The family portrait above the piano had been updated again.
This time, it was Tito Lando's turn - his fourth wife, Marga, now framed beside him in a glossy photograph that looked like a magazine cover. Gigi passed by it on her way to the kitchen and paused just long enough to recognize the pattern.
Three years ago, that spot had belonged to his third wife. Five years before that, the second. Only the frames changed. The smiles were the same. Wide. Hollow.
Her grandfather, Lolo Ben, had ten portraits in the hallway. Ten. Some of the women were dead. Most just disappeared without a word.
They used to keep those photos in storage. Now they didn't bother hiding them. They simply layered them like wallpaper - women on the wall, replaced but never erased.
"Gigi," her stepmother Malou called gently. "Can you help me set the table, anak?"
"Coming," she answered, walking into a living room that looked more like a rotating stage for marriage auditions.
Today was Tito Lando's birthday. That meant food, music, liquor, and - of course - guests. Gigi had learned to dread these gatherings. Not because of the noise or the drama, but because they were always dressed in pretending.
Pretending this family was normal.
Pretending the new wives felt loved.
Pretending the men weren't already looking at someone else.
She placed the plates in front of each seat, her hands moving automatically. The smell of grilled lechon and fresh lumpia filled the air. Laughter echoed from the veranda where the men gathered - fists clinking beer bottles, jokes laced with double meanings.
"Gigi!" shouted her cousin from the back. "You're blooming, ha! What's his name?"
She smiled tightly. "His name is privacy."
The women cackled, impressed by the sass. But one or two gave her knowing looks. The ones who had once been her - sharp, young, undefeated.
Gigi sat down beside Marga, who looked breathtaking in her white dress, nails freshly done, smile frozen like porcelain. Her eyes, however, betrayed everything.
"You okay?" Gigi asked.
Marga nodded. "I'm just tired."
"How long have you two been married?"
"Eight months," Marga answered, cutting her food too carefully.
Gigi hesitated. Then, quietly, she asked, "Do you trust him?"
Marga blinked, caught off guard. Then she smiled politely, just like they all did. "Of course."
Of course.
Later that night, Gigi slipped away to the guest room and closed the door. She sat by the vanity mirror and stared at herself - not the daughter, not the guest, not the passive observer - but the girl who had memorized every red flag before she could even drive.
She reached into her purse, pulled out her lipstick, and applied a bold, dangerous red.
She wasn't here to be like them.
She wasn't going to be a picture on a wall, wearing a name that would be forgotten and a smile that would lie.
She wasn't going to be chosen only to be replaced.
Not Gigi.
Not ever.