s calm eyes flicking toward the newcomer in the rearview mirror.

“Colet, this is Jhoanna,” Aiah said, her tone bright. Too bright. “Jho, this is Colet. She, uh… offered to drive us.”

Jhoanna gave a polite nod. “Thanks for picking us up.”

“No problem,” Colet replied smoothly, though there was something unreadable behind her smile. “Aiah mentioned you’d be joining.”

Jhoanna tilted her head slightly, her brows pinching together in faint confusion. “Wait. Colet? As in… Colet Villegaz?”

Aiah froze. “...Yeah?”

There was a tiny pause before Jhoanna spoke again, her tone still calm but edged with quiet disbelief. “As in your ex Colet Villegaz?”

Colet let out a soft, amused breath. “That would be me,” she said kindly, as if easing the tension before it could bloom.

“Oh.” Jhoanna blinked once, then simply nodded, settling into her seat with the same unbothered composure she always had. “Right. Okay. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Pleasure to meet you too.”

The air inside the car thickened almost immediately. Aiah could practically hear the silence stretch as Colet started the engine. Jhoanna sat quietly in the back, her usual calm expression giving away nothing, until she spoke.

“So… your fiancée’s okay with this?”

Aiah blinked. “With what?”

“With your ex driving you around. Is Mikha okay with that?”

Her tone wasn’t judgmental, just genuinely curious, like someone asking about the weather. But that single question landed like a small grenade in the car.

Aiah felt her throat go dry. “Ah… uh, yeah. I mean, she… knows it’s just a favor.”

From the driver’s seat, Colet gave a soft, polite laugh. “It really is just that,” she said, eyes fixed on the road. “Aiah needed a ride, and I happened to be free. No drama there.”

“Of course,” Jhoanna replied simply, leaning back against her seat. She didn’t sound convinced. But then again, Jho rarely sounded anything.

Silence filled the car again, heavier this time. Aiah could feel the heat creeping up her neck. Colet’s calm tone should’ve made it better, but somehow it only made Aiah more aware of how careful everyone suddenly was.

She kept her eyes on the road ahead, pretending to care about the traffic, when really she was just trying not to drown in the silence between her and Colet. There was something cruel about how easy it felt, how familiar Colet’s voice sounded when she spoke, how her laughter still carried that same warmth.

She told herself she was over it, that whatever they had was done, buried under time and circumstance. And she was… She knew she was. There was no spark left, no hidden wish to go back. But sitting here, listening to Colet talk like nothing ever happened, something deep in Aiah’s chest twitched. Not longing exactly, but the ghost of it. The echo she thought she’d silenced years ago.

And yet, there it was. That small ache of familiarity. The comfort of knowing someone once loved you so surely, and the ache of realizing it doesn’t fit the same anymore.

She hated that what happened years ago still filled her with guilt, especially now. Because even if she doesn’t feel the same way for Colet, it still felt wrong to let her mind linger there when Mikha existed in her life, even if their love was supposed to be fiction. Aiah didn’t even know what to call all these feelings with the editor-in-chief yet, or maybe she did and just didn’t want to name it. Because naming it made it real, and real was dangerous.

So she straightened her posture, forcing her face into neutrality while her mind screamed for a way out. Because she wasn’t just sitting in a car, she was sitting in the middle of a social disaster waiting to happen: her ex driving, her best friend who knew too much in the backseat, and a fiancée, fake or not, who’d have every reason to be upset at her for riding with an ex to pick up her old childhood crush.

Inside, her stomach twisted as she tried to hold herself together in a car that smelled a little too much like the past, while somewhere between the silence, her mind drifted toward someone she shouldn’t be thinking about, not now, not here… and yet, she did.

3:30 PM

Mikha stared blankly at the temporary phone Aiah had lent her, one of those classic, no-nonsense bricks that looked like it came straight out of 2005. The kind that could probably survive a typhoon, a fall from the second floor, and still have battery for a week. She sat alone at one of the tables inside Café Arienza, surrounded by the soft hum of chatter and the smell of butter and freshly ground coffee beans.

The two older Arienza ladies had just disappeared into the back kitchen to fetch pastries and a fresh pot of coffee for their afternoon merienda.

Her stomach, however, was still protesting. Lunch had been at one of the Arienzas’ restaurants, and it wasn’t just lunch, it was a banquet. If Mikha hadn’t intervened and begged Mamalol to stop ordering, the woman might’ve brought out the entire menu. The food was incredible, yes, but so was the risk of cardiac arrest from overconsumption.

This café marked stop number four on what the Arienzas proudly called “the family business tour.” A tour Mikha was increasingly convinced had no actual end. The family seemed to own every second building they passed. A mall here, a company hub there, a random specialty café that somehow still traced back to the empire. Apparently, the clan owned more establishments than Mikha had unread emails. Visiting them all in a day or two was an impossible task, maybe even a week wouldn’t be enough. 

The Arienzas weren’t just rich. They were museum-exhibit rich. Generational dynasty rich. The type that made the term old money feel like an understatement.

Mikha sipped her glass of water, staring at the polished interiors and the engraved A of the Arienza crest on the wall.

This wasn’t real life.

Somewhere between the third stop and this one, she’d begun to question reality.

How… exactly… did she end up here?

One minute she was a sleep-deprived editor-in-chief bullshitting her way through corporate survival, the next she was being chauffeured through properties owned by her fake fiancée’s family like she’d accidentally walked onto the set of a billionaire-themed cinematic universe.

And the worst part?

A horrifying, uninvited thought drifted in…

If I had known Aiah came from this kind of background… would I have still blackmailed her into marrying me to save my job?

She didn’t know the answer.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

All she knew for sure was that she was desperate to salvage her position, but she had definitely not been prepared for any of this, not the businesses, not the money, not the sheer absurdity of her current reality.

