Chapter One
December 31
New Year’s Eve
Three years ago
Osaka, Japan
Cracking: The process of applying so much pressure on the cocoa beans that the husk will break away. Do not expect clean breaks all the time.
So Anton Santillan was wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do now.
As the panganay, the First Born Son, the Golden Boy of his family, his entire life was a series of people telling him what to do, and him doing it without question. Eat your ampalaya. Beso this tito, mano this tita. Be an outstanding student. Be valedictorian. Get an MBA. Run the business. Don’t trust anyone but us, because we know what’s best for you.
He had been content (because was anyone ever truly happy?) to do what he was told, because he trusted his family. Trust that his family, of all people, wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t steer him wrong. Wouldn’t pull the ground out from under his feet, when they needed him to keep that ground steady.
That had been a miscalculation on his part.
So now here he was, walking the deathly silent streets of Osaka, wondering what his next move should be. This trip was not supposed to be an exercise in regrouping. But now that he was here, walking the silent street alone, frozen from his nose to his toes with nothing but the cold and the darkness, it felt...like a blessing.
New Year’s Eve in Japan, Anton realized, was a much more sedate affair than he was used to. The lights and sights of Dotonbori were only a train ride away—surely the Glico Man wouldn’t protest being a part of a tourist’s New Year’s Eve—but even that visual assault was too tranquil for him. There was a stillness to Japan that not even the brightest neon signs could take away.
Anton was used to the loudness of a holiday in the Philippines—that audible buzzing in the air from the throng of people around you as the anticipation for midnight built and built, the food that accompanied it, the music that seemed to blast from every crevice possible in the countdown to midnight. Fireworks and smoke would fill the air, getting only louder as people scared away the evil spirits, jumped up to get taller, and hoped for a better year.
Even without the holiday, Manila had more noise than this. There would be someone singing karaoke in the distance, the glow of someone else’s lights, or the perpetual sound of cars inching through the traffic of C-5.
In Japan, especially in a quiet street in the business district, all was calm, all was only slightly bright. It was so clean it was almost unbelievable, and there was not another soul in sight. Establishments were closed and streets were silent, like the city had shut down for the evening.
It felt slightly apocalyptic.
“Kuya, where are you?” Miro’s message cut through the silence, as Anton wrapped his nearly frozen fingers around his phone. Damn, it was cold. Winter was no joke, especially for a guy currently wearing four layers of clothing and living in a country that had temperatures that never went below 25C. “Lolo looking for you. He’s making sermon. It’s BORING.”
Anton ignored Miro’s message for now, and stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets (lest the cold seep into his fingers permanently) and kept walking the streets.
The facts were as follows:
1) He’d been fired from his family’s company. Maybe. It seemed that way, given his desk had literally disappeared from his office three days ago. But there had been no official notice, no one waiting behind him to tell him exactly how he’d fucked up. It was just gone. Like he’d never been there in the first place. Like Santi hadn’t dedicated his entire life to proving himself worthy of being there, like he hadn’t increased the Carlton Hotels and Resorts profit margins consistently with his innovations and ideas. Like he hadn’t mattered at all.
2) His grandfather was never going to tell him why. It was in Vito Santillan’s nature to speak in double meanings and half-truths, always so terrified someone would call him out on it. All he knew was that.
3) He lost all access to the family accounts, and was no longer getting a salary from the Carlton. He also lost access to his work email, so there wasn’t even going to be a turnover. He was, however, expected to show up for the family Christmas celebration, which was...fine. But New Year’s had been his limit. So he got on a plane to Osaka without telling any of them. It wasn’t like his grandfather was speaking to him.
In fact, he hadn’t said anything to Anton during the holiday. Not at the Misa de Gallo, not at the Noche Buena. Not even when he opened Anton’s Christmas present—Vito’s favorite Kavalan whiskey, fresh from the airport in Taiwan. He’d smiled and thanked Anton like he hadn’t illegally dismissed him from the family corporation. Wished Anton a merry Christmas even after he’d called a board meeting to remove Anton’s directorship.
No. Confrontation wasn’t Vito’s style. Manipulation was. Which led to:
4) Anton had to figure out what he was going to do next, and fast. Moping was unacceptable; he was just going to have to accept what happened and move on. That was the only way he could keep his pride and dignity intact in this situation. He’d spent the first day of his vacation on the phone with his banks, checking and re-checking what his financial position was like, where his name was, where it wasn’t. He had...just enough, perhaps.
Now the question was: where was he going to go? What was he going to do?
The doors to the convenience store automatically whooshed open. It was overwhelming to walk into a Japanese convenience store, regardless of the weather. The rush of warm air brought the feeling back in his fingers and nose, immediately making his cheeks flush as heat crawled up from where his heat-tech innerwear was.
Santi’s entrance triggered an electronic voice that greeted him with a robotic “irrashaimase.” The lights, that had already been pretty intense outside, seemed ten times brighter inside, and he squinted as his eyes adjusted. He surveyed the room, and the rows and rows of Japanese goods waiting for him to pick them up, and nodded politely to the shopkeeper, who smiled politely at him.
Anton quickly spotted the cold goods refrigerator and walked toward it. He had discovered very early on in his trip what he wanted out of a Japanese convenience store, and very rarely strayed from what he knew. Onigiri triangles and milk tea. Maybe a beer if he was feeling extra melancholic, but not yet.
He spotted the onigiri triangles. There was only one tuna mayo left. Santi reached out to take it, only to have another hand shoot forward and grab it, leaving him with nothing but air.
