Dreena Mirafuentes had exactly three goals for the day:
1. Get her eyebrows threaded and her whole body waxed.
2. Convince her dad to sponsor a hydrafacial.
3. Destroy her brother.
Not the younger one—surprisingly. That gremlin had simply committed petty theft (a.k.a. stealing her juice) and emotional assault (a.k.a. calling her a bum), as was his daily ministry.
No, today's traitor was Drech. Eldest child. Golden boy. Savior of the sick. God complex with a surgical mask. And apparently, human spam bot.
Because Dreena had just learned—over breakfast, no less—that Drech submitted her resume to CVGH without her consent. Behind her back. Like she was some underqualified charity case. Like she hadn't crawled through twelve months of post-graduate internship, fueled by trauma, caffeine, and two functioning brain cells, only to emerge with a license and the desire to never wear scrubs again.
No. She would not let that man win.
So like any calm, rational adult, Dreena began her retaliation campaign immediately after bacon and sinangag, armed with only her phone, her sense of injustice, and the chaos that lived rent-free in her bloodstream.
Dreena: I will key your car.
Dreena: I will hack into your savings account and use it to fund my hydrafacial dreams.
Dreena: Please tell me this is a joke.
Dreena: TAKE. IT. BACK.
All left on read.
The audacity. The absolute gall.
A soft knock interrupted her dramatic spiral.
"Anak?" April called gently. "Let's go?"
Dreena spun from her vanity like she was starring in her own drama. "Mama, your son left me on read. That's emotional terrorism."
April, glowing in her pressed linen pants and clean-scrubbed face, appeared behind her in the mirror like a patron saint of serenity. Dreena would never understand how this woman had raised three absolutely unhinged children and still managed to moisturize.
"Just try, Anak," April said kindly. "If you don't pass the interview, at least you showed up."
"Mama," Dreena said, clutching her temples like she was being cursed by ancestral spirits, "if I show up, he'll take it as a win. Then he'll start submitting my resume to every ER and charity hospital in Cebu. I'll be hunted. Like a PGI intern but with even less sleep."
April chuckled like this wasn't a life-and-death situation. "He probably will."
"You should've stopped at one child," Dreena muttered.
"You were the second."
"I like to imagine I was an only child. It helps with the healing."
Dreena stood up from her chair like it required the strength of a thousand ancestors. She was a vision of reluctant elegance—denim mini skirt, crisp white button-down tucked in like she hadn't just threatened homicide in her messages. Her long wavy hair was tamed—barely—and her lashes fluttered with last week's serum. She looked expensive.
And vaguely homicidal.
But she wished she were smaller. Daintier. Five-foot-two and helpless, like her mother—who could whisper, smile, and ruin you emotionally.
April reached up and tucked a wild lock of hair behind her daughter's ear. "You're so pretty, Anak."
"I was," Dreena deadpanned. "Before internship ate my soul, digested it, and shat it out in the trauma bay."
April laughed again. "Should I be worried?"
"You should start manifesting a rich dying son-in-law, Mama. That's all I want now. A soft life. A dying husband with a trust fund. A skincare fridge."
"Where did you even get this attitude?"
"From you, obviously."
They walked down the stairs together, the image of contrast: one warm and maternal, the other vibrating with the fury of a thwarted housecat. But Dreena froze—mid-step—when her brain registered him.
Drech.
The man who left her on read was here.
Sitting on the living room couch, casually scrolling through his phone, next to a large plastic bag of what could only be their father's carefully packed baon— grilled salmon with lemon, rice in a glass container, and a note with "Stay hydrated - Papa " in it. It made her sick.
But worse—far, far worse—was the other man in the room.
Wren Cordova.
The menace. The bane of her existence. Still wearing his post-duty aura like a cologne, disheveled hair and all, lounging like he paid rent. Coffee in hand. Leg crossed like he was the main character.
"Heard you have an interview coming up?" he asked with a casual drawl that carried just enough mockery to make her fists itch.
Her stomach twisted. Not from shock—God forbid—but because the universe had a sick sense of humor. Of all days to sit on her living room, Wren Cordova had chosen today.
She walked right past the couch without a glance. She refused to acknowledge the betrayal of her mom kissing Drech on the cheek like he hadn't just sold her career autonomy to the gods of underpaid hospital labor.
Her sandals clacked aggressively against the tile floor.
Outside, in the garage, her second least favorite man awaited.
Dreven.
He was slouched in the driver's seat, muttering to himself as she approached.
"Look at her," he said, not even hiding his commentary. "Snail on benzodiazepines. Pure drama."
"Open the door," Dreena snapped.
"What happened to using your hands? Do we need to amputate them so you have an excuse not to work?"
"I had my nails done last week, thank you," she said sweetly. "Try again next month."
She yanked the back door open herself and slid in with the grace of a woman who had clearly had enough.
"I'm not your driver," Dreven grumbled.
"No. You're worse. You're a hazard with a license."
"I'll crash this car."
"Please do," she said. "Maybe I'll miss the interview. Maybe I'll sue you. Win emotional damages. Buy a vineyard in Italy."
April slid into the passenger seat, her presence still somehow smelling like baby powder and competence.
"Let's go, Anak?" she said, cheerful as a summer morning.
"Mama," Dreven whined. "I'm not your driver."
"No, you're not," April replied, patting his shoulder. "You're my baby who will drive us around today."
"I'm supposed to be your favorite," he mumbled.
From the backseat, Dreena leaned her head against the window, watching the trees pass. The morning sun was mocking her. The blue sky was mocking her. Every tricycle and taho vendor they passed was probably in on it.
The betrayal. The sabotage. The Wren Cordova of it all.
She considered her options.
Fake dengue? Move to Bukidnon and start a goat farm? Join a cult that forbids hospitals?
But for now—it was salon day.
Her legs would be waxed. Her eyebrows would be snatched. Her pores would breathe again.
Her Mama was beside her. Dreven was her unpaid chauffeur. Her hair was still dry. Her lashes were intact.
And for now—for just one small, fleeting moment—Dreena Mirafuentes was at peace.
Until someone brought up the interview again. Then she'd snap. Or worse—cry in public. And that, truly, would be the end of her.