Althea had never felt more alive than the moment she hit Confirm Booking on the flight screen.
Destination: Lisieux, France. Population: 6,700. A small-town famous for its lazy cafés, suspiciously perfect pastries, and residents who minded their business. Perfect.
She could already see it: Althea Solace, reinvented as Thea Lavigne, expat bakery apprentice by day, mystery novel enthusiast by night. Her phone would die mysteriously at the airport. Her social media would vanish. Her mother would scream. Her father would try to sue the government. It was all going exactly how she'd fantasized at 3 a.m. every night this week.
She imagined Max's voice. "Fake my death and become a pastry chef." It didn't sound so unhinged anymore. Honestly, she respected the vision.
Maybe she'd open a little patisserie. Something with old books and warm light. Maybe she'd fall in love with a local librarian who wore socks and quoted dead poet— No, not Joe Goldberg. Maybe she'd get hit by a baguette cart and sue a small French mafia. Options.
Her suitcase was already mentally packed. Passport. Sunglasses. Trauma.
What wasn't packed? Guilt. She was done being the pretty buffer in red. The emotional shock absorber. The poised Solace daughter. If Max could ghost through life with a cat and sarcasm, she could do it with cinnamon rolls and a new name.
She was mid-daydream about a flirty market vendor named Étienne when her phone rang.
"Althea, darling," came the unmistakable shrill purr of Adrian's mother. Oh no.
"Come quick, the dress trial is starting and we're already two minutes behind schedule. Your posture coach is here!"
Posture. Coach. Althea considered faking a faint. But her dignity had already packed up and left. So she inhaled her last breath of freedom and replied, "On my way."
The dress studio was a battleground.
Velvet cushions. Mirrors. Fabrics that looked like they'd been stitched from angel tears. And at the center of it all — Adrian's mother, wielding a measuring tape like a weapon and a glass of orange juice like a trophy.
"Sweetheart," she chirped, "your aura was very off last time. This time we're doing calming affirmations."
"Affirm what?"
"Your value. Your elegance. Your photogenic jawline. Repeat after me: I am timeless. I am tasteful. I will not sweat in satin."
"I am a hostage," Althea muttered.
"What was that?"
"I said I'm honored."
She was shoved into dress number four. A monstrosity of lace, organza, and emotional instability. It had three layers of ruffles and a train that could double as a crime scene tarp. Every time she moved, the dress made a sound like a disappointed sigh.
Adrian's mother circled her like a shark at a luxury buffet. "Now walk!" she demanded. Althea took three steps. "No, no, no! Softer! Like you're trying to seduce the marble!"
"What does that mean?!"
"It means you're stomping like someone with opinions!"
Althea stared directly into the nearest camera. There was no camera. But God was watching. She turned to the assistant stylist. "Do you have anything in 'Please Don't Perish Under Capitalism' beige?"
The stylist giggled. Adrian's mother did not.
"Try the next one," she snapped. "The couture corset!"
Twenty minutes later, Althea was cinched tighter than the family's emotional communication. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't blink. She was one stress sneeze away from fainting.
"Imagine the photos!" Adrian's mother squealed. "You'll look like a modern-day duchess!"
Althea imagined dying on the spot and being immortalized in the headlines as 'Local Bride Collapses Under Pressure and 14 Pounds of Tulle'.
Just then, Adrian strolled in, late and charming as ever, holding a croissant like a peace offering.
"You look..." He blinked. "Pale."
"Save it, Prince Beige."
Adrian winced. "Fair. I brought pastry?" Adrian's mother beamed. "See? He cares!"
"I care about avoiding lawsuits," Adrian whispered to Althea. "You good?"
"I'll disappear soon."
Adrian blinked. "You serious?"
"Deadly."
He nodded. "Honestly? Respect."
Adrian's mother clapped her hands. "Okay! Now the photos! Pretend you adore each other!"
They turned. Smiled. Pretended. The camera clicked. "I swear, if you breathe croissant crumbs into this corset I will commit a light crime," Althea whispered through her teeth. Adrian smiled wider.
After an hour, she was finally allowed to de-corset and crawl back into human clothing. Her head spun as she exited the studio.
She pulled out her phone.
Flight confirmation: ✔️
Name: Thea Lavigne.
Departure: Two days.
Just enough time to ghost this farce with style.
She texted Max:
[Althea]: If you were serious about the bakery thing, I just booked step one.
[Max]: Are you eloping with a baguette or committing tax fraud?
[Althea]: Yes.