Because truly, sincerely, and she meant this with her whole soul, nothing about these past two days felt like normal life anymore.

3:35 PM

Mikha checked the phone again, not because she had any notifications, she was just… checking. You know, in case it magically rang.

“Aiah hasn’t called yet?” Mary asked, setting down a tray with two steaming café lattes and a pair of generously buttered ensaymadas.

“Uh, not yet. Where’s Mamalol?”

“Oh, she’s in the kitchen, helping the staff bake. Most of the recipes are hers, so she likes to get her hands messy now and then.” Mary smiled warmly, settling across from her. “Don’t worry about her, just enjoy the food, dear.”

Mikha nodded, taking a cautious sip of her latte… and immediately almost choked when the phone blared to life with a painfully loud Nokia classic ringtone.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The screen flashed “My Forever Love Aiah <3”

She froze.

Mary blinked. “Are you okay, dear?”

Mikha cleared her throat, forcing a strained smile. “I-I’m fine. It’s… Aiah.”

Of course it was.

She answered the call right then and there, because bolting to the restroom to curse Aiah out didn’t feel polite in front of her future fake mother-in-law. She just had to sound normal. Chill. Totally not mortified.

“Baby? Where are you?” she said through gritted teeth, trying to sound affectionate. A pause. “Yes… She’s… right in front of me… Yeah… we’re at the café. Oh. Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”

“She’s coming?” Mary asked, sipping her coffee.

“Yes, she’s—” Mikha started, but her sentence trailed off because the café door had just opened.

Speaking of the devil. Or angel. Or whatever celestial entity her fake fiancée qualified as.

“—here,” Mikha finished weakly.

Mikha’s words caught in her throat.

Because walking toward them was Aiah… but not the Aiah she knew.

Aiah walked in, sunlight spilling behind her like a movie entrance. Gone was the corporate-brunette secretary she’d spent two years side-eyeing in the office. In her place was a woman with soft chestnut-brown hair that framed her face like it was professionally styled for a shampoo commercial. The thin-rimmed glasses perched on her nose were just… unfair, and Mikha suddenly forgot how to function.

She stared. Hard.

The hair color alone shouldn’t have been life-altering, but apparently, Mikha’s brain had other plans.

She’s the same person, she told herself. It’s just new hair. People change hair color all the time. Stop being weird.

Except this time, her stomach did a weird little somersault.

“Hi, Mom.” Aiah leaned in to greet her mother with a cheek-to-cheek kiss before turning to Mikha. “Hi, babe.”

Before Mikha could react, Aiah leaned in and planted a quick kiss on her cheek.

Just like that. Casual. Effortless. Illegal.

Mikha froze for God knows how many times already that afternoon. Aiah had kissed her plenty of times by now, all part of their little charade, but she still wasn’t immune. She’d gotten used to the idea, sure. But the act itself? Yeah, her heart hadn’t signed off on that.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Aiah said as she slid into the seat beside her. “I helped Jhoanna get settled, and then Maloi and Staku dragged me into a salon.”

“The hair suits you so well, anak!” Mary exclaimed. “It really looks good on you!”

“Thanks, Mom.” Aiah grinned. “I got tired of dark brown. Figured it was time for a change.”

Then she turned to Mikha, eyes glinting. “What do you think, love?”

Mikha blinked. That last word hit like a sucker punch.

She shouldn’t have looked at her. That was her first mistake.

Up close, Aiah looked even more… distractingly pretty.

And worse, she was looking at Mikha with this soft, expectant expression, cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink that Mikha absolutely did not have the emotional bandwidth to interpret right now. Probably from the café lighting. Or the air-conditioning. Or… something.

“W-what?” she stammered.

“The hair,” Aiah prompted, lips twitching with amusement. “Does it suit me?”

“It’s…” Mikha’s brain scrambled for something snarky, something non-flattering, something that didn’t sound like she was about to melt, but all it supplied was static. She couldn’t find a single insult in the English language that applied. Especially when Aiah tucked a strand behind her ear, a tiny nervous fidget Mikha had never seen her do.

“It’s… y-you’re pretty,” she finally blurted out, voice barely above a whisper. She couldn’t even look at her properly. She stared at the teaspoon instead. Safe. Neutral. Non-dangerous. Fascinating little thing, really. Very… reflective.

“Pardon?” Aiah’s voice was light, but there was a tiny hitch, a soft inhale, like she hadn’t expected that.

But of course. The devil wanted her to repeat it. Mikha groaned inwardly.

“I said…” Mikha exhaled, forcing herself to meet Aiah’s eyes, eyes that were now visibly wider, her blush deepening just a fraction, “you’re pretty.”

Silence stretched between them and for a moment, neither of them looked away. Five seconds. Maybe six. Long enough for Aiah’s mouth to part slightly, like she was trying not to smile too hard. Long enough for Mikha to register vaguely, distantly, that Aiah looked… flustered?

Before her brain could finish processing anything, she bolted. “Excuse me, I have to go to the restroom,” she blurted, practically ejecting herself from her chair.

And with that, she fled, leaving behind her latte, her dignity, and a very entertained, and now suspiciously pink Aiah.

3:50 PM – Café Arienza Restroom

Mikha gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing anchoring her to reality. Her reflection in the mirror looked… guilty. Flustered. Possibly feverish.

Get it together, she told herself, splashing cold water onto her face. It’s just hair. People change hair. It’s literally protein growing out of your head. Nothing to hyperventilate over.

She grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at her cheeks, only to groan internally. But why did it have to look that good on her?

The restroom door stayed mercifully closed, giving her full privacy to spiral.

