The last week of September was supposed to be quiet—gray skies, the smell of rain trapped in the curtains, and Elena Santiago hunched over her desk. Highlighters rolled in a mess near her notes on building codes, neon streaks bleeding into the margins where she'd doodled floor plans that looked suspiciously like dream houses instead of exam problems.
The electric fan hummed. A mug of 3-in-1 coffee had gone cold hours ago. Len told herself she'd finish another practice set before dinner, but the noise downstairs was already breaking her focus: clattering plates, bursts of laughter, the heavy slam of the restaurant's front door that meant another wave of customers.
Then came her mother's voice, sharp enough to slice through her review fog.
"Len! Bumaba ka nga dito, ang daming tao!"
Len froze with her pen midair. Casa Santiago wasn't short on staff—her parents had waiters, cooks, even the teenage dishwasher from next door—but when it overflowed like this, her mom always tapped family first.
She leaned back in her chair, groaning. "Seriously? Ngayon pa?" she muttered, staring at her notes like they might excuse her. She wanted to bolt out the window; but her other personality wanted to argue about labor distribution. Instead, she shoved her pen down, tied her hair into a messy knot, and shuffled to the door.
The smell hit her first on the stairs: garlic, frying oil, the sweet tang of sinigang broth. The restaurant pulsed with life—tables crammed, voices rising, her father laughing too loud as he carried a tray. Customers waved at Cely, Elena's mom, like they were regulars at their own family table.
And there she was, Elena Santiago, twenty-three, future architect, drafted once again into the chaos of Casa Santiago.
Len slid into the kitchen, already reaching for a clean tray. Before she could take three steps, her mother's voice caught her.
"Ay naku, buti na lang naisip mong bumaba. Kanina ka pa dapat tumutulong!"
Cely didn't even look up from the steaming pot she was ladling out of, but her tone was sharp enough to sting.
Len balanced the tray, lips pressed tight, and just shook her head. Of course. Walang hiya yung oras ko. She thought of the exam booklet upstairs, all the unanswered questions waiting, and felt the frustration tighten in her chest. This was supposed to be review week, her time, not a crash course in plate balancing.
But customers waved, plates kept piling, and she had no choice but to weave through the crowded tables. She forced a smile at a group of office workers waiting on their kare-kare, set down the sizzling platter of sisig, and bowed her head slightly as the smoke curled into her face.
"Salamat, hija!" one of them said warmly, and for a flicker of a second, she softened. This wasn't her passion, but she couldn't deny the hum of the place—laughter, clinking glasses, the chorus of forks scraping plates.
Still, as she ducked back toward the kitchen, she whispered under her breath, "Architecture review, not food service review..."
Her tray was finally empty, her arms aching, when she noticed the front door swing open. A familiar laugh, light and careless, carried in.
Her younger sister breezed past the dining room of the restaurant in jeans and a crop top, hair still perfect despite the jeepney ride. She didn't even glance at the busy tables, just waved lazily toward their dad before disappearing up the stairs.
That was Marina Santiago, twenty-one, walking contradiction: bold, magnetic, but shamelessly selective about where she poured her energy. She was in her third year at Lyceum of the Philippines University, studying HRM—a course she claimed was "for the vibes and the free taste tests."
Len blinked. Seriously? The restaurant was drowning, and Marina vanished like it was nothing.
Thirty minutes later, as Len passed through the kitchen to grab another stack of plates, irritation finally bubbled up. She wiped her hands on her apron and muttered, "Kung tulog pa rin yun, ako na talaga aakyat—"
Before she could climb the stairs, her mother's hand landed on her arm.
"Hayaan mo na muna ang kapatid mo, baka pagod. Galing pa 'yun sa klase."
Len stared at her, dumbfounded. Pagod? At ako? Hindi pagod? She bit her tongue, shaking her head in disbelief again. Upstairs, her sister rested. Down here, Elena was running laps between the stove and the dining hall, her architecture notes slowly growing cold in her room.
For a split second, she wondered if she'd accidentally enrolled in Hospitality Management instead.
When the crowd finally thinned and the clatter of dishes quieted, Len slipped her apron off and dragged herself upstairs. She didn't even bother turning on the lights, just collapsed onto her chair, staring blankly at her open review notes.
Her thoughts wandered, heavy and bitter. If Marina really wanted to run this place someday, shouldn't she be here sweating with us? Why is it always me?