[Max]: Don't die on the way.
She smiled.
Then paused. Because her mother was calling. She let it ring. And imagined the sound of flour dust, French jazz, and a life not pre-approved by legacy.
Meanwhile…
Max's lips quirked into a soft grin — the rare kind that tugged at the corner of his usually unimpressed expression. Then he shook his head slowly.
"Of course she actually did it," he muttered to himself
Max dropped the phone gently on the bed, water still beading on his skin. He ran the towel over his damp hair, fingers working through damp strands as he glanced at the mirror.
The reflection that stared back wasn't the sarcastic ghost everyone else saw — not entirely. His eyes, darker than usual in the soft light, held a flicker of something warmer, softer, and far older than he liked to admit.
He tilted his head.
"You're really doing it," he murmured again, half-laughing. "Running to France. Like it's a stage exit with better pastries."
There was a strange weight in his chest. Not heavy; more like something shifting. It felt… protective. Protective and slightly proud. Like watching a baby raccoon commit arson successfully. He looked down at Lilith, who was now grooming her paw with all the calm judgment of a woman who'd seen too much.
"She's gonna vanish," Max whispered. "Slip right through their fingers, and none of them will even notice until they realize the house got quieter."
Max stared back at himself.
What was that look in her eyes?
The way she texted like her fingers were shaking but her spine was steel. The fact that she was still joking about tax fraud while clearly on the edge of emotional bankruptcy.
Max didn't like most people. He especially didn't like people who looked perfect but had nothing underneath. Althea had too much underneath. It made her dangerous. And fascinating.
"She's going to disappear. And for once, I kind of want to stop someone from going."
The thought clung to him longer than he expected.
He pulled on a clean black t-shirt, the cotton soft against his still-damp skin, and ran his fingers through his hair again, less for style, more just to focus his racing thoughts.
He wasn't supposed to care. That was Adrian's thing — the performance, the rescue, the pretend vulnerability.
But Max had been watching. Quietly. Noticing the way Althea's smile had gotten tighter. The way she stayed late to clean up other people's messes. The way she looked at the stars when no one else was looking.
He wasn't in love. But maybe, just maybe, he was... interested. Curious. Invested.
Max picked up the phone again, thumb hovering.
He didn't reply. He didn't have to. Instead, he sat down at the kitchen table, Lilith immediately hopping into his lap like a judgmental weighted blanket. He tapped his finger against the wood.
France.
He opened a new tab and typed it in. Pictures of sleepy towns, cobbled streets, flower shops, and old bookstores filled the screen.
He clicked on a map. Then paused. Max smiled.
"You know what, Lilith?"
The cat blinked.
"We might need to try French pastries after all."
Lilith yawned.
Max leaned back, let his head rest against the chair.
That night, Max sat in the hallway outside his father's office, a can of soft drink in his hand, pretending to scroll through his phone while Lilith sat at his feet like a fur-covered accomplice.
Inside the office, the voices of the Velasco patriarch and matriarch rose and fell like overpriced opera. "Althea has been stable," his father was saying. "She's quiet. She listens. She looks good on camera. That's all that matters for the merger."
Max's fingers tightened slightly around his phone.
"She's not livestock," his mother muttered. "Though I do admit, she photographs well. Very—"
"—marketable," his father finished. "Yes. We need someone who doesn't ask questions, not someone with opinions. Adrian is stable enough. Everything's riding on this engagement. The investors are watching. Solace's name still carries weight. If it collapses now, it's not just a scandal, it's a financial implosion."
"And Adrian?"
"He'll adjust. He always does. You should be more concerned about Max. He's still… unmoored."
"Unmoored?" Max whispered, eyebrow raised. "Is that rich dad code for 'didn't major in economics and makes eye contact with his cat too much'?"
Lilith yawned like she agreed. The conversation inside shifted toward logistics, who was attending, who wasn't, who might throw a champagne flute. Max stood up quietly, dusted imaginary lint off his black hoodie, and walked away without a sound.
He returned to his room and flopped onto his bed, Lilith hopping up and curling beside him. He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over her contact. Then paused.
No messages. No warnings. Just a decision, quietly sealed inside him. Whatever Althea was planning, wherever she was running, she doesn't have to take the fall alone. Max made a plan that night. A quiet one. A dangerous one. He didn't need to fake a death. But maybe he could forge a miracle.
And somewhere, between the echoes of runaway brides and the idea of cinnamon sugar redemption, Max felt the plot thickening. And for once, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to stay in the background.
End of Chapter 17.