The drive to the salon felt eerily similar to her post-graduate internship—long, chaotic, and an existential crisis wrapped in humidity.
It was a bright, sweltering Saturday in Cebu City, and traffic was moving like molasses on a death march. The route from their house in Talamban to downtown was less of a commute and more of a soul-cleansing trial from hell.
Dreven, their assigned sacrificial lamb-slash-chauffeur, was behind the wheel muttering legal threats to every reckless motorcycle and jeep that dared to exist near his lane.
April, their serene, baby-powder-scented mother, sat beside her like the Virgin Mary forced into a Grab ride she didn't book—hands clenched in prayer, lips moving in silent invocation to every traffic-related saint in the calendar.
"They must've sensed we had a doctor on board," Dreven muttered, swerving around a motorcycle that popped out of nowhere like a jump scare. "Too bad for them. She'll just leave them bleeding."
"I absolutely will," Dreena replied from the backseat, one leg crossed over the other like the princess of passive-aggression. "So unless you want to catch a manslaughter charge before law school, maybe drive like a person with an actual brain stem."
"Children, enough," April said, tone dangerously low. "I am too old and too fabulous for this chaos."
They arrived one hour and twenty-two minutes later at Maison de Estelle—a salon so polished and pretentious you couldn't tell the difference between staff and influencers. The whole place smelled of lavender and generational wealth. The walls were whiter than the intentions of a man who says "Let's just see where this goes."
Dreven's stomach growled with the ferocity of betrayal.
"I'm going to die," he said, clutching his abdomen. "If I die hungry, I'll haunt you, Dreena. I'll scream in your ears at 3 a.m."
"Anak, take care of our bags, okay?" April cooed, already slipping off her shoes like she lived there.
Before Dreven could protest, she shoved her tote bag into his chest and breezed toward reception, leaving him to sulk under the fluorescent lights of capitalism.
Dreena waited for her name to be called, surrounded by high school girls in coordinated loungewear, Dior lip oils, and Apple watches probably gifted by their sugar-uncles. She eyed them like a war general surveying her enemies.
She could befriend them. Perhaps one had a single, wealthy Uncle with a hypertensive crisis and a love for aspins. She wasn't greedy. She could adjust.
Her planning was interrupted by a wave of giggles.
She turned. The girls were not giggling at a phone or a story. No.
They were giggling at him.
There he was. Dreven. Slouched like a drama king, all 6'1" of post-puberty smugness, cradling two handbags on one arm while playing on his phone with the other. The nose. The lashes. The resting lawyer face. All of it made worse by the fact that he didn't care.
The betrayal was so deep Dreena wanted to throw a blow dryer at him.
She kicked him. Hard. Right in the shin.
"The hell?!" Dreven yelped, jerking upright like she'd tased him.
She didn't even look at him. She gave the girls a smile so terrifyingly sweet it might as well have said: He eats with his mouth open. He says "bro" unironically. He hasn't washed his fitted sheets since Christmas.
April turned with a warning smile. "Behave."
"I get to choose where we eat after this," Dreven announced solemnly. "That's my price for public humiliation."
Finally, their names were called.
What followed next was two hours of socially acceptable violence.
Dreena's eyebrows were threaded to precise, fearsome perfection. Her entire body was waxed within an inch of its life. Her face was scrubbed, peeled, steamed, oiled, and masked until she looked like a freshly resurrected angel of vengeance.
When she looked into the mirror, she didn't see a woman—she saw a warning. She saw a threat. She saw someone who could simultaneously attend an interview and scam a man into investing in her future skincare café-slash-dog sanctuary.
April emerged from her own facial looking radiant and ten years younger, like she was ready to seduce Benjamin again for the fun of it. Her hair was blown out, her face glowing. She was smiling. Efficient. Dangerous. Dreena was proud.
They were heading toward the exit when the voice came.
"April!"
Dreena stopped in her tracks. That tone. That frequency. That voice.
Carmen.
The wicked.
In the flesh and probably in L'Oreal.
Dreena turned slowly, bracing for emotional violence.
"Nice seeing you again!" Carmen cooed as she leaned in to kiss April's cheek like she hadn't insulted her at a previous reunion with a passive-aggressive comment about aging.
"Carmen, hi," April said with a smile so tight it could cut glass.
Carmen looked at Dreena and Dreven like she was solving a Sudoku puzzle. "Oh! Is this Drech? And the wife?"
Dreena's internal organs filed for restraining orders.
She and Dreven recoiled in unison, the horror mirrored perfectly on their faces.
April burst out laughing. "No, Carmen. This is my youngest, Dreven. And my girl, Dreena."
"Oh! I'm so sorry, hija, hijo. I'm so forgetful these days." Carmen chuckled, her eyes glinting with toxic energy.
Dreena smiled back. Politely. Menacingly. Like she wanted to start a war but had a non-refundable facial deposit.
Then Carmen turned to her. "So you're the one who passed the boards! Congratulations!"
Dreena's smile cracked. Traitor. Her mother was a snitch.
April beamed, completely unbothered. "Yes, we have another doctor in the family."
Dreena, meanwhile, was one second away from muttering I just want to be a housewife into the nearest potted plant.
"And Dreven's going to law school later this year too," April added, proud of her chaos-spawn.
Carmen twitched.
Ah. There it was.
Dreena spotted Carmen's daughter—awkwardly behind her—soft girl aesthetic, newly dyed hair, and a bored baby resting on her hip. Dreena didn't judge. Honestly? She admired her. No PGI. No board exams. She was living Dreena's soft life. Boyfriend. AC. No white coat.
Then Carmen squinted. "How tall are you, hija?"
Here we go again.
"5'2," Dreena lied, sweetly. Like a cobra in a velvet glove. That shops at Aritzia and hold grudges.
Dreven snorted loud enough to make the staff glance over.
"She's 5'8," April said proudly. "She just wears flats and shame."
"You could be a beauty queen, hija!" Carmen nodded. "You are pretty and smart! You got your father's nose and height too. Benjamin is a mestizo through and through."
There was a pause.
The temperature dropped by five degrees.
April's smile was weaponized now. Calm. Chilling. Lethal.
"Oh, Dreena is a perfect mix of me and Benjamin," she said, looping her arms through her children's elbows. "She'd have hated me if she looked like her brothers."
With the kind of grace only the truly pissed off can pull off, April turned them all around. "Have a good day, Carmen."
They exited in silence.
"Mama," Dreven said once they reached the car. "You were fuming."
"I am fuming," April said, unlocking the car like she was slicing it open.
Dreena cackled. "You were two seconds away from calling her a cockroach."
"I was being polite," April muttered. "Unlike some people."
"You're pretty, Mama," Dreven added quickly, starting the engine like a survival instinct. "Dreena's not. She looks like both you and Papa. It's confusing."
That was it. Dreena lunged.
From the backseat, she grabbed a fistful of his curls and yanked. Chaos erupted.
April just laughed. "My children," she said fondly, shaking her head. "Dreven and Drech came out looking exactly like your Papa. Same nose, same stubbornness. Nine months each, and I got... hair."
From the backseat, Dreena sighed and leaned into the headrest. Her skin was smooth. Her face was glowing. Her enemies were annoyed.
The world may still be unjust. Wren Cordova still existed.
But today— today, her revenge glowed.