Tuesday.
The day her life would either end in flames or become significantly more annoying.
They were parked in front of CVGH a full hour before her scheduled interview—an act of over-preparation forcibly orchestrated by Benjamin Mirafuentes, father, driver, part-time executioner. He hadn't said a word the whole ride, but his silence had the exact energy of 'You better not embarrass me today, Anak.'
Dreven had suspiciously tagged along despite claiming he had "class." In this context, "class" obviously meant front-row seat to my sister's downfall.
Dreena sat in the passenger seat vibrating with tension—legs bouncing, fingers twitching, inner monologue screaming. The entire car shook.
"Stop that," Benjamin said mildly, not even looking up.
"Are we sure it's not the engine?" Dreven chimed in from the backseat, sipping his iced coffee with the smugness of a man-child who had nowhere better to be.
She was dressed like someone who had her life together—a crisp white blouse, navy slacks, sensible shoes, and a panic disorder dressed up as confidence. Their mother had ironed her outfit twice. Once the night before. Then again this morning, as if straightening the fabric would also press out the generational trauma.
Dreena, however, was unraveling by the second. Her eyes were wide, her soul was weak, and her stomach was—tragically—fine. No diarrhea. No vomiting. Not even mild bloating from last night's street food rampage. The universe had failed her.
"I'll just go in on my own," she tried casually.
"No," her father said, still not looking at her. "I'll walk you to the door. I know your tricks."
That was the trick. She had planned to sneak into the lobby, circle back, get a milk tea, and go home like nothing happened. Abort mission.
Ten minutes later, she was seated outside the HR office like she was awaiting sentencing. Flanked on either side by her father and brother—two immovable mountains of pressure. One cold and composed. The other annoying and amused.
"This is so dramatic," she whispered.
"Quiet," Benjamin said.
"You're not even sure they'll hire you," Dreven muttered. "Such confidence."
"I'm delightful. I can be their poster girl," she said, crossing her arms and praying none of the terror consultants were inside. Especially not Dr. Catingub. He'd watched her crash and burn during clerkship and lived to retell it.
The HR assistant finally emerged and called her name.
Dreena stood.
Considered bolting.
Calculated sprint capacity.
Decided no.
Dreven grabbed her arm like a mall cop. "Just making sure she doesn't run," he told the HR assistant with the gall of someone enjoying himself. The woman actually blushed.
Disgusting.
Inside, four people sat in judgment.
Dr. Marquez — Chief of Clinics
Dra. Ypil — Head of Medical Staff Office
Dr. Catingub — Senior ER Consultant. Kill her now.
Ms. Lagdameo — HR Manager. Smiling too gently. Suspicious.
"Our own graduate," Dr. Marquez said, scanning her CV. Drech's touch was all over it. Latin honors. Leadership. Please hire her, she needs direction.
"Go ahead, Dra. Mirafuentes," Dr. Catingub prompted, eyes piercing. "Introduce yourself."
She inhaled. Shaky. "Hi. I'm Dreena Therese Mirafuentes."
Silence.
"Go on," Ms. Lagdameo encouraged softly. Like she was dealing with a traumatized stray cat.
"I completed my Post-Graduate Internship at Vicente Sotto Memorial Medical Center and took the PLE last year."
And, unfortunately, passed it.
"Good credentials," Dra. Ypil nodded. "CIM graduate. Honors. Why not go straight into residency?"
"I'm still healing," she replied flatly.
Silence.
The panel collectively blinked.
"My brother applied me for this job," she added quickly. "He didn't even tell me."
Ms. Lagdameo chuckled.
Then came the clinical scenarios. Teamwork questions. Stress management. Her answers were honest but wrapped in humor. She didn't sugarcoat the fact that she had once considered legally changing her name and fleeing the country mid-duty.
They nodded, amused. Except for Dr. Catingub, who stared at her like he could see her soul—and wasn't impressed.
And then the kicker.
"Do you want this job, Dra. Mirafuentes?" Dr. Marquez asked.
She hesitated. Then said it.
"I'm not ready."
"When will you be ready?"
"In ten years."
And yet they laughed. All of them. Even Dr. Catingub cracked half a smile. Like that wasn't her real plan.
"This is the most fun interview I've had all month," Marquez said, shaking his head.
She bowed like a disgraced pageant queen and fled.
Benjamin stood as soon as he saw her. She collapsed into his side like a wet towel. He kissed her head wordlessly.
"You did good," he said, and it was the only validation she needed.
"Papa," she whimpered. "Please. Feed me Jollibee. I need gravy therapy."
Dreven snorted. "She doesn't deserve food. She tried to escape earlier."
Benjamin said nothing. Just drove.
They ended up at Jollibee. No questions asked. Benjamin sat like a tired king, silently chewing his burger while his kids argued over fries.
"She needs help, Papa," Dreven announced. "She keeps saying she wants to marry an old man. That's not ambition, that's a symptom."
"She's spiraling," Benjamin sighed.
"I'm surviving," Dreena corrected mid-bite. "There's a difference."
"I hope she gets hired," Dreven said. "So I can watch her unravel on a professional level."
"Papa, he's harassing me!"
"You harassed yourself," Dreven countered.
After the meal, Benjamin said they were dropping off food for Drech. Dreena immediately rolled her eyes. "Your golden child better not look smug."
They drove to Sotto. The AC was on full blast, and Dreena was slumped in the backseat again like a damp rag. Dreven, of course, reclaimed the front like it was his birthright.
Drech appeared after a few minutes—along with him.
Wren Cordova. In scrubs. Smug. Coffee in hand. Looking like the antagonist in every flashback from her PGI trauma.
Drech opened the back door.
"Move," he said.
She groaned but slid over.
"Hi, Uncle Ben," Wren greeted warmly.
Benjamin leaned over to kiss Drech's head. Weird, but normal. The Mirafuentes were a physically affectionate breed of emotional damage.
"How was the interview?" Drech asked.
"She tried to run," Dreven ratted immediately.
"I didn't sign up for this," Dreena muttered, glaring at her lap.
"Be grateful I only sent your resume to one hospital," Drech said, smug.
She pinched him hard. He flinched. "Do that again and I will distribute anonymous warning emails to every HR director in Region VII."
Wren and Dreven were laughing like hyenas. It echoed in the car like the soundtrack to her unraveling.
"You're unhinged," Drech said, wiping coke float off his scrubs.
"Papa," she called sweetly. "I need a whole-body massage tonight. With Mama. This day was spiritually abusive."
"You've rested for months," Dreven said. "Even I'm envious. But I'm coming too. I also deserve luxury."
Benjamin said nothing, like he wasn't raising three lunatics with wildly different coping mechanisms.
From her corner, Dreena glared at Drech. "It wasn't enough for you to steal Lexa. Now you're ruining my life too."
"You're doing a great job on your own," Drech replied, sipping his float.
Benjamin sighed. Dreven was already pulling up a list of top-rated massage spas on his phone. Wren, who had known this family since college, just smiled at the chaos.
Then, Dreena turned to him.
"Stepson," she said solemnly. "Please tell your father I'm free Tuesday and I look good in gold."
Dreven burst into laughter.
Benjamin shook his head in silent prayer.
Drech muttered something about needing a refund on her upbringing.
And Wren—bless him—smiled at her with that infuriating mix of amusement and curiosity.
Maybe she'd get the job.
Maybe not.
But if all else failed, she could still marry her way out of medical labor.