Althea came home early from office to find her mother on the phone, smiling with all her teeth — the dangerous kind of smile — and her father nodding with the weight of a thousand fake promises.
She didn't even need to ask. The energy in the room said it all.
"Engagement's been moved up," her mother said, like it was just a weather update. "A week from now. And the wedding — week after that. Isn't that lovely?"
Althea blinked once, twice, then stared at the untouched tea cooling on the table, as if it might explain the logic behind this timeline.
Adrian's family had always felt like a room where everyone spoke in code. Gentle laughs, veiled looks, hands always resting politely — but never relaxed. Like they knew something she didn't and weren't planning to tell her until it was too late.
Now they were rushing things. No discussions. No time to breathe.
And why did it all feel so calculated?
The Velasco's moved like chess players. Smiling. Quiet. Always five steps ahead. Every gesture just performative enough to feel real. They called it tradition. Or synergy. Or good timing.
Althea called it suspicious.
Why the sudden rush?
What were they so afraid she might see, if she stayed still long enough?
Althea sat down on the edge of the couch, barely hearing her mother list florists. Her eyes drifted to her phone. No new messages. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She didn't know what to ask anymore.
Because this didn't feel like a love story. It felt like a countdown.
Her chest felt too tight for how quiet the house was. Her finger hovered over her phone. Trying to find a contact that she never saved on her phone. No. She tapped Adrian's name and pressed call.
It rang.
And rang. Just as she considered hanging up, it connected.
"Althea?" His voice was warm. Familiar. Almost apologetic.
"Hey," she said, soft. "Can we meet? Just us."
A pause.
Then, "Yeah. Of course. When?"
"6 pm."
His tone was light. "Always have time for you. Pick the place."
Her chest tightened.
"Alright," she said. "You know that old café near the river? The one with the green chairs?"
A faint chuckle. "Where you spilled iced tea on a cat once?"
"That's the one." She said with a faint smile.
"I'll be there."
When he hung up, she stared at the screen a moment longer than necessary. That voice—warm, easy, like that night under the string lights when she'd laughed more than she had in weeks.
The night she thought maybe.
Maybe she could fall.
Maybe he saw her the way she wanted to be seen.
But now… the air around her was too still. And the warmth of that memory was starting to rot.
6 pm.
Althea sat by the window, elbows resting on the worn wooden table, a half-drunk cup of coffee beside her. The rain hadn't started, but the clouds outside were heavy with the promise of it. She watched a woman across the street argue with a parking meter. Even that seemed easier to handle than what waited in her life.
Her reflection in the glass looked calm. Too calm. Inside, her mind was screaming.
This isn't right.
She wasn't a romantic, not really. But she hadn't imagined her future starting with rushed paperwork and three-week deadlines disguised as celebrations. Not with a family that wore secrets like perfume. Not when she hadn't even figured out how she felt about—
The chair across from her shifted. She looked up.
Adrian.
Hair slightly disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in a day or two. He gave her a small, sheepish smile as he sat down, like he wasn't sure he was welcome.
"You look like you left home 3 days ago," she said quietly.
He chuckled once, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're not far off."
They sat there in silence for a beat.
Then, without looking at him, she spoke.
"They want it all done in two weeks. Engagement next week. Wedding right after."
Adrian exhaled. "I know."
She looked at him now. Really looked.
"You knew?"
He nodded, slowly. "My father's pushing hard. He says it's for the deal. That if we delay, we look hesitant. Weak."
She scoffed. "So, we're just pawns. Business chips."
He didn't answer.
She stared out the window again. The first raindrop hit the glass.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's not just for show. The Velascos are slipping. Quietly, but fast. There's an acquisition in play. Something big. If the Serrano group gets there first…"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Althea's fingers stilled on the glass. Her breath caught. "Wait," she said slowly. "The Serranos?"
Adrian blinked. "Yeah."
Her brain scrambled, pieces snapping into place with a cold, cruel clarity. Serrano. That last name. That smile. That mysterious laugh like she knew exactly what Althea didn't. Alaya Serrano.
She felt her spine straighten. "Alaya," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to Adrian.
He looked up. "What?"
But Althea was no longer in the café.
She was in that cold room, remembering Alaya's perfect posture and perfect smirk and perfect everything, playing along when she asked about Max. Oh? Really? And then that laugh. That knowing laugh.
Of course.
The Velascos weren't just trying to rush a wedding for appearances. They were trying to seal off vulnerability. Lock Adrian in before the Serranos could wedge their way in deeper.
Before Alaya could.
Adrian's eyes widened. "Wait. You met Alaya?"
Althea leaned back slowly, expression deadpan. "She spawned out of thin air, glowed like a divine prophecy, and then disappeared before I could verify if she was a fever dream. Yes, I met her."
Adrian dragged a hand down his face. "What is she planning..."
"She's gorgeous," Althea corrected, and then muttered, "And possibly plotting my downfall."
There was a pause. "This isn't a marriage," she added, tone dry. "It's a corporate hostage situation with floral arrangements."
Adrian exhaled, clearly too tired to deny it.
