The gentle hum of clinking glasses and muffled conversation floated through the air of Lumière, Makati's newest "it" fine-dining spot. The lighting was soft, ambient—just moody enough to make it look exclusive but not so dark the titas would start squinting at the menu.
Aiah Arceta adjusted the tray in her hand, muttering "Kaya mo 'to, Aiah," under her breath as she maneuvered through tables full of manicured hands and expensive perfumes. Her white button-down uniform clung to her back from the humidity of the kitchen and the nerves prickling her spine.
Table 7.
The weekly Lim Family Summit.
Even the staff referred to it that way. Every Thursday night, without fail, the most intimidating group of power suits filed in at exactly 7 PM. Led by Mr. Adrian Lim, the patriarch-slash-supreme court of family law and expectations, the table always looked like a Vogue spread with litigation.
Aiah approached, plastering on her best "welcome-to-Lumière-even-though-I'm-dying-inside" smile.
"Good evening po, sir, ma'am," she chirped, doing her rounds with the practiced ease of someone who'd already worked three doubles this week. "Would you like to start with wine?"
She could feel the eyes on her—the kind that skimmed you, not really seeing you. Until—
"Excuse me," a clipped voice said from the end of the table. "Is the glass supposed to be this spotty?"
Aiah blinked. Then blinked again.
It was her.
The youngest daughter. Aiah knew her name was Mikha, she'd heard them call her. All-black pantsuit, fresh blowout, earrings that screamed I'm expensive but I don't need to brag about it. Her face was stunning—sharp, cold, unreadable—but her tone could chill soup.
"Oh! Sorry ma'am, I'll replace that." Aiah reached to take the glass, but her fingers slipped from the condensation of the drink she'd just set down.
Splash.
The wine—white, thank God—spilled down the front of the young woman's blazer.
For a moment, time froze.
Aiah gasped. "Ay, shit—sorry, sorry po, ma'am!" She grabbed a napkin from her apron, trying to dab at the sleeve. "I swear I just—slipped, and—"
"Stop." The low voice sliced through the air like ice cracking.
Everyone at the table stiffened. Mr. Lim looked annoyed. The other lawyers looked mildly entertained.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Aiah repeated, shrinking slightly but trying to hold her ground. "Medyo distracted lang po kasi—"
"Then maybe don't bring your distractions to work," Mikha said, wiping herself down with surgical precision. "Unless you enjoy dousing people with their own drinks."
Aiah's stomach twisted—not just from embarrassment but from the heat bubbling in her chest. The kind that came after an already terrible day. Earlier, her mom had called from Cebu. Her father had been rushed to the hospital. Kidney complications. The money she'd saved for tuition would now go to dialysis.
She wasn't just tired. She was unraveling.
So Aiah did the worst possible thing a waitress at a five-star restaurant could do.
She laughed.
A short, bitter, almost-hysterical bark of laughter. "Ma'am, ako pa 'yung parang gusto mo pang pasamain, ah?"
Dark eyes looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry na, ma'am. Wala akong balak itapon yung wine niyo, okay? Kung gusto mo ng revenge, mag-order ka na lang ulit, on me. Gusto mo red this time? Mas dramatic 'pag nabuhos ko ulit."