Her mind betrayed her by replaying everything in slow motion. The café door opening, Aiah stepping in like some chestnut-haired hallucination, the “Hi, babe” with the smile that looked disgustingly way too natural for something fake. And then the kiss. The kiss that was supposed to be part of the act but somehow hit her like a full emotional concussion.

She buried her face in her hands. You’re losing it, Mikha. This is not part of the contract. You are not supposed to fall for— Her thoughts slammed into a wall. She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Not even in her own brain.

She looked back at her reflection.

The “fearless editor-in-chief” who prided herself on being unshakeable was now hiding in a café restroom because her fake girlfriend got a haircut and a new shade of brown.

Incredible. Truly inspirational.

Her borrowed phone buzzed against the sink, a text from Aiah.

My Forever Love Aiah <3: You okay, babe? Need me to come get you? <3

Mikha glared at the screen like Aiah herself was staring back through it. Oh, you smug little— She typed furiously, then deleted it, typed another, deleted that too, and finally settled on the safest lie known to womankind.

Mikha: I’m fine. Just fixing my makeup.

The response arrived almost immediately.

My Forever Love Aiah <3: Sure you’re not fixing your feelings? (^ 3 ^)

Mikha nearly yeeted the phone into the trash bin.

She took a deep breath, straightened her blouse, and gave herself one last pep talk. You’re fine. You can do this. Just go out there, act normal, and maybe next time… don’t call her pretty.

Her reflection didn’t look convinced.

Aiah wasn’t sure if the compliment was sincere.

The way Mikha had looked straight into her eyes… really looked, like she was trying to read Aiah’s entire soul in one look, and told her she was pretty didn’t feel like Mikha Lucero at all. Not the Mikha who raised a skeptical eyebrow at everything. Not the Mikha whose default facial expression hovered somewhere between “mildly bored” and “resting bitch face champion of the year.”

Mikha Lucero did not distribute compliments. She rationed them like they were government relief goods.

In front of her mom, sure. As part of their act, absolutely. But like that?

Aiah doubted it.

And yet.

A tiny traitorous part of her wished Mikha actually meant it. Just… a little. (Fine, more than a little. Maybe a medium-to-large amount.) Which was stupid. Beyond stupid. Because why did it matter? Why was she suddenly hyper-aware of how Mikha saw her? Since when did Mikha’s opinion, specifically Mikha’s, have the power to make her chest feel weirdly warm?

It didn’t make sense. She blamed the new hair color. And the adrenaline. And maybe the residual emotional whiplash of everything that had been happening between them for the last two days.

Well, her mom said the hair looked good on her too, but moms were moms. They were required by universal law to say that. Their job descriptions included unconditional praise, unsolicited food, and telling you you're gorgeous even when you looked like a sleep-deprived mop. Mama compliments didn’t count.

Mikha’s… did.

So instead of spiraling, she shoved the thought aside and made a mental reminder to ask Gwen later. If anyone would give her the brutal, honest truth, it would be her cousin who breathed fashion.

But then Aiah needed to get a grip.

Because those texts hadn’t exactly helped her grip remain… gripped.

You okay, babe? Need me to come get you? <3

And then, because apparently she had zero self-control…

Sure you’re not fixing your feelings? (^ 3 ^)

Yeah. Those.

The moment she’d hit send on that second one, she felt her soul leave her body, hover above her, and go, Really? That’s what we’re doing now?

She’d typed it with her usual chaotic bravado, the kind that worked great in group chats and significantly less great when directed at Mikha Lucero’s face. She hadn’t meant for that second one to come out that flirty. Aiah liked to tell herself she was just being playful. Fun. Committed to the bit.

But the truth… the annoying, whispery, impossible-to-ignore truth, was more complicated.

Maybe she was teasing Mikha on purpose. Did she flinch? Roll her eyes? Laugh? Turn into one of those perfectly flustered people you see in romcoms? Maybe she was nudging the line to see if Mikha would nudge back. 

Or maybe it was just… self-defense. Maybe all this teasing, all the little pushes and prods, was really just a way to armor herself against Mikha’s compliments, her softness, the rare moments when Mikha looked at her like she actually meant it. Cause Aiah… Aiah wasn’t ready for that kind of vulnerability. So she cloaked herself in teasing. Armor. Little shields of words and emojis.

And maybe it was practice. Emotional calisthenics. Heart yoga. She was training herself to survive their act without melting into a puddle every time Mikha smiled, said something genuinely nice, or, heaven forbid, made her chest feel weirdly warm.

Tease Mikha. Test Mikha. Test herself. Build up immunity. Train her heart. If she could do all of that, maybe she could sit through the next round of fake-fiancée performances without malfunctioning like an overheated gadget.

And somewhere in that half-dramatic, half-strategic loop, she allowed herself a tiny, guilty smirk. If all of this, the texts, the cheeky jabs, the little playful nudges, was practice, if every teasing message was part of her weird, internal boot camp… then maybe, just maybe, she was getting stronger. Stronger, braver, and just clever enough to test Mikha without letting herself get lost in feelings she wasn’t supposed to have… yet.

“Did you enjoy the tour?” she asked once Mikha downed the last sip of her latte. Her mom had stepped into the back kitchen to fetch Mamalol.

“It was fine,” Mikha said, stretching a little, her expression slipping back into unimpressed neutrality. “We visited the main businesses.” Then she smirked. “I guess you told your family to show off a bit, huh?”

There she goes. That smirk Aiah shouldn’t find interesting but did. That spark in Mikha’s eyes she pretended not to notice.

“They just want to show you around,” Aiah replied, narrowing her eyes in mock offense. “Give you a glimpse of the family background.”

“Yeah. Show off.” Mikha crossed her arms. “What I learned is that you’re old-money rich. Like, your wads of cash come from your great-great-whichever-grandparents. Mamalol said it’s tradition to pass the business to the next generation. And your father oversees everything now.”