She took a slow sip of her drink. "You know, I used to think arranged marriages were outdated. Turns out I just hadn't met your family."
Adrian gave her a look. "Trust me. I am the prize pig at this year's business fair."
Even though he was talking, Adrian looked… off.
Not just stressed. Uncomfortable. Like he wanted to say something but couldn't figure out where to start. The familiar expression Althea knew from the very first day she met him.
Althea watched him, brows knitting slightly. "You're making that face again," she said quietly.
"What face?"
"The 'I swallowed a secret and now it's stuck in my throat' face."
He didn't laugh. Didn't deflect. Just looked away, jaw tight.
Her voice softened. "Adrian."
He hesitated—long enough that she thought he might pretend he hadn't heard her. But then:
"There's someone," he said finally. "Someone I… I've had feelings for. For a while."
That didn't sting. Not at first.
It just… clicked.
Althea blinked once, expression unreadable. "Let me guess," she said, forcing her voice to stay even. "Raven black hair. Smiles like she's five steps ahead of everyone. As if her looks could kill."
Adrian's head snapped toward her. "You knew?"
"I guessed." She gave a little shrug. "It's not hard to connect the dots. You looked like you'd seen a ghost when I mentioned her earlier."
He didn't deny it.
Didn't need to.
Althea tilted her head. "So… Alaya?"
"I don't know what she is anymore," he admitted, voice low. "I thought I understood her. But now? She's… playing a different game. She's always known more than she lets on. And I can't tell if she's with me or just using me."
Althea let out a soft breath. Not judgmental. Just thoughtful.
That explained it. The stiffness in his spine. The hesitation in his voice. Adrian wasn't just dreading an arranged marriage—he was already in love with a ghost wearing lipstick and a smirk.
And that ghost happened to be a Serrano.
Althea tapped a finger against her glass. "She's part of the reason your family's panicking, isn't she?"
He nodded once.
"And you're still in love with her."
He didn't answer. Which was answer enough.
And that silence made her stomach drop.
Althea leaned back, looking out the window again, lashes low. "Of course you are," she murmured.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I thought we meant something."
And it had—to her.
Because for the first time in years, someone saw her. Not the curated daughter. Not the poised bride. Just Althea. Awkward, curious, full of questions. And he looked at her, like she wasn't too much or too quiet. Like she was enough.
And she'd let herself believe. That maybe, just maybe, this was what it felt like to be chosen.
But she was wrong. It wasn't love. It was convenience. A soft little dream wrapped in timing and tension.
Adrian leaned forward, his voice low, almost ashamed. "It's not like I meant to use you. But maybe I did. Just to forget her—for a while. Because she's a Serrano and that's practically poison in my house."
She didn't protest.
Because the truth was, she wanted to stay.
Even knowing this.
Even now.
She shook her head. "Maybe it wasn't love. Maybe I just admired the part of you that looked at me like I wasn't invisible."
Adrian's voice was low. "I didn't lie about that."
"Didn't you?" she asked, gently. Not angry. Just… tired.
Althea didn't move. Her eyes didn't leave his, but something about her stillness made him feel smaller.
He went on, softer now. "But I can't do this anymore. They want the wedding in two weeks. They're rushing it like sealing the deal will stop everything from falling apart. But I can't stand there and lie. Not to her. Not to myself."
He hesitated. Then, with the gentleness of someone handing over something that might explode:
"I need you to help me marry her. Quietly. Cleanly. Just… get me through until then. No chaos. No scandals. They already think I'm slipping. If you walk away now, they'll lose it completely. But if you stay, just until the wedding, it'll give us room to do it right."
Adrian leaned forward and gently put his hand over hers. Knowing it would stab the right spots. "Althea, please... I'm counting on you."
And just like that, she understood.
He didn't want her. He wanted her steadiness. Her silence. Her ability to make everything look okay.
He didn't add how that would make Althea the villain in his parents' eyes.
He didn't have to. She already knew.
So this was what it felt like.
To be the placeholder.
He wasn't a villain. He wasn't cruel. He was just—lost. Romantic in the worst possible way. Still tied to the ghost of someone who smiled like she already owned the ending. Still chasing after a woman who wore ambition like perfume and always stayed just out of reach.
And now he was asking her to help him cross the finish line with someone else. Quietly. Cleanly. No chaos.
And still—still—she didn't hate him.
Not now. Not ever.
She wished she did.
Because despite everything, part of her still saw the boy beneath the pressure. The one who laughed in gardens and whispered apologies with his eyes.
And as Adrian sat across from her, hand over hers, asking for help like she was some kind of harbor before he set sail for someone else—she finally let herself ask the question that had been flickering in the back of her mind for weeks now.
Had she been forcing her heart to shape itself around the idea of him—around his charm, his sadness, his carefully unfinished sentences—because it was easier than admitting that her feelings never really caught fire the way they were supposed to?
If this was the role she was supposed to play — the good girl, the quiet bride, the footnote in Adrian Velasco's saga — then maybe it was time to ruin the script entirely.
Maybe it was time to walk out of the story.
Even if it made her the villain.
End of chapter 8.