The private room’s air is a mix of cigarette, whiskey, and strong perfumes of Jhoanna and Colet. Mikha sits at the center of the leather couch, legs spread, one arm draped across the backrest, a glass of whiskey in her hand. She swirls the amber liquid once, watching it catch the dim light. Neat. Always neat. She takes a long sip, and the burn on the way down is the only thing that feels real tonight.

"—so I told her, if she wants the distribution deal, she should learn to smile first." Colet's voice cuts through the haze. She's sitting on the single sofa across from Mikha, her elbows resting on her knees.

Jhoanna snorts from the other single sofa, beside Colet. Her legs crossed. She adjusts her eyeglasses with one finger, pushing them up the bridge of her nose. "You didn't."

"I did." Colet shrugs, reaching for the cigar resting in the ashtray. She takes a slow drag, and exhales a stream of smoke that curls lazily upwards. "She smiled. We signed."

"That's so retard of you."

"That's business."

Mikha watches them from her spot on the couch. She's been quiet since she walked in, and Jhoanna and Colet has been filling the silence with random stories.

They're good at this. The not-asking. The letting her sit in whatever mood she walked in with until she's ready to speak.

She takes another sip of whiskey, letting it sit on her tongue before swallowing. The glass feels heavy in her hand. Everything feels heavy tonight.

She turns her gaze to the wall bar behind her friends. Their favorite liquors lined up pefectly. This room is theirs—the private corner of the club they’ve built together three years ago. It was Mikha’s idea, born from a night of too much alcohol and a shared hatred of being told what to do. Jhoanna handles the connections, Colet the logistics, and Mikha the money—her own money, money her parents don’t know she has.

She thinks about that now, the weight of it settling in her chest. Her father’s voice echoes in her head, cold and final: I will burn them all down until you're left with nothing.

Her jaw tightens. She swallows the rest of her whiskey in one go, the burn sharp and immediate.

She sets the glass down with a clink that cuts through the banter of her friends.

"I'm getting married."

Silence.

Jhoanna's glass pauses halfway to her lips. Colet stops mid-sentence, her cigar hovering in the air.

"In three months," Mikha adds, because the silence needs filling and she's never been good at letting things hang.

Jhoanna recovers first, setting her glass down with exaggerated care. "To whom?"

Mikha stares at the bar wall. "Aiah Arceta."

Silence again. Then Colet laughs, disbelieving. Jhoanna follows, a breathless chuckle that turns into a full laugh, her head tipping back against the couch.

"Aiah Arceta," Jhoanna repeats. "The Aiah Arceta. The one who runs Arceta Corporation like a well-oiled machine. The one who never has a hair out of place. The one who—" She gestures vaguely at Mikha. "—is basically your polar opposite in every conceivable way."

"I know who she is," Mikha says, her voice flat.

Colet’s lips curve into a slow, wry smile. "The elegant, composed, untouchable Aiah Arceta. The one who probably has a color-coded calendar and a five-year plan." She picks up her cigar again, taking a deliberate drag. "And you’re marrying her."

"Apparently."

Jhoanna laughs again. "Mikha, no offense, but Aiah is not exactly the type to marry someone like you. She’s the type to marry a senator’s son or a tech billionaire. She’s the type to have a wedding featured in a magazine spread." She pauses, tilting her head. "She’s the type who would run the other way if she saw you coming."

"And yet." Mikha swirls her whiskey, watching the liquid catch the light. "Here we are."

Colet studies her for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What’s the catch?"

"There’s no catch."

"There always is. You don’t just decide to marry Aiah out of nowhere. What happened?"

Mikha picks up her glass again, takes a long swallow. "My parents blindsided me. Brought me to the estate, had the document ready, made me sign."

Colet's eyebrow arches. "They can't make you sign anything."

"They can when they threaten to burn down everything I've built."

That quiets both of them.

"This club?" Jhoanna asks, her voice dropping.

Mikha shakes her head. "No. My personal investments. The ones they don't know about. He said he'd destroy them if I didn't sign." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "So I signed."

"Fucking hell," Colet curses under her breath.

Jhoanna just stares at her, something unreadable moving behind her glasses.

"And Aiah?" Jhoanna asks carefully. "She just... agreed?"

"She was there. Sitting in the office like she was waiting for a quarterly report. Didn't flinch when I burst out." Mikha's jaw tightens at the memory. "Just sat there with that calm face, like she'd already decided how this was going to go."

She doesn't tell them about the whisper. The promise she'd leaned in and breathed against Aiah's ear. She doesn't tell them because she knows what they'll say. She knows they'll try to talk her out of it, try to make her see reason, try to protect her from herself.

She doesn't want to be protected.

"You hate her," Colet says.

"I don't know her," Mikha says. "But I know what this is. A leash. A cage. My parents' last attempt to control me."

"So you're just going to... go along with it?" Jhoanna asks.

Mikha smiles, slow and sharp. She doesn't answer.

