Suman and Emergency Relocation
4:12 am Outside Eterna Hotel
My palms were slick with sweat.
The hotel air still clung to me — bleach, betrayal, and the metallic sting of adrenaline.
I could barely feel my legs, knees wobbling under the weight of what I'd just seen — who I'd almost married. But survival had its own muscle memory.
The moment Raf looked at me from inside the blacked-out SUV, I cancelled my Grab booking so fast I half-expected the app to report me for whiplash.
I sprinted to the window, flailing my arms like a drunk banshee.
"Raf! Raf, it's me! Mitch! Hi! Company car, right? This is company business! Please let me in!"
I slammed my palm against the tinted glass, whisper-yelling like a desperate soap opera extra. I even tried the door handle — locked. Knocked once. Knocked again, like a traveling salesman selling regret.
"Please," I hissed. "I promise—I'll consider you for future projects!"
He just stared at me. No pity. No mercy. No goddamn door unlocking.
"Okay, okay," I gasped, raising both hands like I was negotiating with a terrorist. "You'll be the priest! Fine! You can audition for Father Sexy! Just—please—open the freaking door."
His face broke—one slow, smug laugh that curled his lip like a goddamn villain.
Then finally, finally, he turned to the driver and said, "Kuya Jake, kindly let the crazy woman in."
The lock clicked.
I tumbled into the van like a drowned cat escaping a flood. The air-con slapped my cheeks. I clutched my tote tighter — the screenshots weighing heavier than my bra and charger combined.
"Thank you," I gasped dramatically, clutching the armrest like it owed me rent. "I was about to pay two thousand pesos for a Grab out of there. Free rides save lives."
Raf just stared.
"Why do you look like..." he trailed off, one eyebrow raised. "Like a disgraced heiress who escaped rehab wearing nothing but a hoodie and hotel bathrobe?"
I pulled the robe tighter. Chin up. Dignity at zero percent.
"It's called luxury loungewear, you pedestrian," I said primly.
He snorted once, hard enough to make me feel both seen and insulted.
Somewhere between sitting and scrambling, the robe rode up dangerously high — and then some.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Raf freeze.
A full-body, statue-grade freeze.
And I knew.
Yup.
Flash bomb: deployed.
Full frontal. Unshaven and unapologetic.
Whatever.
As if a man in the entertainment industry hadn't seen a vagina with hair before.
I smoothed the robe casually like nothing happened, dignity duct-taped together.
Raf coughed once. Loudly.
Professionalism: hanging on by a single pubic hair.
Before the situation could sink any lower, the van braked sharply for a red light. My tote bag — stuffed with random chaos like my bra, charger, and stolen hotel toiletries my dress, catapulted across the floor.
A lacy black thong dramatically flopped out.
Perfect.
Raf barked out a laugh so hard he practically choked on oxygen.
"You rob someone before you left the hotel, Mitch?"
"Shut up, Mr. Ramos," I said sweetly, scooping up the thong like I was handling a ceremonial flag. "It's called smart dress-up. Fashion-forward survival. You wouldn't get it."
He wiped his eyes, still grinning like he'd just won a bet with the devil.
"Where are you headed anyway?" I asked, aggressively casual. "I need to swing by my apartment. Grab clothes. Shower. Then the studio."
I leaned toward the front, tapping Kuya Jake's seat.
"Cool if we do a pit stop, Kuya?"
Kuya Jake cleared his throat, eyes firmly glued to the road like he wanted no part of whatever porno-adjacent mess he'd just witnessed.
"Uh, Ma'am Mitch... sir Raf was the one who scheduled the car. Sorry, po. It's his route."
I blinked.
Then turned slowly toward Raf like a horror movie villain realizing she's been tricked.
He just smiled, hands steepled casually.
"Deal on the priest role?" he said smoothly. "Let's keep it professional. Kuya Jake's our witness."
I gawked at him.
"The fuck is this — coercion via vehicle hostage?!"
He shrugged, "You're the one who asked to be in here, right?" smug as hell.
I threw my hands up. "Fiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnneeeeeeee."
I dragged out the syllables like I was signing a blood oath.
"But I'm only A PRODUCEEEEERRRRRR," I reminded him, voice slicing through the van like a blade. "I'm not the FINAL SAY."
"Of course not," Raf said, grinning like the final say was already in his pocket.
"Now hurry the fuck up to my apartment, sorry Kuya Jake not at you" I snapped, folding my arms with as much dignity as a half-naked woman could muster. "I need a goddamn shower."
Kuya Jake pressed the gas, wisely pretending we weren't having an extortion negotiation in his backseat.
I sank into the leather, glaring out the window.
Raf's quiet chuckle lingered in the space between us — irritatingly warm, irritatingly real.
"How's the new movie?" I asked, chin propped on my palm. "What's it called again?
Saving You or some shit?"
Raf laughed.
"Interested in my escapades now, Mitch?"
I gave him a death stare. "The fuck, obviously I know. We work at the same goddamn studio, Mr. Ramos."
He shrugged, grinning. "Same as always. Big explosions. Some gun fights. A damsel tripping over nothing while I shoot people in slow motion. Very deep."
