The drive to Tagaytay takes longer than Aiah expects, the city giving way to rolling greens and cooler air as the car climbs. She watches the scenery blur past her window, the folded document heavy in her bag, and she thinks about how strange it is to be traveling toward a woman she's only ever seen in headlines.

Her parents' car pulls in beside hers, the driver opening the door for them with practiced ease. Aiah steps out, heels clicking against the stone driveway, and she stops.

The Lim estate rises before her. It's bigger than the Arceta mansion in Quezon City, all glass and modern lines against the Tagaytay skyline. The air is cold here, and she likes the breeze against her face.

Her mother links her arm through hers as they walk toward the entrance. "Beautiful house, isn't it?" Carmen says softly, but her grip is tighter than it needs to be.

"It's nice," Aiah answers, and she lets her mother hold on as they climb the wide stone stairs together.

The double doors open before they reach the top, and a woman with kind eyes and silver-streaked hair steps forward with both hands extended. Mrs. Hazel Lim moves like someone who has hosted a thousand events, all warmth and practiced grace, and she greets Aiah's parents like old friends catching up after years apart.

Then she turns to Aiah, and her smile softens into something genuine. "Aiah. My goodness, you've grown into such a beautiful woman." She pulls Aiah into a hug. "Thank you for coming. For agreeing to this."

Aiah hugs her back, returns her smile. "Thank you for having me, Tita."

Mr. Hubert Lim shakes her hand with both of his, his grip warm and steady. He's a distinguished man, grayish hair combed back, eyes that hold decades of business negotiations, but when he looks at Aiah, there's a gentleness there she didn't expect. "We're grateful, Aiah. More than you know."

She nods, says nothing, and at the back of her mind, she wonders why Mikha makes chaos when her parents are this nice. These are not monsters. These are people who look tired, who look like they've been fighting a battle they can't win, and they've called Aiah in as reinforcements.

They walk inside, and the main hall swallows them whole. Aiah's heels echo against the marbled floor as they make their way upstairs, toward Hubert's office.

The staircase is lined with frames. Family pictures, mostly. Aiah's eyes catch on a large wedding photo, the oldest child, Michael, grinning at the camera with his bride on his arm. And there, standing at the edge of the frame, is Mikha.

Dark brown tailored suit. Red hair slicked back. Face unreadable, like she's not sure why she's in the photo at all.

Aiah looks at that face longer than she means to. There's something there, in the set of Mikha's jaw, in the way she stands slightly apart from everyone else. As if she's already left the room even though she's standing in it.

"Aiah?" Her mother's voice pulls her forward. "Come, let's sit."

The office is warm, wood-paneled, lined with more frames. Hazel orders softly for tea and desserts, and helpers move, quiet and efficient. Aiah settles into a leather chair beside her parents, and she looks around while the adults make small talk.

More family pictures. More moments frozen in glass. And on the wall behind Hubert, three graduation photos in large frames. The first is Michael, smiling wide, cap tilted at a jaunty angle. The last is Milan, the youngest, beaming with the same energy. And in the middle, Mikha.

No smile. Nothing. Just a face staring at the camera like it owes her money.

Hubert clears his throat, and Aiah turns her attention to him. He looks at her with those tired eyes, and she sees the weight of years in them. "Aiah," he starts, voice soft, careful. "I want to be honest with you about why we asked for this marriage."

She nods, waits.

"Mikha is... difficult." He says it as if the word costs him something. "We've tried everything, Aiah. Therapists, interventions, cutting her off, bringing her back in. Nothing works. She just gets worse."

Hazel reaches over and places a hand on her husband's arm. "We've watched her destroy herself," she says quietly. "And we can't watch it anymore. We thought... maybe she'll grow up if she has someone steady. Someone who wouldn't give up on her."

Aiah listens. She keeps her face soft, understanding. She doesn't say anything, because what is there to say? She's here. She's already agreed. Her word is her word.

"We know this isn't fair to you," Hubert adds, his voice cracks a little. "We know you're sacrificing your own happiness for this. And we're so thankful, Aiah. More than we can say."

She gives them a soft smile. "I understand," she says. And she does, in a way. She understands what it is to carry the weight of a family's expectations. She understands what it is to do something you don't want to do because the people you love need you to.

The door bursts open.

Aiah turns her head, and there she is.

Mikha looks like she just rolled out of bed. Or maybe like she never made it to bed at all. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, strands falling loose around her face. She's wearing a white shirt that hangs off her frame and black sweatpants.

She plops down on the couch at the far end of the room, long legs stretched out, and she doesn't greet anyone. Doesn't even look at them.

Hazel's voice tightens. "Mikha. Be respectful. We have guests."

Mikha snorts. Then she looks at them, all of them, with flat, dead eyes, and gives a single, sarcastic nod. "Respectful," she repeats. "Happy?"

Aiah watches her. Watches the way Mikha's jaw works, the way her fingers drum against her thigh, the way she looks already bored of this conversation before it's even started.

"Why am I here?" Mikha asks, her voice is low, rough, like she's been yelling or smoking or both. "You know I don't care about the company. I don't care about any of this." She gestures vaguely at the room, at the frames on the wall, at her parents' faces.

