Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 39

Chapter 39

I was in the middle of fishing a plastic giraffe out of Sky Angela's mouth when Marcella burst into the nursery, headset on, tablet glowing like it was the second coming.

"Darling, President Rovina wants you."

I froze mid-giraffe extraction. "Excuse me?"

Marcella beamed like she'd just delivered the gospel. "She's inviting you to a women's leadership forum in Quezon City. Keynote panel. Seats reserved. You'll sit beside her."

I pulled the giraffe free with a pop, glaring at Marcella. "Marcella, I haven't showered in two days. My keynote panel is surviving twin teething without dying."

Sky Angela wailed at the giraffe being stolen, Sky Angelo kicked his blanket, and I sighed, bouncing them both like a deranged see-saw. "Tell Madam President I'm very busy keeping two small humans alive."

Marcella ignored me, of course. "Darling, this is monumental. Imagine the optics—the daughter of the impeached president, now standing beside the reformist President Rovina. Redemption! Rebirth! Resistance!"

"Marcella." I jiggled Sky Angelo until he burped. "I'm not a symbol. I'm a mom with spit-up on my shirt."

From the doorway, Lila leaned in with a donut. "Correction, bestie. You're a mom with spit-up on your shirt who accidentally toppled an administration with a Notes App post. Own it."

I threw a burp cloth at her. She caught it with her teeth, chewed, and winked.

By noon, my phone was vibrating nonstop. Invitations to forums, charity dinners, empowerment campaigns. Even UN Women had emailed.

Meanwhile, Sky Angela had a diaper blowout that nearly killed me, and Sky Angelo discovered his new talent was screaming like a police siren if you dared put him down.

"See this?" I hissed at Marcella as I wrestled with wipes. "This is leadership in action. Where's my Nobel?"

Marcella tsked, tapping furiously. "Darling, one diaper at a time. But while you're doing that, the country wants you to lead."

I barked a laugh. "The country wants me to sleep, Marcella. Start a petition."

That evening, I collapsed onto the bed, hair sticking out in five directions, pajamas milk-stained. Travis sat in the armchair, laptop open, crisp white shirt immaculate, of course.

I groaned, pointing at him. "How do you do that? Look like GQ while I look like a raccoon who lost a fight?"

He closed his laptop, eyes steady. "Incorrect."

I rolled onto my back. "Don't start. Marcella thinks I should join every forum, gala, and panel that breathes. President Rovina wants me on her arm like I'm the poster child of reform. Meanwhile, I just want to nap. Preferably for eighteen years."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Voice. Not noise."

I blinked at him. "You mean I should—what? Actually speak?"

He didn't nod. Didn't smile. Just looked at me like he was stating fact. "Correct."

I groaned into the pillow. "You're impossible."

But his words lingered.

The next morning, I tried to drink coffee in peace. The twins were miraculously both napping at the same time—a cosmic miracle—when the TV blared President Rovina's face.

She stood at a podium, powerful in her barong-inspired suit, voice calm but cutting. "We must prove to the Filipino people that governance can be clean. That power can be service, not theft."