Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 37

Chapter 37

The Philippines smelled like exhaust, fried street food, and home.

We landed at NAIA to a wall of cameras that could have blinded an entire solar system. Paparazzi swarmed like ants on a sugar spill, reporters shouting over one another.

"Kaira! How does it feel to be back?"

"Travis, when is the next expansion of Javierres Hotels?"

"Can we get a glimpse of the twins?"

"Are you raising them to be heirs to the empire?"

I wanted to scream: They're babies, not CEOs! Instead, I smiled tightly, tucked Sky Angela's carrier closer against me, and prayed no one noticed my eyebags, which could have gotten their own zip code. Marcella, headset in place, marched us forward like Moses parting the Red Sea. "No photos this close, please! Darling, tilt your chin up—lighting, lighting! Lila, stop waving!"

Lila was waving at the paparazzi like she was campaigning for Miss Universe. "Smile, bestie, you'll thank me when Vogue picks up the shot!"

"I swear, Lila—" I hissed under my breath, trying not to trip.

Travis's hand brushed mine, steady, grounding. He didn't even blink at the chaos. He never did. That calm, infuriating calm, was his weapon. Mine was sarcasm.

By the time we reached the convoy, I collapsed into the leather seat, clutching the twins' carriers like sacred relics. "Back home," I muttered, staring out at Manila's chaos—jeepneys painted like psychedelic fever dreams, motorcycles zipping between lanes, and a billboard of my own face from a shampoo ad still glaring down at me.

Marcella leaned in from the front seat, tablet glowing. "Darling, schedule is light this week. Photoshoot prep starts in two days. Rest, hydrate, maybe a facial. We'll need you glowing."

I groaned. "Marcella, I am glowing. It's sweat."

She ignored me, scribbling notes. Lila passed me a bag of Boy Bawang cornick she'd bought at the terminal. "Here, carb-load before Marcella puts you on her post-baby lettuce diet."

I ripped the bag open. "Lila, you're the only one keeping me alive."

The estate welcomed us like we were conquering monarchs. Gates swung wide, the golden lions gleaming, staff lined both sides of the driveway clapping. Banners read: Welcome Home, Young Mistress, Young Master, and the Twins.

"Oh my God," I muttered, clutching the carriers tighter. "Is this a welcome home or the opening ceremony of the Olympics?"

Travis didn't answer. Of course.

Inside, chaos multiplied. Maids scurried with fresh linens, the chef announced a week-long "return feast," and a florist wheeled in bouquets taller than me. I dropped onto the grand couch with a groan, the twins' carriers at my feet. "If one more person calls me 'Young Mistress,' I'm filing for emancipation."

Sky Angelo gurgled. Sky Angela sneezed. And just like that, exhaustion cracked into laughter.

Marcella fluttered in with documents. "Darling, the gala photos from Singapore are trending. You've been declared 'the most radiant post-partum mother in Asia.'"

I spat my cornick. "Radiant? I had breast pads under my gown!"

Lila howled. "Radiant chic, bestie. Trademark it."

The first night back was a blur of jetlag and baby cries. At two a.m., I was on the nursery floor in silk pajamas that were now milk-stained, bouncing Sky Angela while Sky Angelo screamed from his bassinet. "Congratulations, Kaira," I muttered to myself. "From Netflix queen to night feed peasant."