She pushed the thought aside, but it stayed there—stubborn, like a nail sticking out of a polished wood floor.
By nightfall, the whole family gathered at the dining table. The air smelled of fried tilapia and tomato-stewed vegetables, the kind of meal that usually softened moods. Cardo, marina and elena dad, however, was grinning wider than usual, a man with a surprise up his sleeve.
"May good news ako," he announced, pulling out a folder and sliding it across the table.
Len and Marina both leaned in. Inside was a booking form, the kind the restaurant rarely got to handle. A catering reservation.
"For the 30th birthday party ng anak ng CEO ng Starlight Media Productions," Cardo said proudly. "Alam n'yo 'yan, diba? Sila gumagawa ng mga pelikula, drama, variety show, pati mga commercial."
Len blinked. Starlight Media. Everyone knew them—they were practically the backdrop of Filipino screens.
"The venue will be in Tagaytay, first week of October. Big event ito. Kung magustuhan nila yung handa natin, baka mag-open pa tayo ng ibang opportunities."
Cely clasped her hands together, already spinning with menu ideas. Marina's eyes lit up at the thought of the glamor tied to the entertainment industry.
Len, meanwhile, chewed slowly, a knot forming in her stomach. She should've been thinking about test questions and blueprint symbols—but somehow, it felt like Casa Santiago was pulling her deeper in again.
Saturday morning cracked open with the sound of tricycles outside and the faint smell of rain still clinging to the air. Casa Santiago's kitchen was already alive—pots clanging, garlic hitting hot oil, staff moving like clockwork.
Len stood at the counter, chopping onions with military precision, trying to keep her watery eyes from blurring. Cardo and Cely had gone to the wet market before sunrise, haggling over the best bangus and the freshest pechay for the catering trial run. That left Len with two kitchen staff and a growing mountain of prep work.
She glanced at the wall clock. Past eight. Marina's door was still shut upstairs.
Len wiped her hands on her apron and marched up the stairs, each step fueled by irritation. She knocked first. No answer. She pushed the door open a crack—the room was dark except for the faint glow of a phone screen on the nightstand. Marina was sprawled on her bed, tangled in her blanket like it was a luxury spa robe, dead to the world.
"Marina," Len called, voice flat. Nothing.
She tried again, louder this time. "Hoy. Gising na. Ang dami nating gagawin."
A groan came from the bed. "Five minutes."
Len pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's been an hour of 'five minutes.' Bumabaha ng trabaho sa baba habang ikaw, tulog pa rin."
Her sister buried her face in the pillow, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "Ikaw na bahala d'yan."
Len's disbelief turned into a humorless laugh. "Kung gusto mo talagang mag-manage ng restaurant balang araw, at least learn how to wake up before lunch."
She pulled open the curtains, flooding the room with light. Marina yelped and threw the blanket over her head.
"Len!"
But Len was already halfway out the door, shaking her head again, the smell of sautéing garlic tugging her back to reality downstairs.
By the time Marina finally came down, her face was set in that half-scowl, half-pout she wore whenever she was forced out of bed. The kitchen was thick with the smell of simmering vinegar and spices, the rhythm of knives hitting chopping boards.
Elena was at the counter, sleeves rolled up, methodically folding dumpling wrappers. She barely looked up when Marina slid into place beside her. With exaggerated sighs, Marina reached for the chopping board and started slicing up lungs and heart for the bopis, her movements sharper than they needed to be.
The clamor rose again when the front door banged open. Cardo and Cely returned from the wet market, arms heavy with bags of fish, vegetables, and bundles of herbs. Marina dropped her knife immediately and rushed over, her face brightening like she had been helping all morning.
"Papa, Mama! Ang dami n'yo nabili," she said quickly, then added, almost casually, "Si Ate Elena pa kasi ang nagising sa'kin. Ang aga-aga."
Len's hand froze mid-fold. Of course.
Cardo turned, brows knitting. "Marina, dapat ikaw mismo ang gumigising sa sarili mo. Ang dami nating trabaho. Hindi na ito panahon ng pahinga-pahinga." His voice carried the weight of a rare scolding.
Marina's lips pressed into a thin line. Usually, her dad let things slide, always finding excuses for his youngest. This time, no such mercy. She ducked her head, saying nothing.
