Chapter Text
Aiah Arceta had learned, over the years, that weddings were less about romance and more about logistics. Guest counts. Floral palettes. Seating charts that somehow caused international incidents. Family politics disguised as “suggestions.” Cake tastings that became debates about fondant integrity. None of it felt like the movies. None of it felt particularly magical. And yet here she was, sitting in one of the most expensive private dining rooms in Manila, trying very hard not to remove her heels under the table while her fiancée discussed linen textures with terrifying sincerity.
“Champagne ivory,” Jhoanna said decisively, pointing at a sample booklet. “Not pearl. Pearl looks cold.”
The event coordinator nodded like this was a matter of national significance.
“Excellent choice.”
Aiah smiled faintly into her water glass. Jhoanna glanced at her.
“Bubby, that was a judgment smile.”
“It was not.”
“It absolutely was.”
“I was admiring your passion for tablecloths.”
Jhoanna gasped dramatically.
“These are linens.”
“Right. My mistake.”
Jhoannna laughed, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. The gesture was familiar now. Comfortable. Warm in the way of habits built over time.
“Bored?” Jho asked.
“Only spiritually.”
“Liar. You love this.”
“I love you. This is different bub.”
“Smooth.”
Aiah smiled despite herself. Jho was easy to love. That had always been true. Not in the dramatic, all-consuming way songs talked about. Not in the dizzying, can’t-eat-can’t-sleep sort of way. Jhoanna was steadier than that. She was thoughtful. Reliable. Kind in quiet ways that didn’t demand applause. After years of instability and disappointment and grief, Aiah had come to understand the appeal of peace.
Safe love had its own kind of beauty. Even if sometimes safe felt suspiciously similar to silence.
The private events room was stunning in a way that made Aiah hyperaware of her own breathing. Soft amber light. Towering white floral installations. A polished oak tasting table dressed in immaculate linen. The faint scent of butter and citrus drifting from somewhere beyond the kitchen. Expensive, understated luxury. Jho looked perfectly suited to it. Tailored cream slacks. Minimal gold jewelry. Hair immaculate. The kind of effortless elegance Aiah had always envied and admired.
“Tonight’s going to be incredible,” Jho said, flipping another page in the tasting packet. “I can feel it.”
Aiah hummed.
“You say that about every tasting.”
“Yes, but this one’s different.”
“Because?”
Jho looked at her like the answer was obvious.
“Because I got her.”
Aiah frowned.
“Who?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes?”
“Chef Janna.”
Aiah stared. The coordinator visibly brightened.
“Oh, yes. We’re extremely honored to be collaborating with Chef Janna’s group.”
The name meant nothing for half a second. Then Jho continued—
“Chef Janna barely accepts private events anymore.”
And something in Aiah’s chest shifted.
“Chef... Janna?”
Leanne laughed.
“Bubby. Please don’t tell me you don’t know Chef Janna.”
“I clearly do not.”
“Multiple Michelin stars? International features? Culinary awards? She’s huge.”
The coordinator nodded enthusiastically.
“Chef Janna’s restaurants have locations in Paris, Singapore, Tokyo—”
Aiah reached for the tasting packet mostly to have something to do. Then she saw the name.
Chef Mikhaela Janna Lim Culinary Group
Everything inside her went very still.
No.
No.
Absolutely not.
There had to be other Mikhaela Janna Lims.
That was statistically possible.
Probably.
Maybe.
Jho kept talking.
“I cannot believe she accepted our event.”
Aiah looked up too fast.
“Our event?”
“Yes?”
“No—I mean, accepted personally?”
The coordinator smiled.
“Chef personally requested oversight.”
The room seemed to tilt very slightly.
“What?”
“Chef prefers milestone events when scheduling permits.”
Milestone.
Wedding.
Aiah’s wedding.
No.
Impossible.
Ten years changed people.
Ten years built entirely different lives.
Ten years should be enough to make coincidence harmless.
Should.
Jho frowned.
“Bubby?”
Aiah forced herself upright.
“What?”
“You look weird.”
“I’m fine.”
A lie.
The coordinator continued with polished enthusiasm.
“We’ve prepared an eight-course tasting reflecting your wedding brief.”
Leanne visibly lit up.
“Perfect.”
“Modern Asian-European progression,” the coordinator continued. “With emotional storytelling elements.”
Emotional storytelling. Aiah nearly laughed. Because apparently food now had narrative arcs. Jho looked delighted.
“That sounds amazing.”