“Right.” She tried to keep her tone light, but the word scraped a little too close to something raw.

Family business. Her father. The empire. The expectations.

It all flickered through her mind in one tight, breath-stealing second, the argument last night, his voice flat and disapproving, her own frustration boiling over. She hated how the mere mention of him made her stomach knot. How even now, sitting in a cozy café, she could still feel that tension gripping her ribs.

“So it’s basically a monarchy,” Mikha continued, completely oblivious she’d just stepped into emotional landmines. “Your father is the king of the Arienza empire. Who’s next in line then? You?”

“Supposedly.”

“What do you mean?”

Her gaze dropped instantly. Playful banter? Gone. Mood? Dead.

Nope. Hard pass. This topic was not going to be unpacked today. Or tomorrow. Or ever if she had anything to say about it. Mikha didn’t need the gritty details of succession wars and parental disappointment. Knowing the basics was enough for them to survive their little arrangement. Anything more was too personal.

Too vulnerable.

She was still scrambling mentally for a smooth topic detour (Coffee beans? Global warming? The rising price of onions?) when her phone vibrated.

Saved by the bell. Or, well, by the vibration.

“It’s Mom,” she said, exhaling quietly. “She said we can go ahead and wait in the car. We’re about to head to our last stop.”

Mikha groaned like she’d just been sentenced to community service. “Seriously? I thought this was the last one?”

Aiah let out a chuckle. The whining was understandable. Honestly, if she were Mikha, she’d complain too. She avoided the family business like they were cursed relics. She only agreed to let them take Mikha this time because her mom and Mamalol asked, and saying no to those two was basically impossible.

Still, as exhausting as this whole charade was, Aiah found herself quietly appreciating the way her mom and Mamalol treated Mikha. The way her mom asked Mikha gentle questions, the way Mamalol kept sliding pastries her way, the way both women seemed to be trying, sincerely, to know the person Aiah had brought home. They were really trying to get to know her.

Even if Mikha was only doing all this for the sake of their arrangement, her mom and Mamalol didn’t treat her like some cardboard cutout even if they just met her. They genuinely treated her like someone Aiah cared about.

And somehow… watching Mikha respond to them, even with all the complaining and eye-rolling, made the whole thing feel a little easier. Maybe even comforting.

“It’s the last one,” she said gently, slipping into that soft tone she only used with Mikha, partly for the act, partly because it felt natural. “I promise to take you home after it.”

“Fine.” Mikha huffed and grabbed her bag. “Let’s go.”

Aiah stood with her, trying not to stare at her too long. Trying not to wonder why she wanted Mikha’s compliments, the real ones. Trying not to ruthlessly analyze the flutter she felt in her chest.

And together, they headed toward the door. One hiding her exasperation, and one helplessly hiding the strange feeling she still wasn’t ready to name.

Chapter Text

The last stop was "Silong sa Bulan", one of the Arienza family’s original restaurants, built right along the shoreline, with a wide open deck overlooking the sea and their private marina glittering behind it. The place was known for its sutukil, lechon belly, and every Cebuano comfort food you’d crave on a Sunday night. Tourists loved it, locals swore by it, and there was always a queue no matter what day of the week.

The restaurant had two main sections. One was the open-air deck facing the beach, lit by soft capiz lanterns and warm string lights. A clear glass railing lined the edges, giving an unobstructed view of the sea and the Arienza marina nearby. At night, the water reflected the lights, making it feel like the deck floated just above the waves. When the tide moved, the reflections moved with it, as if the whole place breathed with the ocean.

The other was the casual indoor dining area, no fancy table setups, no pretense, just polished acacia tables, woven lamps, and the sound of waves mixing with the soft OPM playing from the corner.

Classy enough to impress guests, but warm and festive enough to feel like home. Touchable, as the Arienzas loved to say.

Aiah hadn’t been here in years. She used to sneak in late dinners with her college barkada, and stepping inside now would feel like dusting off an old memory she wasn’t sure she wanted to remember. Nostalgia was a tricky thing. Sometimes comforting, sometimes painful.

Her mom reserved one of the long tables by the deck. Since this was the first formal dinner with her family since she arrived, Aiah was certain her father would be present. Which meant she would have to deal with him. Which meant her night would inevitably go to hell.

As they stepped out of the car, she spotted him immediately. Her father stood outside near a railing facing the sea, a glass of scotch in hand, looking like he was trying to inhale calm from the ocean breeze. For a split second, she considered faking a migraine or food poisoning. Something. Anything. But it was too late. Miguel Arienza had already seen them walking toward him. No escape.

Her stomach tightened.

And before her mind could talk her out of it, her hand reached out and found Mikha’s.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t strategy. Her fingers simply moved on their own, as if seeking something steady before her father could pull the ground out from under her.

Mikha flinched, barely a twitch. Just a sudden tension in her shoulders and a quick inhale that hitched too sharp. Her hand was stiff in Aiah’s for a heartbeat, like she wasn’t sure whether to pull away or freeze in place.

But then something softened.

It was small, almost unnoticeable, the kind of thing Aiah wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been holding her. Mikha’s fingers eased, uncurling just enough to let their hands actually fit together instead of merely touch. Her grip shifted from defensive to… gentle. Not affectionate, not tender, just steady. Like she was offering something without saying it out loud.

Aiah felt herself steady too, as if that subtle pressure anchored her spine and quieted the tremor creeping toward her chest. The world didn’t stop shaking, but suddenly it felt survivable.

Aiah didn’t let go. Not because of the façade they were supposed to maintain. Not because her father was watching. Her hand simply stayed where it was, like reaching for Mikha wasn’t a decision, but a reflex.

And somehow, that quiet, grounding hold rattled her more than facing her father ever could.

Mamalol and her mom kissed him on the cheek. Even Mikha gave a polite nod and a soft, respectful, “Maayong gabii po.” 

