THE BILLIONAIRE'S SECRET DAUGHTER

The smell of garlic and soy sauce filled our small kitchen. It was Sunday. And on Sundays, no matter what, we always had dinner together. "Yna! Help me with the rice!" Mama called from the stove. "Coming, Ma!" I wiped my hands on my apron and rushed to her side. My name is Marina Stewart. But everyone calls me Yna. I was 30. I worked as a cashier at a grocery store from 9 to 6. And I lived in this little house in Quezon City with the two people I loved most in the world. My parents. Papa was already at the table, fixing his glasses as he read the newspaper. He worked as a jeepney driver. 12 hours a day, 6 days a week. His hands were rough and his back was always tired. But he always smiled when he saw me. "Anak," he said, pulling me into a hug. "How was work today?" "Okay lang, Pa. Busy. Madaming tao," I smiled back and kissed his cheek. We weren’t rich. Not even close. Our walls were thin. Our roof leaked when it rained. And sometimes we had to choose between paying the electric bill or buying new shoes. But we were happy. We were so, so happy. Dinner was simple. Fried chicken, rice, and vegetable soup. Mama’s specialty. As we ate, Mama looked at me with that look. The one she always got when she had something serious to say. "Yna," she started, putting down her spoon. "Yes, Ma?" Papa cleared his throat. "Your mother and I... we’ve been talking." My stomach twisted. "About what? Did I do something wrong?" "No, anak," Mama said quickly. She reached across the table and held my hand. "We’re so proud of you. You’re 30 now. You work hard. You help us. You never complain." "Then what is it?" I asked, confused. Papa sighed. "You’re not getting any younger, anak." I almost choked on my rice. "Pa!" "It’s true," Mama said, her eyes shining. "All your friends are married now. With kids. And here you are... still taking care of us." "Ma, I’m not ready for that," I laughed nervously. "I’m still trying to save money. For us." "We know, anak," Papa said. His voice was gentle. "That’s why we want to help you." "Help me how?" Mama and Papa looked at each other. "There’s a man," Mama finally said. My face instantly burned. "Ma! Ano ba! 30 na ko pero hindi ibig sabihin nagmamadali na ko!" "No, listen," Papa said. "He’s a good man. His name is Daniel Reyes. He’s 33. He works in an office. Good job. Good family. He’s... he’s looking for a wife." I put down my fork. "You’re trying to set me up?" "We just want you to be happy, Yna," Mama said. "We won’t force you. But... we think it’s time. We’re getting old. We want to see you settled. With someone who will love you. Who will take care of you. Even if we’re not here anymore." The last part made my chest hurt. "Ma, Pa... I can take care of myself. I can take care of you," I said. "That’s not the point," Papa said. He reached over and held my hand. "The point is, we want you to have your own family. Your own home. Someone who chooses you. Not for anything else. Just for you." "Not for anything else?" I frowned. Mama smiled sadly. "We want a man who will love you even if you’re just a simple cashier. Even if you come from a simple family like us. We want someone who sees you. Not what you can give him." I nodded slowly. That made sense. At 30, I was tired of dating apps. Tired of men who only asked "what do you do" and "how much do you earn". "Can I... can I think about it?" I asked quietly. "Of course, anak," Mama said, relief on her face. "No pressure. But he’ll be at church next Sunday. Maybe you can say hi?" I laughed. "Subtle, Ma." "We try," Papa said and winked. After dinner, I washed the dishes while Mama and Papa watched TV. I could hear them laughing. This was my life. Simple. Quiet. Full of love. I had no idea that in less than a month, everything would change. I had no idea that the name "Marina Stewart" was worth billions. I had no idea that my parents were lying to me. Not because they wanted to hurt me. But because they wanted to protect me. And they wanted to make sure that when the whole world found out who I really was... The man I married would love me for me. Not for my last name. Not for my money. Just for Yna. The 30-year-old cashier who made garlic chicken every Sunday. --- End of Chapter 1