Cely, still balancing a bag of tomatoes against her hip, reached out and patted Marina's back gently. No lecture, no comfort—just a wordless reminder: we don't have time for drama, hija.
The kitchen buzzed on, the prep work stretching into the rest of the day. Elena kept folding dumplings, her movements steady, but inside, she couldn't shake the small, sharp satisfaction that for once, someone else saw what she had always carried.
The whole day blurred into the metallic scrape of pans and the heat of stoves. By mid-afternoon, Casa Santiago felt less like a neighborhood restaurant and more like a war room. Every surface was covered—dishes lined in foil trays, ladles dipped in bubbling pots, the air a heady mix of vinegar, chili, and garlic.
"Five o'clock sharp," Cardo reminded everyone, wiping sweat from his brow as he checked the clock.
Elena was sealing the last batch of dumplings while Marina plated the bopis under their mother's watchful eye. Staff moved in and out like ants, carting coolers and boxes toward the back. The catering van, parked outside, was already half-full, its coolers packed with carefully portioned viands.
By 4:30, the final trays were sealed, labeled, and stacked. Everyone heaved a sigh, not of relief but of transition—because the work wasn't done yet.
"Dahan-dahanin n'yo ha," Cely instructed the staff already boarding the van. "Ayaw natin may matapon bago makarating."
The van's engine rumbled to life, its cargo bound for Villa Solaria, a glass-walled events venue perched on a Tagaytay ridge, famous for overlooking Taal Lake. It was the kind of place people rented for photos as much as for parties—modern, pristine, a far cry from the chaos of Casa Santiago's kitchen.
"Pagdating n'yo doon, ayusin n'yo na agad ang buffet tables," Cardo called after them. "Iche-check na lang namin pagdating namin mamaya."
When the van finally pulled out of the street, a heavy silence filled the kitchen. The Santiagos stood among half-cleaned counters, sweaty and flour-dusted, suddenly aware of how little time was left.
"Magbihis na tayo," Cely said firmly, breaking the quiet. "Hindi pwedeng magmukha tayong taga-kusina sa event."
Elena gave a half-laugh, half-groan. The exam notes upstairs would have to wait. Tonight, she wasn't just a future architect—she was part of a family show, heading straight into the glittering orbit of Starlight Media.
Upstairs, the house was transformed into a dressing room. Clothes were strewn across beds, hangers hooked onto doorknobs, and the faint smell of hairspray mingled with the lingering scent of garlic from downstairs.
Marina took her time in front of the mirror, slipping into a sleek purple midi dress that hugged her curves just enough to make a statement. She fussed with her gold earrings, head tilted, testing angles like she was already posing for photos. The color made her skin glow, bold and dramatic, exactly how she liked it.
"Pwede na," she murmured to herself, giving a little pout before grabbing her small lavender handbag.
Across the hall, Elena stood in front of her own mirror, tugging at the hem of a simple white midi dress. The fabric was airy, understated. It wasn't meant to stand out—it just felt clean, practical. She smoothed her hair into a low bun, slipping on modest pearl studs her mom had given her last graduation.
Marina peeked in as she passed, arching an eyebrow. "White? Ate, you're going to look like one of the waitstaff."
Elena only rolled her eyes, reaching for her sandals. "And you're going to look like you're auditioning for a teleserye."
"Maybe I am." Marina smirked, twirling once before heading downstairs.
Elena lingered another moment in front of the mirror. She didn't mind blending in—it was easier, quieter. Still, as she caught her own reflection, something flickered in her chest. Tonight wasn't just another catering job; this was Starlight Media's circle, people who lived in a world she only glimpsed through screens. She wondered, briefly, if her plain white dress would vanish her into the background.
But there was no more time to think. Her mother was already calling from downstairs, her voice sharp with urgency.
"Mga anak, bilis na! Baka mahuli pa tayo!"
The van climbed steadily through winding Tagaytay roads, the air cooler, thinner, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. By the time they reached Villa Solaria, the sky was awash in dusky orange, the lake below glinting faintly in the fading light.
Elena stepped out first, smoothing the wrinkles in her white dress. The venue rose before them—glass walls glowing under string lights, polished floors reflecting chandeliers, the kind of place designed to impress. Music floated faintly from inside, low and sophisticated, a far cry from the clang of Casa Santiago's kitchen.