Aiah blinked at that. Of course Mikha would act like she’d known Cebuano all her life. In reality, she’d cornered Aiah in the hallway of their home earlier, asking in the most stiff, painfully formal voice, “Teach me… the basic greetings. So I won’t embarrass you.”

She’d said it so bluntly it caught Aiah off guard. Aiah had laughed quietly, because Mikha looked like she might bolt if she made it a big deal. Still, she’d taught her a handful of simple phrases. Mikha repeated them with that same stubborn precision she used at work, muttering under her breath until she got the pronunciation right, then pretended she hadn’t tried that hard in the first place. It was so very her.

Hearing her use one now in front of her family, sparked a brief, unexpected warmth in Aiah’s chest. It wasn’t affection. Definitely not... Just… appreciation. Right. Just that.

Surprisingly, her father nodded back. Whether it was politeness or he was simply in a rare good mood, Aiah couldn’t tell. What she did know was that her father didn’t like Mikha, didn’t like that she was Aiah’s boss, didn’t like that his only daughter was marrying said boss, didn’t like most things, actually.

So the tiny bit of acknowledgment from him? Maybe a miracle. Maybe tonight wouldn’t end with people throwing puso rice at each other.

“Go on inside,” her father said, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle. “They’re still setting up the table. I just need a minute to breathe. Whole day behind my desk was draining.”

Her mom nodded and pulled open the capiz-paneled door. Aiah followed the ladies toward the entrance.

“Aiah,” her father called.

She and Mikha froze.

His voice wasn’t angry. It was calm. Firm, but calm.

Aiah turned, and in that short moment, Mikha looked at her. Not panicked, not dramatic. Just this brief, searching gaze that seemed to ask, Will you be okay?

Aiah didn’t answer out loud. She couldn’t.

But Mikha must have seen something in her face because before she let go, her thumb brushed lightly against Aiah’s knuckles. A tiny squeeze. A quiet, wordless I’m here if you need me, offered with the same restraint she used for everything she didn’t want to admit.

And then, just as quickly, Mikha released her hand.

Aiah told her she’d follow in a minute and gestured toward her mom and Mamalol. Mikha gave her a small, unsure smile, still composed, but softened at the edges, before heading inside.

“Dad,” Aiah said as she stepped toward him, already missing the steadiness of that brief touch far more than she wanted to.

“It’s been a while since we ate here as a family,” he said, glancing at the restaurant like it carried ghosts.

“Yeah. I kinda missed the food,” Aiah replied.

Through the glass walls, she could see Mikha and her family settling at the table. She saw people laughing over grilled fish, the lechon belly glistening under warm lights, waiters carrying trays of tinola and bam-i. The whole place looked happy… unfair, considering how unhappy she felt.

“It’s good to have you back,” her father said softly.

“Me too.”

He took a sip of scotch. “Your mother was upset. Seems I wasn’t the most welcoming host last night.” Another sip. “It came as a surprise hearing you’re getting married. Especially since none of us even knew you were even dating.”

“I never got the chance to bring it up.”

“Well, what we did know was that you despised your boss. Then you bring her home and announce a wedding? It’s… a 360. Too much at once.”

“A lot can happen in two years,” Aiah muttered.

“Right. But it’s kind of surprising you’d marry your boss. Someone you’ve known for two years, when you turned down Colet Villegaz’s proposal. You dated her for four.”

Aiah felt her patience evaporate. “Dad, you can’t compare relationships based on duration.”

He had absolutely no business dragging Colet into this. He had zero business bringing up that proposal from years ago. He favored Colet a lot because the Villegazes were long-standing, trusted partners of the Arienza family. They are reliable, respectable, and solid in the Cebu business scene, and it was obvious that her father is still bitter at the fact that that marriage didn’t happen.

Aiah’s feelings for Colet had once been genuine. Their relationship was warm, honest, and real, but her father had twisted that connection into something strategic, using her relationship as a convenient stepping stone to secure business ties and strengthen family alliances. 

He had no right to dictate her choices, or the timing of her life. Not anymore. Aiah had endured enough of that growing up. She was old enough now to pave a path of her own.

Her father must have noticed her irritation.

“Fine,” he sighed. “You’re right. The point is… I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”

Aiah exhaled, tension loosening just a bit. That was all she needed. That tiny effort. That acknowledgment of fault.

Miguel Arienza opened his arms for a hug. She hesitated, then stepped forward and let herself be held.

“Apology accepted,” she whispered.

For a moment, they just stood there, father and daughter, no raised voices, no disappointment, no pressure. Just the sound of waves nearby and the warm light from the restaurant behind them.

“There’s something else I wanted to discuss,” he said.

Aiah pulled away slightly. “Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about my retirement plans.” His tone shifted, heavy, loaded. The kind that unfurled dread in her stomach. She froze mid-breath.

“I’ve achieved so much in my lifetime, practically building an empire alongside this family from the very beginning. But all of it… it doesn’t mean a thing unless—”

“Unless you have someone to leave it to. Dad, we’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, and we’re going to talk about it again,” he said, voice hardening. “You have responsibilities here, Mariah. I’ve been more than understanding while you’re… playing around in New York. It’s time to stop fooling around.”

"Here we go again. Just when I believed your apology was sincere and that we could end this night on a positive note. I was wrong." Aiah fumed at herself for letting her father get the best of her yet again. Just when she thought he was genuinely sorry. Just when she believed they could finally repair their strained relationship. Just when she hoped, stupidly, that they could start fresh and bury the past.

She was so completely, painfully wrong. And she blamed herself for allowing this cycle to repeat.