Aiah looked back down at the printed name.
Chef Mikhaela Janna Lim
Memory arrived uninvited. Flour on dark red hair. Burned toast. A girl laughing in a tiny apartment kitchen. A voice saying—
Don’t call me Janna. That sounds like someone who wears expensive perfume and judges people.
Aiah had laughed.
What do I call you then?
Mikha.
Her stomach dropped.
No.
No, no, no.
The kitchen doors opened. And suddenly there she was. White chef’s coat. Black tailored trousers. Red hair tied neatly back. Older. Sharper. Controlled in a way twenty-year-old Mikha never had been. The room changed around her. Or maybe Aiah did. Because the second she saw her—
everything collapsed.
Ten years disappeared.
College disappeared.
Logic disappeared.
Mikhaela Janna Lim.
Chef Janna.
Mikha.
Not memory.
Not possibility.
Her.
Aiah forgot how breathing worked. Jho stood immediately, smiling.
“Finally.”
The coordinator moved forward.
“Chef.”
Mikha glanced toward the table. Stopped. Only for a second. Half a second. Most people would miss it. Aiah didn’t. Shock. Recognition. Then something colder. A mask dropping neatly into place. Professional composure rebuilt in real time. And somehow that hurt more than if Mikha had looked angry. She approached the table with impossible calm. God.
She looked unfairly good.
Not youthful. Not softer. Just devastatingly self-possessed.
“Good evening,” she said.
The voice was lower now. Smoother. Still instantly recognizable. Jho beamed.
“Chef Janna, this is such an honor.”
Mikha offered a polite nod.
“Thank you.”
The coordinator gestured.
“Ms. Jhoanna Robles.”
Jho extended a hand. Mikha shook it. Controlled. Polished. Professional. Then—
“And her fiancée, Ms. Aiah Arceta.”
Silence.
Tiny.
Lethal.
Mikha turned fully. Their eyes met properly. And Aiah was twenty again. Library dates. Shared notes. Street food after exams. Rain. Cheap ramen. Kisses against kitchen counters. Promises made like forever was guaranteed. Then the silence after everything broke. Mikha extended her hand. Like a stranger.
“Ms. Arceta.”
The formal address hit harder than expected. Aiah stared at the offered hand. Warm memories colliding violently with cold reality. Then she took it. Warm. Still warm. Which felt deeply offensive somehow.\
“Chef.”
Mikha released her first. No flicker of softness. No visible crack. Nothing. Jho sat, blissfully unaware of the emotional nuclear fallout happening beside her.
“This is surreal,” she said brightly. “I’ve followed your work forever.”
“How kind.”
Forever. Aiah wanted to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both. Jho looked at the tasting notes.
“I still remember your Bon Appétit feature.”
“Bub,” Aiah muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Jho grinned.
“I’m allowed to fangirl.”
The coordinator stepped smoothly back into hosting mode.
“Shall we begin?”
Mikha nodded once.
“Yes.”
That one word did something unpleasant to Aiah’s pulse. Staff appeared almost immediately. Silent. Precise. The choreography of expensive dining. Everything about the evening was elegant. Controlled. Measured. Like no one in this room had ever had their heart broken over instant noodles and missed phone calls. Jho leaned closer to Aiah.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Aiah kept her eyes on the table.
“Fine.”
“You’re pale.”
“Wedding stress.”
Jho squeezed her knee beneath the table.
“After this, drinks?”
“Please.”
The first server approached carrying a delicate porcelain plate. Small. Intricate. Beautiful. Aiah barely looked at it. Because Mikha was speaking.
“Thank you for trusting us with your event.”
Professional. Smooth. Like they had never loved each other. Like Aiah had imagined every memory. Jho smiled warmly.
“We’re thrilled you accepted.”
Something unreadable crossed Mikha’s face. Gone immediately.
“Our team is honored.”
Our team.
Distance. Precision. Corporate neutrality. Aiah hated all of it. The event coordinator chimed in.
“Chef believes menus should tell stories.”
Mikha’s gaze moved briefly to Aiah. Then away.
“Good stories deserve thoughtful endings.”
Something cold moved down Aiah’s spine. Was that intentional? No. She was projecting. Absolutely projecting. Jho leaned forward excitedly.
“That’s exactly what I wanted.”
Of course she did. The first course was set down. Golden. Elegant. Intricate. And the second Aiah actually looked—
her blood ran cold.
Because nestled beautifully in porcelain—
was ramen.