Unveiling Little Dirty Secrets

The Santos'

“Holy crap!” I exclaimed after seeing Cian right at my office door throwing dagger looks at me, I walked past him and straight to my table to fix my stuff. I whistle while stealing glances at Cian.

“Ok, what? Tell me.” I raised both hands to sign defeat. Cian is scarier when he's silent. He sighed.

“Zarina is a friend of mine, Jav.” I nodded, it wasn't news, Cian has been friends with several known influencers in the country, but couldn't even seal a deal with his so-called friends, the thought of it made me chuckle that Cian's expression became even more serious.

“You worry too much, bro.”

“I have known you for six years, Jav, and you'll do everything, anything, for the success of every project you have, and you don't care regardless if you'll hurt someone.”

“I care, Cian.” He stepped back. Cian's nagging went overboard. I rarely get offended by his words, but sometimes it feels like he's hummering my ego down, while I know he just wanted to remind me of whatnots. I am an adult, I know what I'm doing, and I take accountability in my own ways.

“You're my boss, after all. I just hope you won't make decisions that you'll regret later on.” Cian turned his back at me and walked out of the room. I did not stop him and just continued packing my stuff.

The room is filled with silence, I let out a deep sigh and reached for the file Grechelle gave me. I was about to open the folder when my phone buzzed, I put it down again and read the message. It was from Cian.

“I left your Dad's present by my desk, I hope you didn't forget about his birthday. At least don't think about work tomorrow and go home.” I laugh and slam my body against my chair while staring at the file on the table alongside my phone. Cian sent another message, and I reached for my phone to read it, “Here is her phone number +639675389700.” It made me laugh even harder that I started slapping my lap. I wiped the drop of tears on my eyes and stopped laughing. There's nothing funny about it, but the thought of Cian being the Cian I knew all these years, the kindhearted one, the soft guy, the younger brother I never had is still the same. No matter how mad he could get, he would always fall back into action and would help me. His wife, Jenna, really had him on leash. She trained him well. Or maybe I trained him to be the most suitable assistant ever.

Before leaving the office, I got the prepared gift Cian bought for Dad. I did not even remind him. At this point, Cian probably remembered every date mom wanted me to take note of. Dad wouldn't appreciate any gift from us anyway, he's rich, he could buy anything he desires, he could even buy a person if he ever wanted to, but mom wants us to give each other a present during these occasions. It was something mom would look forward to, and dad would give her luxurious gifts but flowers.

A year ago, mom opened her art gallery, where she displayed her and other artists' crafts. It was a successful event. The media followed the official opening of the gallery since mom announced it a couple of months prior. Art enthusiasts and cloutchasers joined the celebration. Everyone sent their praise to mom and her work. My sister and I was there too, we stand in the corner of the room, people watching and look at each other every time we spotted an influencer commended on a certain artwork, — “oh, it's so beautiful, it feels like touching my heart, it resonates with me,” — my sister would suppress her laughter by pinching my arm after that influencer would stutter after being asked what made the piece resonate with her. Mom would look at us with her motherly dagger looks and my sister would slightly elbow me, I would raise an eyebrow at her and she would point at mom using her lips and we would both smile at her, mom would smile back at us. My sister and I grew up away from the lights of cameras, words of media, and talk of the public — despite the fact that our father is popularly known for being a multimillionaire business tycoon married to the once-model and now owning her art gallery mother — and we're grateful for that.

While some people know that we are the heirs of our parents wealth, the media doesn't give us too much attention, probably because since childhood dad would always tell the media not to drag us to the industry, and partly against mom's decision of letting the gallery linked to the media, but he has no choice, after all mom printed her name in the platform way before they got tangled into marriage, and sike on him, his son followed her mom's footsteps and took art related degree and is linked to media, although behind the limelight. My sister on the other hand, owned several coffee shops and restobars around the city and neighboring towns, not as what dad expected her to be but she's happy managing her own businesses without dad's penny she would brag. We would laugh at it, but dad would banter her with the fact that it was dad's money that made her finish her marketing degree, she would roll her eyes after. Dad expected us to walk the path that he carved. His growing pressure, however, made me and my sister have our own principles — made a name of our own without dragging our dad's name and fortune.

Simone and Dari Gomez-Santos' family is picture perfect. Both a second-generation wealthy successor and made their names were popularized by their own talents. He married and had two children. While everyone would envy our “perfect family”, behind the camera, it wasn't what it used to be pictured by the masses. Growing up, dad showed us that no matter how much money someone can provide on the table, — the luxury cars, branded clothing and accessories, private schools, frequent trips abroad, thousands of allowance — it wouldn't suffice the father-figure he should have been. While mom tried to fill the part, our relationship with dad just didn't grow deeper.

While my sister savored her wine at the party, we both kept our eyes on mom. We would bow and fakingly smile at the guests that she would introduce to us and Arellia, my sister, would mumbled, “I can't even remember their names after this event,” and I would mumbled back, “Finger cross we wouldn't meet them again,” and we both quietly laugh at each other's statement. We were genuinely happy for mom. After years of being a housewife, she finally made one of her dreams come to life. The gallery is her comeback. Lia and I continue to exchange greetings with the guests but avoid being interviewed. I saw how mom would happily appreciate everyone's praises and receive the gifts with gratitude but one that caught my attention is the girl, in her teenage years, gave mom a bouquet of flowers, mom's face lit up and eyes smiled genuinely when the girl told her that she read mom's old booklet sharing her dream of owning a gallery. Among all the worth-thousands of presents she received, a bouquet of flowers made her smile. Before the event ended, dad arrived late, with a huge package. Everyone took photos and recorded the happening, anticipating the “gift” the multimillionaire husband prepared for his wife.

“Congratulations, honey. I hope you like it.” Dad flashed his media-trained smile and ushered mom to open the gift, mom hesitating to smile at him and genuinely curious about the huge gift.

Every rip of the gift wrapper, people murmured, looking forward.

“Oh my God!” Mom exclaimed, and the gallery rejoiced along with mom as the gift revealed to be the abstract painting of a farmland by the famous British painter Hundson Hockney that mom idolized.

“It was a bid worth millions,” some announce as it aims to reach the ears of potential outlets. And it really did, the news media, even on f*******:, i********:, t****k, all around social media, the word spreads, “Multimillionaire Simone Santos gifted wife Dari a million worth painting.” Mom loves the gift, of course. She even hugged dad, and they played the loving couple by sharing a quick kiss, camera flashes here and there. But mom's face did not light up, her eyes did not sparkle like how she received the bouquet of flowers from the girl, “Guess who loves flowers more than anything,” Lia said while looking at our parents with a smirk on her lips.

“Don’t be drunk, I don't want to drive you home,” I told her, “I won't, Dad would be mad,” she responded plainly and I just nodded, right, Dad will be home tonight.