After all these years, the only thing her father seemed to care about was molding her into the heir of the family empire. He had been planting that idea in her head since her last year of college, slowly tightening the leash as her graduation drew near. And yes, it was a privilege to inherit something so massive. Not everyone got that kind of future handed to them.

She knew she was fortunate. Born into an affluent clan that never had to worry about putting food on the table. All her needs were met without question, and most of her wants were within reach. She wasn’t spoiled; she didn’t demand everything she saw. But the truth was undeniable: her family lived comfortably because her great-grandparents had poured their blood, sweat, and stubborn grit into building the foundation she was standing on now.

Her Papalol and her dad continued that work, expanding, protecting, preserving it. And she respected that. She really did.

But Aiah wanted something different. She wanted a life she built with her own hands, not a life handed to her by obligation. The family business was not her calling. She couldn’t picture herself doing what her father did, running the empire, attending endless meetings, living inside boardrooms, and carrying the weight of an entire clan on her shoulders.

Her heart beat for books. For stories. For the gentle magic of editing a manuscript until it became something beautiful. She didn’t want to be confined to this small island. She wanted a bigger world. She wanted to chase her dreams across continents, to reach people she’d never meet through the stories she helped shape.

And that was exactly what she’d done.

After college, everything erupted into one massive argument with her dad. Colet’s sudden proposal to marry her and settle in Cebu, falling neatly into the path her father wanted, was the final straw. Aiah ran to New York. And while the job was demanding (and having Mikha Lucero as her boss was its own level of insanity), every milestone she achieved in the publishing house filled her with a kind of fulfillment she never felt here. She was content. She was growing. She was happy.

"I was sincere about apologizing for how I treated you last night," her father said, voice steady. "But we need to discuss certain things about the family, Mariah. Once you get married to Mikha, we need to talk about how both of you will settle down here in Cebu."

"Family?" Aiah scoffed at the word, the bitterness slipping out before she could hold it back. "Do you even treat me as one? When are you going to start taking what I do seriously?"

"When you start acting seriously," he shot back.

Her throat tightened. She could feel the sting at the back of her eyes, the threat of tears she absolutely refused to shed. Not here, not in front of him. She would not let him see her crumble. She was tired of running, tired of breaking down, tired of this same damn conversation. It was time to confront it head-on, right here and right now.

She stared at him. Hurt, fury, disbelief all crashing inside her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice trembling. “I truly am. I wish you had another child. I really do. Someone who wanted to stay here. Someone who wanted the business. Someone you could approve of. But that’s not me.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. Hot, relentless, and blinding. She didn’t bother to hide them this time. The pain clawing through her chest was too much, a suffocating weight that had been building for years, pressing harder and harder until something inside her finally cracked.

Her voice trembled, raw and breaking. “Do you have any idea,” she whispered, “how exhausting it is to live like this? How heavy it feels to carry everything you expect of me? You keep saying you built an empire, but you forget that I’m the one who’s supposed to bear it. Alone.”

Aiah swallowed hard, the pain rising like a tide she could no longer hold back. “My life in New York might be strange to you…  working in publishing, editing books… chasing my dream. But it makes me happy, Dad. Happy. Do you understand that?”

Her father remained silent, and something inside her crumbled.

Her breath hitched, the ache spilling out of her in waves. “I’ve tried,” she choked out. “I’ve tried so hard to be the daughter you wanted. But you keep pushing and pushing, and I’m… I’m tired, Dad. I’m so tired.”

The tears streamed freely now, not just from sadness but from years of being unheard, unseen. “You don’t understand how much it hurts,” she said, voice small but painfully clear. “You’re not just asking me to take responsibility, you’re asking me to live a life that’s not even mine.”

He fell silent. Completely.

For the first time since she was a child, Miguel Arienza looked… unsteady. The lines of authority that usually shaped his face seemed to loosen, replaced by something hollow, like he was seeing her clearly only now, when the damage was already done. His gaze flicked to the tears on her cheeks, and his expression faltered, the certainty in his posture collapsing millimeter by millimeter. Regret gathered there… raw, startled, almost frightened, like he had just realized he had pushed his daughter so far she no longer wanted to stand anywhere near him.

Aiah knew then that she was done. After this trip, she’d go back to New York. She didn’t know when she’d return to Cebu again.

Finally, her father whispered, voice thin and uneven, “If that’s what makes you happy, then I have nothing to say.”

It could’ve been a surrender. It could’ve been guilt. But Aiah didn’t believe him. Not anymore.

“Well. That’s a first.” A bitter, hollow laugh slipped out before she could swallow it. “You know what? Apology not accepted.”

His breath hitched, just slightly, but she stepped back anyway.

“Enjoy the dinner.”

And without giving him a chance to recover, Aiah turned and walked away, from the warm lights and laughter, from the music drifting through the night air, from the smell of grilled fish, and from the father who, even now, only realized too late what his control had cost her.

Mikha was browsing the menu of the restaurant, absentmindedly scrolling through the list of new drinks she wanted to try, when she heard a sharp, concerned gasp from Mary.

"Oh gosh. Aiah..." The woman cupped her mouth with both hands, eyes wide, and unconsciously rose from her seat.

The tone alone was enough to jolt Mikha; she snapped her head toward the direction Mary was looking. The sudden movement sent a tiny spike of pain down her neck. Something surely strained. But it faded as quickly as it arrived. Because the moment she saw what Mary saw, every little discomfort vanished beneath a heavier, far more urgent weight.

Aiah was walking out of the restaurant. And she was crying.

It was quick, barely a heartbeat of a glimpse, but Mikha was certain she’d met Aiah’s gaze for a split second. A single, fleeting frame burned into her mind: red eyes, wet lashes, the unmistakable shine of tears on her cheeks. Aiah looked wrecked. Broken in a way Mikha had never seen her, not even during their most tense moments.

What could have pushed her that far?

Did something happen again between her and her father?

