It started, like most modern disasters, with short videos.
Not school. Not trauma. Not some dramatic childhood turning point.
Reels.
Specifically, those Chinese CEO drama clips that appear when you least expect them and refuse to leave once they've claimed your soul.
One minute I was watching cat videos. The next minute, a sharply dressed billionaire stepped out of a black luxury car while orchestral music attacked my emotions. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. His suit probably cost more than our house. A woman slapped him.
He didn't even flinch.
Instead, he looked down slightly and said in a trembling voice, "I was never poor. I just wanted someone to love me for who I am."
Cut to shocked mother.
Cut to evil aunt.
Cut to helicopter.
I watched the whole thing. Then the next one. And the next.
Soon I learned the rules.
Rule number one: If a man looks poor, he is definitely rich.
Rule number two: If he wears simple clothes, he owns five companies.
Rule number three: If he fixes things himself, he controls the market.
And rule number four: The most powerful CEOs love disguises.
That was the moment everything changed.
Because when I looked up from my phone and glanced into the living room, I saw my father sitting cross-legged on the floor wearing a faded gray T-shirt and blue flip-flops.
And suddenly… things felt suspicious.
My dad is the kind of man who reads supermarket brochures for fun. He says things like, "Discount cooking oil builds character." He thinks Wi-Fi works better if you tap the router twice. His hairstyle has not evolved since 2003.
But what if that's the point?
What if he is too ordinary?
I started observing him with new eyes.
That night, he was peeling oranges while watching the news. The volume was low. The lighting dramatic. His expression unreadable.
Was he analyzing global markets?
Or was he just tired?
"Ayah," I said carefully.
He didn't look at me. "Hmm?"
"Have you ever worked abroad?"
"Yes."
That was it. Just yes.
No explanation.
No defensive tone.
Just calm confirmation.
My heart rate increased immediately.
"What did you do?"
"Helped your cousin set up wedding tents in Johor."
I nodded slowly.
Wedding tents.
Temporary structures.
Structures that require planning, coordination, leadership.
Isn't that basically project management?
"You ever run a company?" I tried again.
"Yes."
My brain exploded quietly.
"What company?"
"Water refill station. It closed."
He laughed.
But here's the thing. It wasn't a defensive laugh. It wasn't awkward. It was relaxed. Almost… confident.
Exactly the laugh of someone hiding generational wealth.
I stared at him longer than necessary. His hands were rough. His nails uneven. There was a small scar near his wrist.
Manual labor?
Or commitment to method acting?
The next morning escalated everything.
He woke up at five.
Five.
No normal civilian wakes up at five without reason.
And he wasn't wearing his usual house T-shirt. He wore a dark blue button-up shirt. Neatly ironed.
Dark blue.
The official color of emergency board meetings.
I pretended to eat toast while studying him like a documentary narrator.
"Where are you going?" I asked casually.
"Out."
"Out where?"
"Just out for a bit."
Vague.
Suspiciously vague.
He put on his old black shoes. They looked worn out, yes. But luxury brands also sell "distressed leather" for aesthetic purposes.
"Do you have a meeting?" I asked.
"With the motorcycle repair guy."
Classic.
Powerful men always say they're meeting mechanics. It's a universal disguise.
"I'll come," I said.
"Why?"
"To learn."
"Learn what?"
"Business operations."
He stared at me for three seconds.
"You've been watching those dramatic videos again, haven't you?"
I didn't answer.
The motorcycle ride to the repair shop felt like an undercover operation. I scanned every car behind us. I half-expected a black sedan with tinted windows to trail discreetly at a safe distance.
Nothing.
Just a vegetable truck and a man carrying chickens.
At the workshop, my father discussed carburetors for fifteen straight minutes. He asked about oil quality. He negotiated prices down by five thousand rupiah.
Negotiation skills.
CEO trait.
Then he pulled out his wallet.
And that's when I saw it.
A bank card. Different logo from my mother's.
Why separate accounts?
Diversification?
Emergency fund for international expansion?
"Dad," I asked lightly, "why is your bank different from Mom's?"
He didn't hesitate. "Because I'm not your mom."
The audacity.
The composure.
Elite.
That night, I initiated Phase Two.
At eleven, the house went silent. My parents' bedroom light turned off. I stepped into the living room with the stealth of someone who has watched too many spy films but has zero training.
Target: the cabinet near the TV.
In dramas, cabinets hide secrets. Documents. Ownership contracts. Evidence of betrayal.
First drawer.
Rubber bands. Expired batteries.
Second drawer.
Bank book.
I opened it carefully.
The balance was stable. Respectable. But not secret-island level.
Unless…
This is the decoy account.
Third drawer.
Electricity bills.
I stared at the numbers.
Normal usage.
No secret power consumption from underground server farms.
Disappointing.
"What are you doing?"
I nearly left my body.
My father stood behind me, hair messy, eyes half-asleep.
"Looking for a charger," I replied.
"In the electricity bill drawer?"
Silence.
He walked over and sat down.
"You've been acting strange," he said.
This was it. The confession scene.
"Dad," I said seriously, "if you're secretly rich and hiding it for security reasons, you can trust me."
He blinked once.
Then laughed so hard he had to hold the chair.
"If I were rich, do you think I'd argue with your mother about detergent prices?"
"That could be strategy."
"Strategy for what?"
"Maintaining low public profile."
He shook his head.
"I am not a CEO."
"Not even a small one?"
"I lead exactly one organization."
My eyes widened.
"What organization?"
"This family."
He stood up and walked back to his room, leaving me alone with that sentence.
The next day I intensified my investigation.
Every phone call became suspicious.
"Yes, Sir," he said one afternoon.
Sir.
I moved closer.
It was the neighborhood chief reminding him about security duty.
Every outing was questionable.
He went to buy rice.
Supply chain management.
He checked the roof after rain.
Infrastructure maintenance.
Then something happened.
One evening, the electricity went out.
Complete darkness.
My mother panicked. I panicked.
My father didn't.
He grabbed a flashlight and calmly checked the fuse box. He spoke to neighbors. He called the technician. He calculated something quietly.
In the beam of light, he looked different.
Focused.
Grounded.
Decisive.
For a second, I saw it clearly.
Leadership.
Not dramatic. Not glamorous.
But real.
When the power came back, he just said, "It's fine now."
No applause.
No soundtrack.
Later that night, I watched another drama clip.
A billionaire whispered, "I've always protected you from the shadows."
I locked my phone.
In the living room, my dad was asleep on the chair. His flip-flops were crooked on the floor. The TV cast soft light on his face.
Maybe he doesn't own companies.
Maybe there are no hidden shares.
Maybe no black car will ever stop in front of our house.
But he always pays school fees on time.
He fixes broken doors.
He wakes up first.
And suddenly, the idea hit me.
What if the biggest twist isn't that he's secretly a billionaire?
What if the twist is that I've been measuring him using the wrong scale?
Still.
If someday a luxury car stops outside and someone steps out saying, "Sir, the board is waiting,"
I will not panic.
I will simply nod.
Because the investigation is ongoing.
And I still haven't checked under his old toolbox in the storage room.
Just in case.