Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 32

Chapter 32

The flight back to Manila was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that meant peace. It was the kind of quiet where my brain wouldn't stop replaying every second of Tokyo. The bows. The Crown Prince's porcelain skin. The way Travis had sealed a deal that would be written into history books like it was nothing more than another line item on his calendar.

I should have been relieved it was over, but the second Wi-Fi clicked back on, my phone nearly combusted. Headlines everywhere.

No pictures from inside the Imperial Palace, of course—cameras were strictly forbidden, and for once, I was grateful. The last thing I needed was a looping clip of me nearly toppling over mid-bow. But there were plenty of photos from the gates. Shots of me walking into the palace beside Travis, holding my coat like armor. Shots of us leaving hours later, solemn, dignified. Shots of me and Travis ducking into a ramen bar like two fugitives in disguise.

The press spun it like gold. Actress Kaira Chaves at Imperial Japan with Billionaire Husband. Some painted it as historic, others mocked it as shallow diplomacy. A few international outlets praised Travis's deal, calling it a landmark for Japan's hospitality industry.

But back home? Back home it was ugly.

Because every headline eventually circled back to my father.

To that interview Travis gave a year ago, where he'd said—with that same calm tone he used to order coffee—that the President of the Philippines was "incompetent, wasteful, and more concerned with golf than governance."

It had been a scandal at the time, but scandals fade when people are too busy surviving. Until now. Until me—his disowned daughter—showed up on the arm of the man who'd humiliated him publicly.

By the time we touched down in Manila, the storm was already raging. Not just the usual tabloid gossip. Not just #KairaSpotted trending on Twitter. This was heavier. Sharper. Words like betrayal. Words like shame.

Travis didn't say a word. Not on the drive home, not as the estate gates opened, not as we were ushered into the grand halls that had somehow become our halls. He simply carried on, calm as always, while I dropped onto the velvet couch in the drawing room and scrolled through the wreckage of my reputation.

"President's daughter sells out to billionaire nemesis."
"Chaves heiress disgraces family with Imperial photo-op."
"Disowned Kaira Javierres flaunts loyalty to foreign power."

Disowned. The word stung less now than it had the night they said it. Because the truth was, I hadn't lost a family—I'd lost a cage.

But still. The comments cut. Not because I cared about their approval, but because I knew how my parents would spin it. They'd use me as proof that I was never truly loyal. Proof that I was selfish, reckless, ungrateful. And they'd use Travis's words—incompetent, wasteful—like a dagger.

The call came that evening, not from my parents but from one of my father's aides. His tone was clipped, official, the kind of voice that made staff scurry in Malacañang's marble halls.

"The President requests your presence in Malacañang. Immediately."

I laughed, bitter and sharp. "I don't live there anymore."

A pause. Then colder: "The President insists."

"I'm not part of the President's family anymore," I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "He made that clear."

Silence. Then the line went dead.

I set my phone down, the echo of that conversation hanging heavy.

This was my reality now. Not their daughter. Not their pawn. Not their excuse.