Miggy's POV
I should've known something was off the moment Alice said my dad wanted to see me.
"Sir, your father called. He wants you in his office tomorrow after lunch. He said it's a very important matter," Alice informed me. She's one of my staff here at the office, handling calls when Meynard, my secretary and personal assistant, isn't around.
"Okay. Thank you, Alice," I replied simply.
I buzzed Meynard. "Nard, can you call Dad's secretary? Ask if we can move the meeting to the morning. I already have a client scheduled for the afternoon."
Meynard's been with me for years. He's more than a secretary—he's practically family. His mom was my nanny. We grew up like cousins, only closer. Childhood games, teenage secrets, adult messes—we went through them all together. He's not just my assistant. He's my best friend. My brother in everything but blood.
He knows me better than anyone—my routines, my quirks, even my favorite lunch orders. He's reliable, discreet, and always ten steps ahead. At work, he calls me "sir." Outside, it's just "bro."
A few minutes later, the office door opened. I didn't need to look up.
"Sir, your father's secretary said he didn't elaborate. Just that it's a very important matter," Meynard reported.
I waved him off silently, still focused on the documents on my desk—but my thoughts had already drifted.
It was unlike Dad to summon me formally. Normally, he'd just call or swing by for a chat. We're close—more like friends than father and son. Growing up, he always made time for me. Breakfasts together. Random coffee runs. Quick drives where we'd talk about everything and nothing. He's my role model—the man I want to become. Focused, accomplished, grounded.
I remember one time when both my parents had a big shoot overseas. They timed it during a holiday just so I could tag along and turn it into a family trip. Despite their high-profile careers—Dad as a film producer, Mom as an award-winning director—I never felt like an afterthought.
They never pressured me to follow in their footsteps either. They let me find my own path, and I chose advertising. I've always preferred life behind the scenes. The idea of being scrutinized like they were never appealed to me. I value privacy too much.
I worked hard to earn my place at the agency. Started as an intern, got hired right after college, and climbed the ladder with late nights, full decks, and tight deadlines. I wasn't handed anything. My goal? To someday start my own firm.
But all day, Dad's message lingered.
After I wrapped up the last meeting, I asked Meynard to drive me home. Sometimes he crashes at my place. We both prefer quiet nights in over noisy bars. Drinking at home gives us space to talk—or to think.
"Nard, join me for dinner. I'm ordering in," I said as we stepped into the condo.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked while we waited for the elevator.
"Nothing major. I just need a drink. We're free tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah, all done."
"I know. That's why I trust you."
He grinned. "I owe you. You vouched for me when I applied. I just want to prove I'm worth it."
"Here we go again with the drama," I joked.
"Hey, facts are facts!"
"So, when are you proposing to Shane?"
He laughed. "You first. You're older."
"Oh no. Don't drag me into this. I'm not getting married anytime soon."
"You always complain you don't have a girlfriend."
"Because I'm picky. If I commit, it has to be serious."
"Hard to find 'the one' when you're not dating."
"Touché. But you better hurry, or Shane might leave you."
"Not happening. We made an agreement. She knows I'm committed."
"Arrogant much?"
Dinner arrived—Chinese takeout. We ate in the living room, nursing drinks—beer for him, wine for me.
"What do you think Dad wants to talk about?" I asked, staring at the city lights outside my window.
"Alice said he canceled two meetings just for this. It must be important. But I don't think it's anything bad. Maybe he just misses you."
I didn't answer. I just nodded, still watching the lights blur past like matchboxes below. Meynard patted my shoulder and headed to the guest room—his usual when he stays over.
I stayed there for a while, glass in hand, thinking. Something about tomorrow felt… different.
***
The next morning, I hit the gym early. When I came back, I smelled garlic rice and eggs. Meynard was already in the kitchen, frying Spam and humming.
I showered and got dressed—gray button-down, black slacks, and leather shoes. Clean, precise, ready for anything.
"Breakfast's ready!" he called.
After we ate, we headed to the office. The day started with a marathon meeting with a demanding client. Four hours later, I finally closed the deal.
"Finally," I sighed, checking my Tag Heuer—a gift from Mom during their anniversary trip abroad.
"Good job. I'll grab lunch for us," Meynard said as he stepped out.
But even with the win, my mind was already elsewhere.
Something was off.
***
My dad's office always had a certain stillness to it. Polished. Perfect. Comfortable, yet a little too clean—like a hotel room before a guest arrives.
On the desk sat a book. Hardbound. Worn. A Merriam-Webster dictionary.
Odd choice, but not suspicious. Dad kept all kinds of reference materials around.
Still… something about it felt out of place.
I walked over. My fingers ran down the spine, then I opened it.
At first, just paper. Pages of definitions. Nothing unusual.
Then—a texture that didn't match.
A card.
I pulled it out, a grin already forming. I expected Mom's handwriting. They still did that—wrote each other notes, left cards in books. Romantic like that.
But the moment I opened it; the air left my lungs.
Hello, Gabriel. I'm letting you go...
I blinked.
Read it again. Then again.
The handwriting wasn't Mom's.
It's a baby girl. I named her Gabriella Therese.
My knees nearly gave out. I gripped the desk.
Gabriella Therese?
A daughter?
Teresa?
Who the hell is Teresa?