Colet and Jhoanna exchange a look. Mikha sees it. She doesn't care.

"When's the wedding?" Jhoanna asks, her voice carefully neutral.

"Two and a half months."

They both laugh again, but it's different this time — strained, the sound of people who can't quite fit the shape of what they're hearing.

"Tangina. You really are gonna get married," Colet says, shaking her head.

"To Aiah Arceta," Jhoanna adds. "The most unreachable woman in Manila."

"The opposite of Mikha," Colet says, teasing. "The calm to her chaos. The order to her..."

"Finish that sentence and I'll have you banned from your own club."

Colet grins. "You can't ban me. I own half of it."

"I'll ban you from the good whiskey."

"You wouldn't."

Mikha raises her glass. "Try me."

Jhoanna laughs, the tension finally breaking. "Okay, okay. So we're planning a wedding, then." She leans forward, elbows on her knees, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I'm thinking maybe a deep blue tailored suit to match your eyes."

"My eyes are brown."

"I don't care." Jhoanna waves a hand. "I'll wear something that makes Stacey choke on her drink."

Mikha rolls her eyes. "You're not coming."

"I'm absolutely coming. I'm your best friend. I'm walking you down the aisle."

"I'll walk myself."

"That's not how weddings work."

"This isn't a real wedding."

The words hang in the air, heavier than Mikha meant them to be. Jhoanna's smile softens. Colet looks away, studying the label on the whiskey bottle like it holds the answer to a question she's not ready to ask.

"Well," Colet says finally, her voice gentle in a way that's almost worse than the teasing. "I'll ask Maloi if there will be a wedding prep."

Jhoanna snorts. "You just want an excuse to talk to her. Galawan mo."

"I want an excuse to watch her face when I ask." Colet's smile is sharp. "It's satisfying, watching her annoyed."

"You two are impossible." Jhoanna shakes her head, then turns back to Mikha. "Seriously though. Don't hurt her."

The words land soft, but they land hard. Mikha's hand stills on her glass.

"Aiah," Jhoanna clarifies. "I know you're angry. I know you didn't choose this. But she's not the enemy. She's just..." She searches for the word. "She's just a person caught in the same trap as you."

Mikha doesn't answer. She thinks about Jhoanna and Stacey — how close they were back in college, how Jhoanna still gets that flicker in her eye whenever Stacey's name comes up, how she's never once asked about her since the breakup even though everyone knows she still loves her.

She doesn't care about that. She doesn't care about any of it. She'll do what she wants, and what she wants is to make Aiah regret ever signing that document.

"I'll be fine," she says, and it's not a lie because she's always been fine, always landed on her feet, always found a way to burn the bridge behind her before anyone could follow.

Colet and Jhoanna exchange another look. This one is longer. Heavier.

Then Colet leans back on her seat, stretching. "Well. If you're getting married, I'm going to need a speech."

Jhoanna nods. "Yup. Same."

Mikha rolls her eyes. "You're not giving a speech."

Colet smirks. "I will. May naisip na nga ako eh. ‘To the couple who proves that opposites don’t just attract—they collide.’”

Jhoanna snorts. "I’m going with something simpler. 'To Mikha, who finally found someone who can out-stubborn her.'"

Colet chuckles. "Mikhs, I'm going to talk about our highschool days, how you stole my car keys at that party, how you—"

"I'm leaving." Mikha stands, grabbing her wallet on the table.

"Already?" Jhoanna asks.

"I have a penthouse to drink in."

Colet snorts. "Drive safe. Don't collect any more speeding tickets."

"I'll collect as many as I want."

"And I'll pay them off when you get caught," Jhoanna calls after her. "That's what best friends are for!"

Mikha doesn't look back. She walks out of the private room, down the corridor, past the bouncer who nods at her like she's the owner — because she is, even if no one outside this building knows it. The bass grows louder as she passes the main floor, bodies pressed together under strobe lights, laughter and sweat and the desperate need to feel something.

She understands them. She's just better at hiding it.

The night air hits her face. She keys the ignition of her car, a black Mercedes-Benz AMG G63 that purrs to life under her hands. The city sprawls around her, and she pulls into it without checking her mirrors.

A red light flashes in front of her. She runs it. A car honks somewhere behind her, angry and distant. She doesn’t care.

She drives fast. Reckless. The way she does everything.

The speedometer climbs. 80. 100. 120. The streets blur past, and for a moment, she can almost pretend she's not thinking about Aiah's calm face, her steady hands, the way she'd looked at Mikha as if she was a puzzle she was already solving.

She hates that look. She hates the confidence behind it. She hates that Aiah walked into that office and didn't flinch, didn't waver, didn't give her anything to work with.

She's going to make her flinch. She's going to make her break. She's going to push until Aiah cracks and crawls to her with divorce papers in hand, and then she'll sign them, and she'll walk away, and her parents will have wasted their last card for nothing.

The thought tastes almost as good as the whiskey.

She smiles. It's not a kind smile.

She can't wait.