Chapter Text
The morning sun spilled across the bridal suite in warm gold, soft enough to flatter every shade of silk and chiffon draped along the walls.
Fresh lilies breathed perfume into the air, mingling with the faint buzz of curling irons and the murmured chatter of stylists.
Ling Ling sat in the center of it all, still and poised, her hands folded delicately in her lap as one of the makeup artists brushed a final sweep of rose across her lips.
It was the kind of day she had dreamed of since she was a girl—the hushed thrill of slipping into white silk, the gentle clink of champagne flutes carried on trays, the knowledge that just beyond these walls a church full of friends and family waited for her.
For them.
Her heart swelled.
Mintracha.
Her fiancée, her lover, her anchor through three years of growing pains and quiet joy.
Today would seal it all.
The makeup artist leaned back and smiled.
“Perfect,” she said. “You look like a dream.”
Ling Ling smiled faintly at her reflection in the mirror.
She did look like a dream—eyes softened with shimmer, skin aglow, her veil like clouds cascading down her back.
Today was supposed to be forever.
Her phone buzzed against the table.
She reached for it without thinking, expecting another flood of congratulations.
The corner of her mouth curled as she unlocked the screen—
And then froze.
Her breath hitched.
Her pulse stumbled.
It was a text from an unknown number.
One photo.
Then another.
Then more, each loading with cruel precision.
Mintracha—her Mintracha—arm around another woman, stepping out of a hotel, hair mussed, laughter caught in blurred motion.
Different days.
Different outfits.
Time stamps etched along the corners: six months, five months, four, two… even last week.
Her throat tightened until it burned.
The air in the suite seemed to press in on her.
This couldn’t be real.
Not today.
Not her.
Not them.
Her hand shook as she swiped through the evidence, each image heavier than the last.
Tears welled, threatening to smudge the meticulous work around her eyes.
Her makeup artist leaned closer.
“Miss Kwong? Are you alright?”
Ling Ling blinked hard, forcing the tears back.
She could not break here.
Not in front of everyone.
Not when her whole world was tilting under her feet.
She stood suddenly, muttering something about needing air, ignoring the startled protests behind her.
Her heels clicked like gunfire on the tiled floor as she strode out, her veil trailing like smoke.
Today was supposed to be forever.
Instead, forever had just shattered in her hands.
Orm Kornnaphat was not built for Sundays that started before noon.
She squinted at her ceiling, still tangled in sheets, when her apartment door rattled with insistent knocking.
“Orm! Wake up! Get dressed!”
Her best friend’s voice was like an alarm she never wanted.
“I am dressed,” Orm croaked, though she was very much not. She tugged the blanket tighter around her. “In pajamas. For bed. Where I belong.”
The door burst open anyway.
Her best friend Gina stormed in like a hurricane, armed with makeup bags and determination.
“My fiancé bailed last minute. You’re my plus one now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Orm groaned into her pillow.
“Nooo. I had plans. Plans with my bed. Serious commitment.”
Gina ripped the blanket away.
“Too bad. You’re coming with me. It’s my boss’s wedding.”
Which was how Orm, two hours later, found herself sitting in a polished pew of a church that looked like it belonged in a period drama, squeezed into a pastel dress she didn’t pick, hair styled against her will, her phone camera flashing under her best friend’s command.
“Smile!” Snap. “Again! Pretend you’re happy to be here!” Snap.
Orm gave the camera the deadpan glare of a prisoner in custody.
“I want pancakes. Not this.”
Her stomach grumbled in agreement.
She slumped against the pew, yawning.
“Isn’t the ceremony supposed to start already? What’s taking so long? Did the bride run away?”
Her friend smacked her arm lightly.
“Don’t jinx it!”
Orm stretched, her eyelids heavy.
If it weren’t for the faint murmurs of restless guests around them, she might’ve dozed off right there.
Weddings were supposed to be magical, but all she felt was hungry, sleepy, and vaguely resentful of every person wearing sequins within a five-foot radius.
In a side room across the church, magic had already curdled into poison.
Ling Ling stood trembling, phone clenched in her fist, as Mintracha stammered excuses that soured with every word.
“It’s not what you think—”
“You were with her!” Ling Ling’s voice cracked, equal parts rage and devastation.
She shoved the phone forward, screen glowing with betrayal. “Six months, Mint. Six months while we were planning this wedding.”
