There were six women at the breakfast table - and none of them were related to each other. Two were Gigi's stepmothers. One was her uncle's fourth wife, looking too young for her heavy eyes. Another was her grandfather's new "companion," a word they used now instead of wife. The last two were neighbors invited by the men of the house for reasons Gigi didn't want to imagine.
Gigi Santiago quietly sipped her black coffee, watching the women stir their drinks with unspoken resentment. She lived in a mansion built on broken vows and reheated apologies. The walls were thick, but the secrets inside were louder.
She was her father's daughter - his "princess" as he used to call her. And yet, she hated everything he stood for.
Her dad, Tito Mario, Lolo Ben, Kuya Josh - every male in her bloodline had a track record of charming women into bed, into marriage, then into heartbreak. The cycle was predictable: lovebombing, betrayal, tears, silence, then a new woman the following year.
They were good at it, too. Handsome, smooth, generous in public, rotten in private. Gigi grew up with a front-row seat to the theatrics.
"Eat more, anak," said Malou, her father's third wife, placing a fried egg on her plate with a tired smile. She was always nice. Too nice.
Gigi forced a nod. She didn't hate the women. She pitied them. She used to want to save them, until she realized they didn't want to be saved. Not really. They were either still hoping or too far gone.
Upstairs, her dad's loud laughter echoed as he FaceTimed a woman who wasn't Malou. Gigi rolled her eyes. She was used to it now. It was just background noise.
She wasn't cold - just done. Done believing in happily-ever-afters. Done waiting for apologies. Done pretending that "family" meant anything when all it ever delivered was disappointment.
At 23, Gigi was fiercely independent. She worked, paid for her own things, cooked when she wanted to, and didn't take crap from anyone. She didn't bring guys home. She didn't entertain flirty messages. And she never, ever allowed herself to imagine a future with a man. Not after what she'd seen.
Her friends teased her about it. Called her "man-hater," "ice queen," "the heartbreak pre-nup." She didn't care.
If being smart meant being alone, then so be it.
She looked at her phone. A message from Caloy popped up.
Caloy: Baka gusto mong lumabas later. Coffee on me. Also I have chismis.
She smirked. Carlo Santiago was her one soft spot. Childhood best friend, quiet defender, part-time clown. The only man who never made her feel unsafe or unsure.
Still, she never let him too close. He was different, yes. But he was still a man. And that meant he had the potential to turn.
Her grandmother once told her: "Gigi, men don't change. They just hide it better the older they get."
Gigi believed her. After all, the evidence lived under one roof with her.
She stood up from the table, her eyes gliding over the quiet women, the too-cheerful curtains, the glass-framed wedding photos now collecting dust.
"Thanks, Tita Malou," she said, sliding her plate into the sink. "But I'm good."
She walked out the door with her head high, heart locked, and mind sharp.
She had a job interview today - and zero intentions of letting another man write her next chapter.
Not this girl.
Not Gigi Santiago.