Hubert sighs. It's a heavy sound, full of years of this exact conversation. "You're here, Mikha, because we have something to tell you. Something that's already been decided."

Mikha's eyes narrow. "Decided?"

"You're getting married," Hubert says. "In three months."

The room goes still.

Aiah watches Mikha's head snap up, watches the shock flicker across her face for a second, there and gone. Then she laughs. Loud, sharp, completely devoid of humor. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"You can't do this," Mikha says, her voice is rising now, the boredom gone. "You can't just—you don't get to decide who I—"

Hubert raises the marriage document, and Mikha stops mid-sentence.

"If you don't agree to this," Hubert says, his voice is calm, professional, and utterly unyielding, "I will hire a private investigator to trace every single one of your secret personal investments. And I will burn them all down until you're left with nothing."

The words land.

Aiah sees it. Sees the way Mikha's whole body goes rigid, the way her hands curl into fists at her sides. She sees the calculation happening behind those dark eyes, the rapid reassessment of the situation.

Because everyone in this room knows that Mikha's personal money is the only thing she has. The only thing that's truly hers that her parents can't touch. It's her safety net, her backup plan, the reason she can cause chaos without fear of consequences. And Hubert is holding it over her head.

"You wouldn't," Mikha says, her voice is low, dangerous.

"Try me."

Mikha snaps.

"You don't fucking get to do this to me!" she shouts. "You don't have the right to control my life like this! You sent me to therapists like I was broken, you cut me off like I was a liability, and now you want to marry me off like I'm some kind of—"

"You are a liability," Hubert says, his voice is ice. "You've sabotaged this company more times than I can count. You've embarrassed this family in front of the entire country. You've given us no reason to trust you, no reason to believe you'll ever be anything but a burden."

Mikha's face goes white.

She grabs the nearest tea mug and throws it at the wall.

It shatters, ceramic and tea splattering across the wood paneling, the sound echoes through the room like a gunshot. Hazel cries out, silent tears streaming down her face as she reaches for her daughter. "Mikha, please—"

"Don't touch me!" Mikha snarls. She backs away from her mother's outstretched hands.

Aiah watches.

She watches Hazel cry, watches Hubert's jaw tighten, watches Mikha breathe hard, chest heaving, eyes wild. She feels her parents shift beside her, feels the second-guessing radiating off of them. She knows what they're thinking. They're thinking they made a mistake. They're thinking they shouldn't have brought up about the proposal. They're thinking they shouldn't have brought her here.

But Aiah doesn't care anymore. She gave her word. She'll stick to it.

Mikha's head snaps toward her, and those dark eyes lock onto Aiah. "You," she says, her voice a venom. "This is your idea, isn't it? You and your family, circling like vultures, waiting for a chance to—"

Aiah chuckles. Soft, barely there, but it cuts through Mikha's rage.

Mikha stops, blinks. "What the fuck are you laughing at?"

"I didn't come here to steal anything from you," Aiah says, her laugh dying down into that calm, measured voice she uses in board meetings when someone's about to make a mistake. "I came here because your parents asked me to. Because they're scared. Because they love you and they don't know what else to do."

Mikha's eyes narrow. "I don't fucking trust you—"

"Me neither," Aiah interrupts. "But I'm here because I gave my word, and I don't break my word."

Mikha's jaw tightens.

Aiah tilts her head, her gaze never leaving Mikha. "You have a choice right now. You can sign that paper and keep your investments. Or you can refuse, and your father will burn everything you've built to the ground." She shurgs. "That's not a threat. That's just math."

Mikha holds Aiah's gaze for a long moment. Then she laughs, but it's a different laugh this time. Quieter. More dangerous. "You think you're so smart, don't you?"

"I think I'm honest."

Hubert clears his throat. "Mikha. Choose." He holds out the pen. "Aiah has already signed."

Mikha's eyes flick to the document, then back to Aiah. She breathes hard, thinking, and Aiah watches the war happening behind her face. The calculation. The rage. The grudging, furious acceptance that she doesn't have a choice.

Then Mikha walks close. Close enough that Aiah can smell her, powdery scent perfume—a contrast to her whole being. She leans down, her mouth brushing Aiah's ear, and her voice is a low, dangerous whisper.

"I'm going to make you regret this," she says. "I'm going to make your life a living hell. And when I'm done, you're going to wish you never signed that paper."

Aiah doesn't flinch.

She just smirks.

"Good luck with that," she says, quiet enough that only Mikha hears it.

Mikha's eyes hardens. She grabs the pen from her father's hand, scrawls her signature across the document with more force than necessary, and throws the pen down.

Then she turns and walks out of the room, closing the door hard enough to rattle the frames on the wall.

The silence she leaves behind is deafening.

Hazel wipes her eyes, tries to compose herself. "Aiah, I'm so sorry. She's not—she's not usually—"

Aiah looks at her and sees the lie in Hazel's eyes. Mikha is exactly like this. All the time. That's the whole point.

"It's okay, Tita," Aiah says, her voice soft. "I knew what I was signing up for."

She looks at the document on the desk. Two signatures. A merger. A marriage. A woman who just promised to make her life a living hell.

And Aiah thinks about the way Mikha's hands shook when she signed.

Interesting.