Mintracha’s face pinched, then hardened.
“I was stressed. It meant nothing.”
“Nothing?” Ling Ling’s laugh was jagged, broken. “You lied to me every single day. You held me and told me you loved me. You kissed me and promised forever—while running back to her?”
Mintracha reached for her arm, but Ling Ling pulled away like the touch burned.
“There will be no wedding,” Ling Ling spat, tears streaking her perfect face. “Not today. Not ever.”
She spun on her heel, veil whipping, and stormed down the corridor.
Mintracha followed, desperate, cornered.
The confrontation spilled into the bathroom—doors slamming open, the scent of lilies now tainted with the salt of tears.
“You can’t just walk away!” Mintracha snapped, voice rising.
“Watch me.” Ling Ling’s voice shook but her spine was iron. Her fists trembled at her sides, nails biting into skin.
Two women in white, one furious, one broken, facing each other in a room too small for all their pain.
Orm slouched lower in the pew, her phone dim in her hand, while her best friend—Gina—was busy snapping yet another selfie with the floral arch in the background.
“Orm, sit up, you look like a corpse,” Gina hissed.
“Better than looking like a hostage,” Orm muttered, forcing a tight smile at Gina’s camera.
The flash popped anyway.
Orm sighed, hunger gnawing at her.
“Gina, be real with me. How long is this gonna take? They said eleven, it’s almost noon. My bed misses me.”
Gina gave her a playful shove.
“Stop whining. It’s my boss’s wedding. Behave. And don’t even think about sneaking out.”
“I’m not sneaking out,” Orm said, standing abruptly. “I’m sneaking… to the bathroom.”
Gina’s eyes narrowed like a warning laser.
“Fine. But don’t wander too long, okay? If you get caught poking around where you shouldn’t, I’m dead. My boss doesn’t play.”
Orm rolled her eyes.
“I’m literally going to pee, Gina. Not join a mafia ring.”
With that, she shuffled out of the pew and down the corridor, grateful to escape the suffocating perfume of flowers and restless chatter of guests.
Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she pushed open the bathroom door—
And she froze.
Two women in wedding gowns stood inside, squared off like rivals.
One’s eyes were swollen and red, streaks of mascara betraying her tears.
The other’s face was flushed with fury, jaw tight, shoulders shaking.
Their voices had gone quiet now, but the tension was so thick Orm swore she could feel it prickling her skin.
She blinked, stared, blinked again.
Brides.
Both of them.
What kind of luxury drama did I just stumble into?
Her bladder screamed louder than her brain.
“Uh… excuse me,” Orm mumbled, ducking her head.
She skirted past them and darted into a stall, locking the door with a shaky hand.
Inside, she leaned back against the door and exhaled.
Not my business. Not my problem. Just pee and leave.
The world outside the stall was muffled—sniffs, a hissed accusation, the sound of fabric shifting sharply. Orm finished up, muttering about how dresses were bathroom-unfriendly torture devices.
When she stepped back out, she froze again.
Only one bride remained.
The crying one.
She stood before the mirror, gripping the porcelain sink like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.
Her veil had slipped, hair slightly undone, eyes red and wild.
She turned when Orm approached the sink, and that gaze—shattered yet blazing—locked on her.
Orm tried a polite smile, the kind you gave strangers in elevators.
“Hi. Um. Congrats?”
The silence stretched, thick as stone.
Then the woman’s voice came, low and raw, not a plea but a command.
“Marry me.”
Orm’s hand stalled on the faucet.
“...What?”
The bride stepped closer, her reflection a haunting picture beside Orm’s.
“You. Right now. Marry me.”
Orm laughed nervously.
“That’s—haha, wow, good joke. Weddings really bring out the stress, huh? I should go tell my friend that—”
But the woman’s hand shot out, seizing her wrist with startling strength. Her eyes were a storm—red, wet, unbroken.
“I said marry me.”
“Wait, what—hey!” Orm’s voice cracked as she stumbled forward. “I don’t even know you! I just came here to pee!”
Her protest died in her throat as the bride yanked open the door and pulled her out into the corridor, heels skidding against the marble.
Voices swelled from the church beyond—the restless guests stirring as organ music thundered back to life.
Heads turned.
Gasps rippled.
And Orm, heart racing, realized with dawning horror that she was being dragged down the aisle.