The private room hums with low music from the speakers, the crimson light casting long shadows across the leather couches. Mikha lounges in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey resting on her knee. She's been nursing the same drink for an hour, which Jhoanna has pointed out exactly three times.

"You know that's not a prop, right?" Jhoanna says from across the room, sprawled on the couch with her feet up on the armrest. "You can actually drink it."

Mikha lifts the glass, swirls the amber liquid, and sets it back down without taking a sip. "Aiah said not to drink too much."

"Since when do you listen to anyone?" Colet asks from the corner where she's been reorganizing the bottles on the mini-bar, lining them up by height, then by label, then by height again.

"Since Aiah." Mikha doesn't even try to hide the smile that pulls at her mouth.

Jhoanna groans, throwing her head back against the cushion. "This is so boring. I miss when you used to be fun. You know, chaos, destruction, mild property damage."

"I still cause property damage." Mikha takes a small sip, just to wet her lips. "Just not the kind that makes headlines."

Colet snorts, a rare sound from her. She's moved on from the bottles and is now wiping down the counter with a cloth she found somewhere. "The kind that makes Aiah happy, you mean."

"Same thing."

Jhoanna sits up, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to her chest. "Speaking of things that make people happy—" She turns to Colet with a grin that's sharp enough to cut glass. "I saw you last month. Restaurant. You and a certain someone."

Colet's hand pauses mid-wipe. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maloi. Aiah's best friend. My friend. Mikha's friend now. Your rival label's owner. You two were having dinner like you were—" Jhoanna wiggles her eyebrows, "—old friends. Or something more."

Mikha leans forward, suddenly very interested. "Wait, what? You and Maloi?"

"We were talking about business." Colet's voice is flat, but Mikha catches the way her jaw tightens. "She had a proposal about a joint event. It made sense for both labels."

"Your labels are rivals," Jhoanna points out. "You literally compete for the same artists."

"Which is why a joint event makes sense. We share the risk, we share the profit, we introduce our audiences to each other." Colet finally puts the cloth down and turns to face them. "It's called strategy, Jho. You should look it up."

"Oh, I know what strategy is." Jhoanna's grin widens. "I also know what it looks like when two people are having a date and don't want to call it that."

Colet rolls her eyes. "You should focus on how you're going to get Stacey back instead of being nosy about other people's business."

The pillow in Jhoanna's arms suddenly gets a death grip. "I'm not trying to get Stacey back."

"Right." Colet picks up the cloth again, folding it into a perfect square. "And I had dinner with Maloi because I love her label's marketing strategy."

"I hate you."

Mikha laughs. It's been a while since she's just sat with her friends like this, the easy rhythm of their bickering washing over her. Jhoanna sticks her tongue out at Colet, and Colet ignores her with the practiced patience of someone who's known her for twenty years.

Jhoanna turns to Mikha, ready to redirect her teasing. "And you. Down bad for your wife."

Mikha doesn't deny it. She doesn't even try. Her smile goes soft, almost involuntarily, the way it always does when Aiah crosses her mind.

"Oh my God," Jhoanna says, horrified and delighted. "You're smiling like a lovesick idiot."

"Don't care." Mikha takes another sip of whiskey. "I'm happy."

"It's no fun teasing her anymore," Jhoanna complains. "She just sits there and smiles like she's got a secret."

"She does have a secret," Colet says. "It's called a wife."

Mikha laughs again, settling deeper into the couch. The whiskey is warm in her chest, but it's not the alcohol making her feel light. It's the thought of going home, of finding Aiah in their bed, of falling asleep with her arms around her.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out, expecting Aiah, but the name on the screen makes her straighten.

Randy.

Randy is the only person in Lim Holdings she trusts. He's the one who gives her insights about the people who want to ruin the company, the ones doing sketchy things behind her parents' backs. He's saved her more times than she can count, and he's never been wrong.

The message is simple: how are you?

Mikha frowns. Randy doesn't send casual messages. He's a man of few words, and those words are always about business.

She types back: I'm good. What's up?

The reply comes almost instantly. Nothing. Just checking up on you. How's the married life, boss?

Mikha smiles, the tension in her shoulders easing. She types back, Happiest than I've ever been. Lol.

That's good to know.

Mikha hesitates. Something about the conversation feels off, but she can't put her finger on it. She types: Is everything alright in the company though?

