By the time the engagement was a week away, Althea had already developed a psychological allergy to the words "elegant" and "regal". Her world had become a k-drama filler episode.
To the outside world, she was the picture of grace. The poised bride-to-be, the charming daughter, the considerate lover.
Internally? She was five seconds away from staging a hostage situation using a cake knife and her last nerve.
Engagement preparations, Althea decided, were just glamorized psychological warfare. And everyone in the battlefield was losing their minds or already have lost it, except the wedding planners, who had clearly transcended sanity and now thrived entirely on espresso, fake smiles, and existential dread.
She sat through meetings that felt like a thriller documentary. People debated fonts with more intensity than hostage negotiations. Someone cried over the flower budget. Someone else cried because someone cried over the flower budget. A woman named Lana tried to use the phrase "rustic opulence" unironically.
And Adrian? Adrian had become the wallpaper. Or some furniture, since he is well polished. He was there, yes. Physically. But spiritually? Emotionally? He had the energy of a man buffering in low resolution. He nodded through suggestions like a crash test dummy dressed in Gucci. The real Adrian, the one who sent memes at 2AM and once mock-married Alaya with a daisy ring under a cherry tree was clearly in witness protection.
Meanwhile, Max. Gone. Like a legendary cryptid. Ghosted three meetings, vanished mid-cake tasting, and allegedly fled during a debate about whether "ivory" and "off-white" were the same thing (spoiler: they are not, according to Aunt Nila).
"Where's Max?" they'd ask. Adrian, eyes blank: "He's… busy. Business."
Translation: He saw the Titanic and chose not to board.
And honestly? Althea respected that. Because while she was busy starring in a soap opera directed by capitalism and generational trauma, Max peaced out like a man who knew the importance of boundaries.
But the part that stung most wasn't the chaos. It was the silence. Because no one — not Adrian, not Max, not Alaya, not her family knew the truth.
She wasn't just playing along. She was planning an exit.
There was a strategy. A quiet one. Precision-crafted. With the efficiency of a Bond villain and the patience of a cat watching a glass on the edge of a table. Not Lilith though. She has no patience.
A few days before the engagement, Althea hit emotional rock bottom in a linen aisle. She was one "rustic table runner" away from throwing herself into the centerpiece mock-up.
In desperation, she texted Alaya.
[Althea]: Need girl talk. Also possibly a bunker.
[Alaya]: I have cookies and a fire exit. Come over.
Alaya greeted her at the door in fuzzy socks and judgment-proof sweatpants, holding a tray of chocolate chip cookies like a domestic goddess who'd given up on all pretenses.
"You look like a woman who just found out her wedding has a tagline," Alaya said.
Althea faceplanted onto the couch. "My mother said donut walls would ruin the wedding's emotional arc."
"I'm sorry; emotional arc?"
"Apparently 'Regal Rosé' isn't just a theme. It's a lifestyle."
Alaya handed her a cookie. "That sounds like a wine I sob into after texting my ex."
"You're not wrong."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"So," Alaya said. "You come here to confess a murder, or just a breakdown?"
"A little from column A, a little from column B."
Alaya snorted. "Alright, I'm ready to hear what my lover boy Adrian is doing."
They ate cookies. Somewhere in the background, Alaya's dog knocked over a plant and stared at them like it was their fault.
"I'm tired," Althea finally said. "Tired of pretending I want this. Of being everyone's elegant little pawn."
"You know you can walk away, right?"
"Sure. If I want to set off a PR bomb, ruin Adrian's plan, and probably cause him to short-circuit in public."
Alaya considered that. "Might be worth it just to see him stutter."
"Tempting."
Another pause. Another cookie.
"You still love him?" Althea asked gently. Alaya looked at the ceiling. "That depends. Do I get an extra cookie for telling the truth?"
"You get two. And the last of the wine."
"Then yes. Stupidly. Quietly. And not in a fun way."
Alaya leaned back with a sigh. "He's gentle in the most frustrating way. Always trying to do right by everyone, which means he ends up doing right by no one."
Althea nodded. "I wanted him to save me. But I think I was supposed to save myself."
Alaya bumped her shoulder. "Still, if you set this circus on fire, I'll bring the marshmallows."
Two days before the engagement, Max returned.
Not with an apology. Not with context.
With a framed photo. Of his cat, Lilith, sitting atop a pillow fort, wearing a tiny crown. The caption read:
Queen of the Kingdom of Not My Problem.
Althea laughed so hard she nearly dropped her color swatches.
Engagement Day.
The venue looked like Pinterest and a hedge fund had a baby. Fairy lights wept from the ceiling. Florals in every direction. Everything smelled like money and mild panic.
Althea stood in a blush gown, silver embroidery under warm lights. She looked like a dream. She felt like a love-hate letter stuffed with sarcasm and suppressed rage.
Her mother entered.
"You look perfect," she said. "Just remember, no tears. They ruin the photos."
The music began.
Adrian stood at the front, doing his best impersonation of someone who hadn't just emotionally flatlined. Max was at the back, sipping judgment from a glass. Alaya was seated with the elegance of someone who could destroy the entire room with one well-timed eyebrow raise.
Althea walked forward.
At the altar, Adrian took her hand. He leaned in.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For dragging you into this."
"You didn't drag me," she whispered back. "I marched in wearing heels and spite."
His mouth twitched. Barely. A ghost of a smile.
"What about your plan?"
"I'm not stuck," she said. "Just strategically paused."
Photographers snapped. Confetti launched. Someone clapped too early. Althea smiled like someone who had just sold her soul for a Pinterest board.
Ten minutes later, she slipped out for air.
And that's when she heard her parents. "This marriage secures three quarters of the rollout," her dad said. "Velascos are pliable."
Her mother chuckled. "Althea has the perfect face. People assume she's obedient. Smart girl. But manageable. That's the trick."
She walked away before her internal scream could become external.
In a marble hallway, lit like a perfume ad, Max appeared like a Genie summoned.
"If you're going to set this all on fire," he said, raising his glass, "at least let me eat dessert first. I hear the tiramisu is life changing."
She stared at him. "Not going to stop me?"
He shrugged. "Not my circus. But if you go full chaos goblin, I'm sitting front row."
Translation: I got you.
Althea smiled. For the first time that day… it was hers.
End of Chapter 15.