I snorted.
Of course.
The classic Filipino-Hollywood formula:
Tits, tears, and a guy with a gun saving a woman who can't even save herself from her own heels.
But it was his smile after he said it — small, almost tired — that made me pause for a second.
Huh.
Weird.
I shook it off. Probably just sleep deprivation.
"You're too, tooo beautiful " I said matter-of-factly, squinting at him. "I really can't picture you playing a priest."
He chuckled low in his throat.
"You've read the script, haven't you? All of it?" I teased. "Since you've been bugging me endlessly about it?"
Raf leaned back, shutting his eyes like he was praying for patience.
"Naaaaah," he drawled lazily. "I just know the pitch. Breaking my promise to the divine in pursuit of the woman I love. It's classic. Easy crowd bait."
I stared at him for a beat.
At the casual way he said it.
At the slight edge behind his words — like maybe he did understand the character better than he let on.
Like maybe... he wasn't just trying to charm his way into another job.
Kuya Jake cleared his throat, glancing nervously at the rearview mirror.
"Ma'am Mitch, sorry po, did I miss the turn? Is it this street?"
I leaned forward. "Yes, Kuya, just straight ahead. That building at the end."
Kuya Jake slowed the car.
I opened the door.
Before I could bolt out of the van, a blessed realization hit me.
Gas prices were farting straight-up gold these days. And free rides were divine intervention.
I leaned back in, grinning with all the desperation of a stranded hiker spotting a helicopter.
"Wait for me, thirty minutes, okay? Or else—no priest."
Raf laughed, holding up both hands like I was mugging him.
"Okay, okay! I surrender, Producer Supremo."
I gave Kuya Jake a thumbs-up and jogged toward my building.
It was when I passed the cracked sidewalk under the yellow glow of a busted streetlamp that reality sucker-punched me back to earth.
Alen has keys.
I stopped dead.
Staring up at my apartment — second floor, freshly painted white, unit 2B tucked into the last corner like a goddamn afterthought — it hit me.
He could have left something.
Or planted something.
Or... still have access.
I shivered despite the humidity.
Fuck.
My stupid, ignorant brain — ended at that hotel door.
I inhaled.
Switched gears.
Work mode: activated.
Survival mode: sprinting.
I jammed the key into the lock. Missed. Swore. Tried again. Like, why am I shaking so bad?
"Fuuuuck," I whisper-screamed through gritted teeth.
Click.
Open sesame, bitch.
I slammed the door behind me and immediately marched to the bathroom like I was exorcising demons.
Toothbrush.
Toothpaste.
Scrubbing like I could erase the ghost of Alen's dick from between my molars.
I needed holy water.
I needed sage.
I needed Jesus holding a goddamn fire hose.
No time.
I stripped and jumped into the shower, practically assaulting myself with Dove body wash, conditioner, Japanese hair masks, six layers of skincare because if I died tonight, I was dying moisturized, goddamn it.
Ten minutes later, hair dripping, and naked, I barreled through my apartment like a one-woman raid team.
✅ Skincare — into the big luggage.
✅ Scripts, laptop, chargers — another bag.
✅ Dove soap bars, facial oils, toners, body serums — flung in like grenades.
✅ Makeup — dumped into my purse like I was robbing Watsons blind.
I yanked open my closet and stuffed every work-appropriate outfit into the second luggage — shirts, slacks, flats, even that overpriced blazer that made me look like a hostile HR rep.
Shoes.
Almost forgot.
I threw on my cute cat white shirt, my trusted comfy ugly bra, panties, and shorts — just in case I flashed someone again.
I slid into my go-to white sneakers mid-run, clutching two heavy bags like a gremlin escaping eviction. Pure survival couture.
I zipped the last bag shut.
Stared at the chaos I'd crammed into luggage like it could somehow contain the night.
My brain short-circuited.
Just... blank.
Just me, standing there like an idiot, gripping the handle so hard my knuckles ached.
Move, Mitch.
I blinked hard, slung the bag over my shoulder, and barreled for the door.
I burst back out through my door—panting, sweating,
—and screamed.
"WHAT THE FUC—!"
Because Raf was standing directly outside my door, arms crossed, looking like a low-budget mafia enforcer ready to collect a debt.
He cracked up instantly. Full-bodied cackling.
"Are you..." he gasped between wheezes, "are you- are youu fleeing the country?!"
I glared at him, clutching my luggage handles like makeshift weapons.
"This is called emergency relocation," I snapped. "Respect my process."
He just kept laughing, stepping aside gallantly to let me drag my chaotic life down the stairs.
As I wrangled my bags halfway down the stairs, Raf shook his head.
"Give me that," he said, reaching for the bigger luggage.
I blinked at him. "Wow. Gentledog."
"Anything for the ladies," he said with a crooked grin, slinging the luggage over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"Free labor, goooo," I chirped, shoving the second bag into his arms.
He didn't even complain. Just kept moving.
Good man.
We stayed silent the rest of the way to the van — not awkward, just... quiet.
The night pressing around us.
Both of us too tired or too polite to fill the air.
Raf shoved the bags into the backseat and slammed the door shut with a satisfying clunk.
To be continued...