There's a pause. Longer than usual. Then: I'm still looking into it. I want to triple check it before I tell you.

Mikha's brows knit together. Randy usually confirms things the first time, and he's always right. If he's still looking into something, it means it's serious.

She wants to push. She wants to ask what he's looking into, why he's being so vague, what could possibly be so important that he can't just tell her. But she trusts Randy. He's never given her a reason to doubt him.

She types: Okay.

She locks her phone and puts it back in her pocket, but the unease lingers. Jhoanna is saying something about Colet's new artist, and Colet is rolling her eyes, and the music is still playing, but Mikha's mind is elsewhere.

"Hey." Jhoanna's voice cuts through. "You okay? You look like someone killed your cactus plant."

Mikha blinks. "I don't have a cactus plant."

"That's not the point."

"I'm fine." Mikha forces a smile. "Just work stuff. Randy's being cryptic."

Colet raises an eyebrow. "Since when does Randy get cryptic?"

"Since now, apparently." Mikha takes a bigger sip of whiskey, letting it burn down her throat. "He'll tell me when he's ready. He always does."

Jhoanna and Colet exchange a look, but they don't push. That's the thing about her friends—they know when to leave it alone.

The conversation drifts to other things. Jhoanna talks about a story her newsroom is chasing, a politician who's been embezzling funds from a typhoon relief program. Colet talks about an artist who's being difficult about their album rollout. Mikha listens, nods, contributes a joke here and there, but her mind keeps drifting back to Randy's message.

Another buzz. This time it's Aiah.

Did you bring a key?

Mikha's whole face softens. She types back: yes, my love.

Okay. Because I already locked the door.

You're not gonna open the door for me? 🥺

I'm too comfortable here, love.

A pause. Then a photo comes through.

Mikha's breath catches.

The photo is dimly lit, the light low and warm. Aiah is in the bathtub—Mikha can tell from the angle, the edge of the tub visible at the bottom of the frame. No face, only a knee just visible above the bubble bath, the skin smooth and glowing in the soft light. A glass of red wine sits at the edge of the tub, and the bubbles are high, covering everything except that one knee.

It's the most provocative thing Aiah has ever sent her.

Mikha stares at the photo, her thumb hovering over the screen. Her heart is pounding. She can feel the heat rising in her chest, the sudden, fierce need to be home, to be in that bathroom, to be in that tub with her.

She locks her phone. Stands up.

"Where are you going?" Jhoanna asks, startled.

"Home." Mikha's already grabbing her jacket. "I miss my wife."

"You literally just got here two hours ago."

"Two hours is too long." Mikha shrugs on the jacket, pockets her phone.

Jhoanna and Colet call out their goodbyes, teasing her about being whipped, about how she's not even trying to hide it anymore. Mikha doesn't care. She's already out the door, already walking through the club, already thinking about the drive home.

The night air hits her face. She gets in her car, starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot. Her foot wants to press the gas pedal to the floor, wants to fly through the streets of Manila, wants to be home in ten minutes instead of thirty.

But Aiah told her to always drive safely.

So she drives carefully. She keeps both hands on the wheel. She obeys the speed limit, even when it feels like her chest is going to burst with the need to be home.

The city lights blur past her window. She thinks about the photo again, about the knee, about the bubbles, about the wine. She thinks about how Aiah is waiting for her, naked in their bathtub, and the thought makes her grip the wheel tighter.

When she finally pulls into the driveway, she doesn't bother parking in the garage. She leaves the car in the drive, kills the engine, and practically runs to the front door.

She unlocks it with her key, steps inside, and the house is quiet. Dark. The only light is a soft glow from the living room lamp that Aiah leaves every time Mikha went out and goes home late.

Mikha kicks off her shoes, pads down the living area, and pushes the bedroom door open.

Aiah is in bed, under the covers, her eyes closed. She looks peaceful, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her breathing slow and even.

Mikha smiles. Of course. Of course Aiah would send that photo and then be asleep by the time she got home. It's such an Aiah thing to do—tease her, wind her up, and then leave her to deal with the consequences alone.

She walks to the bed, leans down, and presses a kiss to Aiah's forehead. Aiah stirs slightly, a small sound escaping her lips, but she doesn't wake.

Mikha chuckles softly. "You're lucky you're cute," she whispers.