Mikha had never fully understood the depth of the rift between the two Arienzas. She’d only sensed the tension the first time she met Miguel at the welcoming party with the stiff politeness, the cold appraisal, the immediate disapproval that practically radiated from the man.

And now, this sudden engagement announcement… Of course it made everything worse. If the fire had already been smoldering, then that revelation was gasoline.

But earlier tonight, Miguel had seemed… almost calm. He accepted her greeting with no hostility, maybe even a hint of restraint. For a moment, Mikha allowed herself to hope that tonight would go smoothly.

She should have known better.

Because the next thing she saw was Miguel walking back to the table alone.

He looked nothing like the commanding businessman from earlier. His expression was somber, carved with exhaustion. His shoulders sagging as though something heavy had settled on them. There was a weariness in the way he moved, a defeated drag in every step. It was the look of a man who had just watched something important slip out of his hands.

He took his seat, and the table felt colder for it.

"What happened to Aiah?" Mary asked immediately. "What did you do?"

Miguel let out a sigh that was long, unsteady, and hesitant, like even breathing suddenly took effort. He looked reluctant to speak, as though admitting anything would only solidify the weight pressing down on him.

Mikha felt her stomach twist. She didn’t belong here. Whatever had just happened was clearly a family matter, and she didn’t want to intrude or overhear something she shouldn’t.

"Uh... Pardon me. I think I need to use the restroom. Excuse me, everyone, for a minute," she said softly, bowing as she rose.

"Sure, dear. The restroom is over there," Mamalol pointed, her voice gentle but strained.

As Mikha stepped away from the table, Mary’s voice followed her. Tight, sharp, trembling with disappointment.

“Miguel, what did you do this time?” Mary demanded.

"I didn't do anything," he said, but even from several steps away, Mikha could hear the uncertainty in his voice. "I mean… I just had an honest conversation with her about her future."

Mikha turned the corner but couldn’t bring herself to move farther. She lingered, still within earshot, heart thrumming anxiously.

Mary let out a bitter laugh laced with hurt. “About her future?” she echoed, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “No, Miguel. You had another conversation about your plans for her. About the company. The responsibilities. The business you keep chaining to her neck like it’s the only thing that should matter in her life.”

Mikha froze behind the corner.

“Oh. Well, yeah. That’s a good idea,” Mary continued, sarcasm cutting deep. “That’s a very good idea, Miguel. Because she will never come back home again.” Her voice cracked, pain spilling through it. “Do you even hear yourself? You always suffocate her with the same demands. You never ask what she wants.”

There was a thud, maybe a hand hitting the table. or maybe just the weight of Mary’s disappointment settling heavily in the space between them.

“She’s my daughter,” Miguel said quietly. “I only want what’s best for her.”

“What’s best for her,” Mary shot back, “is to live the life she chose. Not the life you designed before she was even old enough to speak.”

Mikha swallowed, her chest constricting. The raw pain in Mary’s voice settled heavily in Mikha’s chest. Mary wasn’t angry because she wanted to pick a fight, she was angry because she loved her daughter. Because she missed her. Because this wasn’t the first time Aiah walked away hurt.

As Mikha pressed herself gently against the wall, she imagined the great Miguel Arienza, a man feared, respected, and always unshakeable, being scolded by his wife like a stubborn child. That alone spoke volumes.

"She is my daughter too, and I only get to see her after two years because she doesn't want to come home, and it's all because of you. I've had enough."

Oh. She’s mad. She’s really, really mad.

"You're going to be supportive of her marrying Mikha, and that is that," Mary continued, voice thick with emotion, not in anger this time, but in a breaking kind of desperation. “Because if you keep doing this… pressuring her, forcing her into the family business, treating her like she’s a tool instead of your child, we're going to end up in our great big house with all of our money and all of our legacy… just you and me. Alone. You and me and everything we're angry about, and that would be very lonely for us. And God forbid that we should have a grandchild that we never get to see."

Mikha choked on air.

Grandchild?

A child. With Aiah?

The idea had never even stepped foot in her mind. And now it barged in with zero warning, knocking over every logical thought in its path. The image was so absurd, so surreal, that her brain practically short-circuited before she shoved it violently aside.

No. Absolutely not going there.

"You need to fix this, hijo," Mamalol said firmly, echoing Mary, not Miguel. And that was surprising. If even his mother wasn’t on his side… then maybe he really was in the wrong.

Mikha didn’t hear anything from Miguel after that. Silence hung in the air, oppressive and telling.

She finally pushed herself away from the corner and headed to the restroom for real, though she barely felt her own footsteps. Her pulse was still pounding, quick and unsteady, as if her body hadn’t caught up with what her ears had just heard.

She had known… felt… that something was wrong between Aiah and her father from the moment she met him. The tension was impossible to miss. But hearing Mary’s words… hearing how deep it ran, how long it had gone on, how much it had hurt Aiah…

It carved something sharp and cold straight into her chest.

Mikha wasn’t sure what startled her more: the heaviness of what she’d learned, or the unsettling realization of how deeply it affected her. She shouldn’t care this much. Not about a family she had no part in, not about problems she had no right to fix.

And yet she cared anyway.

Every word she’d overheard pulled her thoughts back to the image of Aiah’s tear-filled eyes, that cracked expression she’d tried to hide, the way her shoulders had trembled as she walked away. The more Mikha understood, the more the pieces aligned, and the more it hurt.

For Aiah.
For what she’d gone through.
For what she was still going through.

And for what it meant that Mikha couldn’t shake this feeling… this fierce, unfamiliar ache in her chest, no matter how hard she tried.

Thankfully, they were finally home.

The quiet hit Mikha first, a kind of stillness that felt strange after the chaos of the Arienza family dinner. She paused by the entryway, letting her eyes sweep over the enormous living space, half-expecting to see a certain brunette slumped on a couch or pacing restlessly near the balcony.

