It was some god-knows-what ceremony — a fundraiser? a merger? a celebration of someone's third divorce? Althea had stopped trying to understand these "events." All she knew was everyone was shaking hands, smiling way too much, and pretending they weren't sweating in expensive clothes.
She stood near the corner of the ridiculously oversized buffet table, rocking a half-bun, half-braid hairstyle that screamed I tried but also gave up halfway through, and that bold red lipstick — the kind that looked like it was made for no one but her. Honestly, it was her only personality trait today.
She popped a bite of some five-layered golden puff-pastry thing into her mouth and chewed with the expression of someone who just saw heaven. "Oh my God," she mumbled through a mouthful. "Rich people food actually tastes like—like sin."
Everything was so good, she was two bites away from proposing to the caterer.
If she had to rank her current coping mechanisms, the pastry was winning. A close second was denial. Third? Looking like she was doing great so no one would ask what happened. Because if they did — if anyone asked "how are you?" in the wrong tone — she'd probably burst into tears and ruin this satin-and-skeletons soirée.
"Oh wow," she whispered after popping a mini tart into her mouth. "That's it. I'm becoming a trophy wife."
Adrian? Who?
That whole heart-wrenching, feelings-spilling incident? It should've left her broken. Crying. Curled up in bed with a sad playlist and ice cream. But instead, here she was, emotionally fried but physically fed.
Maybe that was the real healing.
She reached for the cupcake with the reverence of someone reaching for a holy relic, when a voice cut through the crowd like a butter knife through, well, this divine croissant she'd just eaten.
"Well, someone's clearly going through it," the voice said, smug.
She turned.
Maximilian. Of course.
Of all the rich, tailored-suit-wearing men in this building, it had to be the one with the devil's smirk and the audacity of a man who's never been told no.
Althea blinked. "Do you… make it a hobby to sneak up on women enjoying their cupcakes?"
He grinned, hands in pockets, looking perfectly smug. "Just you. It's like watching a wildlife documentary. 'The female, threatened by emotional vulnerability, turns to carbs for survival.'"
She rolled her eyes and bit into the cupcake like she was making a point.
"You've had, what, five of those already?" Max peeked.
"Three and a half. And I'll fight for the half."
Max cocked his head. "You planning to marry the dessert table or…?"
"Only if it proposes before another emotionally unavailable man does," she replied sweetly, licking frosting off her thumb.
He laughed. Actually laughed. "God, you're unhinged."
Althea licked a bit of frosting off her finger, unbothered. "Listen. Life is short. People are disappointing. Let me have this."
He laughed. "Ah, so we're in that phase of heartbreak?"
"Phase two," she said, holding up a finger. "Phase one was denial. I skipped to phase two because they had truffle mac and cheese. And phase three is digestion, which I plan to do while avoiding all conversations involving feelings."
Max leaned on the edge of the table. "Honestly? Respect."
She let the silence fall for a second. She didn't really want to talk about Adrian and Max seemed to be respecting her silence. But then again, everything — the party, the food, even the lipstick — was still echoing with the ghost of him.
She sighed. "You know what the worst part is?"
Max looked at her, not mocking this time. "What?"
"I was ready. For him. For the whole stupid fairytale ending. And I don't even know if I loved him, or just the idea of being chosen."
That quiet honesty sat between them like an open wound.
But she blinked, shoved another tart in her mouth, and added, "Anyway, I'm emotionally flatlining, but these sweet things are keeping me alive."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're actually hilarious when you're spiraling."
Althea rolled her eyes and took another bite of cupcake. "Trust me, if I wanted to flirt with you, you'd know."
"Oh, bold." He looked impressed. "So when does that start?"
She paused. "After I finish phase four."
"Which is?"
"Rolling home like a stuffed dumpling."
He chuckled and leaned against the edge of the table. "Honestly, can't blame you. This food is insane. I had a shrimp that tasted like… ambition."
She snorted. "I had a mini quiche that made me reevaluate my life choices."
"Same. I briefly considered becoming a chef. Then I remembered I burn cereal."
"...How do you burn cereal?"
"I have range."
She laughed. She noticed how Max didn't once mention that incident about Adrian and Alaya. He was comfortable and... easy to be around.
She looked at him for a second, then turned back to the table and plucked another tart off the tray. "So, you here for the free food or the family politics? You seem to be lurking always."
"My dad's trying to convince someone to invest in something I zoned out of halfway through the sentence."
Althea nodded like she understood. "Classic rich-people noise."
In between bites of another tart — raspberry this time, almost illegally good — Althea saw Alaya Serrano.
And just like that, the tart got stuck mid-chew.
There she was. Gliding in like she owned the building, the catering company, and possibly the floor beneath her heels. Hair styled in those effortless soft waves rich girls were born with, a cream satin dress hugging her figure like it had been designed for her and probably was. She was talking to someone in a group of sharp-jawed socialites, lips curled in a smirk, wine glass in hand like she'd never in her life known the weight of emotional damage.
Althea almost choked. "No freaking way."
"What?" Max asked, looking mildly concerned.
She didn't answer. She just grabbed him by the wrist, cupcake still in hand, and dragged him — through a sea of perfume, pearls, and passive-aggressive laughter — behind one of the giant fake floral columns at the edge of the ballroom.