But what caught their parents' attention wasn't the view—it was the buffet. Long tables already lined with the dishes they had cooked all day, neatly arranged, garnished, steaming under warmers. Staff had done their job well.
"Salamat sa Diyos," Cely breathed, rushing over with Cardo to inspect the spread. They lifted lids, adjusted ladles, whispering about presentation and portion sizes like surgeons checking a patient.
The sisters, meanwhile, were directed to their assigned table at the side of the hall, tucked near a wide window overlooking Taal.
Marina flopped into her seat, but within seconds her phone was out. She angled it high, lips pursed, hair falling perfectly over her shoulders as she snapped selfie after selfie. The purple dress caught the dim light, making her shimmer like she belonged among the guests.
Elena, across from her, slouched into her chair and scrolled absently through her phone. Review notes sat in her files, untouched, but she didn't open them. Instead, she tapped through news headlines and memes, the glow of the screen giving her an excuse not to look at the glamour surrounding them.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Marina giggling at her own photos, striking another pose against the window. Elena shook her head faintly, lips pressing into a thin smile. The Horse in her wanted to pace, to move, to escape the stillness—but instead she sat, quietly, as the sounds of the party began to swell around them.
Elena was half-lost in her feed, thumb scrolling on autopilot, when a light tap landed on her shoulder.
She blinked up—and froze, surprised into a smile.
"Clara?"
Standing there was Clara Villanueva, her best friend since freshman year of college. Tonight, Clara looked radiant in a blush-pink midi dress, her hair pinned in a soft bun that framed her easy, Libra smile. The Horse in her gleamed through—brisk, lively energy, like she'd already made three new friends on her way across the hall.
"Akala ko hindi kita makikita dito!" Clara grinned, sliding into the seat beside her without waiting for permission. "Sabi ko na nga ba, kung may kainan at sosyal na venue, nandito ka rin."
Elena snorted. "Correction: kung may catering gig na nagpapabaliw sa buong pamilya ko, nandito ako."
They both laughed, the kind of laugh that carried years of shared all-nighters and coffee runs.
From a few tables away, Clara's father gave a small wave before slipping into conversation with other men in suits. Engineer Arturo Villanueva was well-known in their circles—his firm had handled much of the construction in Laguna and Tagaytay, including, ironically, parts of Villa Solaria itself. The venue almost hummed with his handiwork.
"So, board review pa rin?" Clara asked, leaning in conspiratorially, her perfume sweet and light.
Elena sighed, holding up her phone like proof. "I should be drowning in building codes right now, pero ayan... dumplings and bopis muna."
"Classic Elena." Clara nudged her shoulder, eyes sparkling. "Always torn between blueprints and family duty."
For the first time that evening, Elena relaxed into her seat, the noise of the hall fading just a bit. With Clara beside her, the glitter of the party didn't feel so overwhelming.
Clara leaned closer, resting her chin on her hand. "So... ilang practice exams ka na?"
Elena groaned, dropping her phone onto the table. "Don't remind me. Barely two full sets this week. Every time I open my notes, Mama calls me down. Akala ko magre-review ako, pero apparently I'm part-time waitstaff at Casa Santiago."
Clara laughed, not unkindly. "At least you're consistent. You were juggling plates and deadlines back in college, too."
"Yeah, but this time there's no extension or prof na pwede kong pakiusapan," Elena muttered. "Fail the boards, tapos. Sayang lahat ng four years."
Clara reached for her glass of water, swirling it absentmindedly. "Tell me about it. My Civil Engineering boards are next month. Do you know how terrifying it is to imagine messing up in front of my dad? He literally built half of Laguna. Imagine being the daughter who couldn't even pass the exam."
Elena tilted her head, studying her friend. Clara's usual breezy tone cracked just a little at the edges.
"Okay, that's worse," Elena admitted. "At least if I fail, I'm just disappointing my family. You'd be disappointing an entire province."
They both laughed—loud, cathartic, the kind of laugh that made Marina glance at them with an annoyed look before returning to her selfies.
Clara nudged her again. "But hey, between the two of us? We'll pass. We don't have a choice."
Elena smirked, her chest loosening. "That's the most Clara style pep talk ever. Optimistic, but you make it sound like destiny."
"And you love it," Clara shot back, grinning.
For the first time that night, Elena felt the knot in her chest ease—just two friends on the same battlefield, comparing armor before the real fight began.