But Aiah was nowhere.

Of course she wasn’t.

After everything that happened… she probably needed space. Air. Silence. A place where no one, especially Miguel Arienza, could reach her.

Mikha wanted to go after her, to check on her, to at least offer a presence she could lean on. But she knew Aiah needed space more than she needed company. So she stayed back, even if every instinct in her body screamed otherwise.

By the time they arrived home, exhaustion had settled deep into her bones. From Nathan’s morning call, to the eagle incident, to spiraling because Aiah decided to change her hair, to the awkward dinner… and now learning just how deep Aiah’s wounds went, Mikha felt like she had lived three days in one.

She glanced around again.

The house felt unusually empty.

Too quiet, even for a mansion this big.

Maloi and Stacey weren’t around, either. No chaotic laughter bouncing off the walls. And Jhoanna, who was never the type to chatter unless necessary, was nowhere in sight as well. The three of them were probably still out together, wandering the city at their own pace, with Maloi and Stacey dragging Jhoanna along whether she cared or not.

And Gwen… well, she was still off somewhere with Sheena.

Mikha exhaled slowly. She just wanted to collapse into bed and shut the world out.

But no. She needed a long, hot shower first. Preferably one strong enough to melt the day off her skin.

“Thank you for showing me around,” she told Mary and Mamalol with a tired but grateful smile. “Everything was great.”

“It was our pleasure, dear,” Mamalol said.

Mary winced apologetically. “And… sorry for what happened at dinner.”

“It’s okay,” Mikha reassured her. “Every family has arguments.”

Mary mouthed a soft thank you, but Mikha’s chest tightened the moment the words left her own mouth.

Because she knew… she knew that what she’d witnessed tonight wasn’t just a simple family disagreement.

There was something deeper there. Older. Sharper. The kind of wound that didn’t reopen unless it had never fully healed in the first place.

But she had no right to say that out loud. Not to Mary. Not to Mamalol. Not when she was technically still just a stranger sitting at their dinner table, pretending to be part of a future she wasn’t supposed to be in.

So Mikha kept the rest of her thoughts to herself.

Everyone looked exhausted, weighed down by worry, by anger, by the kind of quiet heartbreak that settled into a home like humidity. The last thing she wanted was to add another layer to their already long, draining night.

She simply offered Mary a small, understanding smile… and let the subject drop.

Mikha let the bathroom fill with steam as she stood under the hot spray, letting the water drum against her shoulders until the tension finally began to unravel. She closed her eyes, letting herself breathe, really breathe, for the first time that entire day.

After witnessing the raw, painful rift between Aiah and her father, Mikha felt wrung out. Miguel’s remorse, Mary’s scolding, the heaviness in Aiah’s eyes… it lingered in her chest like a bruise she couldn’t rub away.

She should have been thinking about things that would calm her head. But all she could see was Aiah. Crying. That image clung to her ribs like a hand squeezing too tight.

Mikha tilted her face up to the water, hoping it would rinse the heaviness away. It didn’t.

If anything, it made her more aware.

Of how she felt when she watched Aiah walk away, shoulders trembling, looking so broken under the weight of years of expectations.
Of how she’d wanted to follow.
Of how her heart had dropped, as if someone had tugged a string attached to it.

God. Since when did she care that much?

She lathered her skin care products slowly, exfoliating, massaging, letting herself linger in the routine she rushed last night. The night before, Aiah had been banging on the door, yelling for her to hurry up. Still annoying, still impatient. Still infuriating. Still so very Aiah.

But it had been their first night sharing a room.

And Mikha had felt it… that subtle, undeniable shift. Something unspoken humming between them.

An awareness.
A spark.
A tension she refused to name.

She replayed the moment Aiah handed her food earlier, softening around her in that way she rarely admitted she was capable of. The brush of fingers too warm. The accidental eye contact too long. The way Aiah looked at her earlier at the cafe… like she was seeing her differently too.

Mikha huffed out a breath, scrubbing her face as if she could wash away the confusing thoughts.

It’s just stress, she convinced herself. It’s been a long day. That’s all.

But the truth simmered beneath the heat and steam: Something between them had changed. And it scared her just as much as it thrilled her.

Finally, she turned off the shower and pushed open the stall. Warm mist curled around her as she stepped out, feeling clean and more human again.

She reached out for a towel… Only to grab thin air.

“What? Where’s the towel?”

The rack was completely empty. Aiah’s towel was missing too. Mikha blinked, confused, then checked the nearest cabinet. Empty. Then the second. Still nothing. Even the storage box Mary once pointed out was nowhere in reach, because it was outside the bathroom.

Of course it was.

Mikha stared at her own reflection, dripping from head to toe, hair plastered to her shoulders, absolutely and unforgivably naked.

No robe. No clothes. No towel. “Great. Amazing. Love that for me.”

She paced in a circle, panic beginning to bubble.

She could wait and drip everywhere. No. She hated that.
She could call someone. Absolutely not.
She could… run. Just a quick dash. One second. Two tops.

Easy, she assured herself. Just run out, grab the towel, and run back. Like a walk in the park, Mikha. A naked walk in the—this is so stupid.

But she had no choice.

Mikha squared her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and swung the bathroom door open…

Only to slam directly into a warm, solid, moving figure.

They toppled instantly, limbs tangling, bodies crashing to the floor with a loud thud. Mikha landed on top of the figure… something soft, warm, and… definitely human…

“What the hel—” the figure gasped.

Mikha froze.

Her breath stopped.

Her heart died.

Because the person beneath her… equally naked, equally shocked… was staring back with flushed cheeks, and wide, horrified eyes.

Aiah.
Was.
Naked.

OH. GOD.