Max stumbled. "Okay, okay, woman—Chill. Are we doing a heist?"
"Shush!" she hissed, peeking out like an undercover agent on a sugar high.
He blinked at her, utterly baffled. "Did you just kidnap me with frosting fingers?"
Althea shoved him down slightly, so he wasn't blocking her line of vision. "I said shush! Look. Look at the demon in satin."
Max peeked over her shoulder. "...Alaya?"
"Yes, Alaya," she said dramatically. "What is she doing here?"
"I don't know," he replied, unimpressed. "Maybe she likes tarts and cupcakes too?"
Althea shot him a glare. "This isn't funny. What if she came to emotionally assassinate me in public?"
Max gave her a look. "You're literally hiding behind fake hydrangeas like this is a Bond film."
"She looks like a Bond villain!" Althea whispered, voice rising in panic. "She's even doing that thing — you know — the rich girl slow blink that means 'I know your insecurities, and I'm better than all of them.'"
Max gave a dramatic sigh. "Althea, this is a party. Rivals get invited to the same parties. It's the tradition. They'll shake hands while plotting each other's downfall and then pose together for Vogue. Standard rich girl procedure."
"She looks insanely gorgeous," Althea muttered bitterly.
"Oh, so this is a self-esteem emergency. Got it." Max nodded solemnly.
Althea peeked out again. "She's wearing Valentino. I can smell the price tag from here."
"She smells expensive. Like danger and imported lavender."
"She smells like Adrian's type," Althea hissed, popping the rest of the cupcake into her mouth in self-defense.
Max raised both brows. "So that's what this is about."
Althea turned to him, wild-eyed. "Don't psychoanalyze me right now, Maximilian. I am delicate."
"It's Max. And you're hiding behind a plant, whispering like a Bond villain's ex-girlfriend."
"I'm being cautious," she hissed. "Next time I see her, it better be in court."
Max leaned casually against the pillar. "Should I get us disguises? Or are you going to pull out a trench coat and spy glasses next?"
Althea ignored him and peeked out again. Alaya had just laughed at something — a soft, graceful laugh like she wasn't a villain at all, just a Disney princess who won in every universe.
Althea whispered, scandalized, "She's even laughing like someone who's never cried over a man."
Max was trying so hard not to laugh. "You're obsessed."
"I'm a researcher."
"Oh my god," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Do you want me to go talk to her? Ask what serum she uses for that terrifyingly perfect skin?"
"No!" Althea clutched his arm like he'd just offered to throw himself into shark-infested waters. "Then she'll know we were watching her!"
"…She already knows. You were chewing while staring. It was like a horror movie. Cupcake Girl Watches."
Althea paused, slightly horrified. "Do you think she saw?"
"I think everyone in a five-mile radius saw."
Max gave her a smirk, smug and insufferably entertained. "You're lucky you're cute when you spiral."
Althea narrowed her eyes. "You're lucky I haven't weaponized this cupcake."
He chuckled, but then tilted his head. "Why does she bother you so much, though? You're not usually this… twitchy."
Althea looked away, suddenly fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "I don't know. She's just… so effortless. The type that always wins. The type Adrian was probably supposed to end up with."
Max was quiet for a beat. Then he said, softer this time, "Yeah? Well, maybe the universe has a thing for plot twists."
Althea blinked, caught off-guard.
He gave her a small shrug. "Or maybe some people don't need to look effortless to be the ones everyone ends up remembering."
She stared at him. Then muttered, "That was dangerously close to a compliment."
"Yeah. I'm probably emotionally spiraling too. Let's blame the shrimp."
They stood there for a moment, two mildly deranged humans hiding behind fake flowers at an event they barely understood, one in red lipstick and emotional damage, the other in a suit and questionable loyalty.
Althea sighed. "Let's go. I think I'm done spying. And eating. And maybe living."
Max grinned. "You sure? I hear Alaya's heading for the drinks table. We could follow her like diet-obsessed raccoons."
She shoved him lightly. "Shut up and walk. And don't act like you didn't enjoy this."
"Oh, I absolutely did. This is the most fun I've had all evening. You should spiral more often."
Althea groaned as they stepped back into the crowd. "Don't encourage me. I'm unhinged enough."
He offered his arm again. She took it.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered why it was always Max beside her in these ridiculous moments — moments that started with chaos and ended with laughter.
And maybe, just maybe, she didn't hate it as much as she pretended to.
Althea had just stepped out from behind the hydrangea when it happened.
Alaya turned.
And their eyes met.
It was less of a gaze and more of a collision. The kind where your lungs forget how to function, and your brain starts buffering like bad Wi-Fi. For a fraction of a second, Alaya blinked — slow, elegant, calculated. Then, her lips curved into a soft, knowing smile.
Like she hadn't just detonated a bomb by showing up.
Like she hadn't been the final boss in Althea's already tragic romantic arc.
"Oh no," Althea breathed.
"What?" Max followed her gaze.
"She saw me."
"She probably saw your soul trying to escape your body."
And then — because the universe was done pretending to be subtle — Alaya started walking toward them.
In heels that didn't dare make a sound.
"Abort mission," Althea whispered. "Abort, abort, I wasn't trained for this level of psychological warfare—"
Too late.
End of chapter 9.