Robin
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There's a special kind of satisfaction in watching Heather bend to my will.

She tried to resist, I felt it-the hesitation, the guilt, the way her lips parted like she wanted to protest. But in the end, she gave in. Just like I knew she would.

A small victory. But it's only the beginning.

I take my time getting dressed, slipping into lazy slacks and a black T-shirt, the kind of outfit that requires no effort. I don't need to look good for them. I don't need to play along like this is some happy, normal family gathering. Because it isn't.

By the time I make my way downstairs, the house is already buzzing. The smell of coffee and fresh pastries drifts through the air, the sound of clinking silverware and laughter grating against my nerves.

I school my expression, polite enough to offer lazy greetings as I step into the dining room. Even to Heather's parents, who have no idea how vile their beloved daughter really is.

I can't wait to see their faces when they discover this marriage is nothing but a scam.

Heather's sitting beside Javis, looking every bit the perfect fiancée. Her smile is soft, her posture flawless, like she's straight out of some romantic fairy tale.

Javis, ever the doting fiancé, presses a kiss to her cheek between sips of coffee, his hand lazily tracing circles over her knuckles like they're the picture of young love.

It's almost too perfect. Too rehearsed. They could be in a magazine spread, selling the illusion of a fairytale love story that, for a moment, even I might have believed.

It should be convincing.

Except every time I look at Heather, she looks away. Her gaze darts to the side, like she's trying to avoid something-or someone.

It's as if she can't bear to hold eye contact for too long, like every glance is a betrayal of something she hasn't yet come to terms with.

The way her eyes flit nervously to the table or the ceiling, anywhere but meeting my gaze, tells me everything I need to know.

She's tense, shoulders a little too stiff, jaw a little too tight, like she's holding back something-a storm, maybe, or just the weight of this whole charade.

Her fingers curl slightly under Javis's hold, like she's trying not to react, like every touch reminds her of something else. Something she shouldn't want.

I see it in the way her lips press together, fighting a tremor that's barely there but so obvious to anyone who's paying attention.

The way she shifts in her seat, as if Javis's touch is both familiar and foreign, comforting and yet suffocating all at once. It's not right.
None of this is right.

And fuck, it burns in my chest.

I shove a piece of toast into my mouth just to keep from saying something reckless. There's a grand plan to all this. I have to be patient.

Breakfast drags on longer than necessary, but eventually, we're ushered into the lounge for the fun part: wedding planning.

"Melanie, grab my journal," Mom instructs, her voice light, humming with the excitement of planning her only son's wedding.

Melanie rolls her eyes but obeys, disappearing for a few moments before returning with Mom's prized leather-bound book-the Holy Grail of planning.

I sink into the couch, watching as my mother flips through pages of elegant script, ticking off lists with all the precision of a military strategist.

"Alright, let's go through what still needs to be finalized," she says, poised with a pen in hand.

She starts listing everything out, as if we're all taking this seriously, as if this wedding isn't a complete farce.

1. Venue finalization - Even though we're in Italy, the specifics still need to be chosen. Gardens? A vineyard? A villa? Something expensive and extravagant, no doubt.

2. Catering selection - A chef's tasting needs to be arranged, which is just a fancy way of saying everyone gets to eat for free while pretending to care about wedding food.

3. Dress fittings - Heather's already done a preliminary fitting obviously from back home, but apparently, it's a whole process. (God forbid a rich bride wears a dress that isn't tailored to absolute perfection.)

4. Guest list confirmations - As if we need more people involved in this mess.

5. Flowers, table settings, music, and whatever else makes a wedding look like it came out of a rom-com montage.

I barely listen. I sit back, nodding when appropriate, pretending this is all normal.

Heather plays along, answering questions, flashing careful smiles. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was actually enjoying herself.

But I do know better now.

By the time it's over, I'm exhausted. Not because I did anything, but because existing in this room, in this house, with her is an Olympic-level endurance test.

I just want to go back to my room, bury myself under the covers, and forget about this entire day.

But apparently, I'm not that lucky.

"Alright, Robin, you're driving Javis and Heather to check out the venue options," Mom announces, scribbling something into her journal.

I blink. "I'm what?"

Melanie stretches out on the couch, smirking. "I was supposed to be driving, but I have work, so..." She waves a dismissive hand. "Enjoy third-wheeling."

Why can't they get a cab? Why can't Javis drive for fucks sake!

I turn to my mother, hoping she'll realize how uncomfortable this is, but she just waves me off, already moving on to the next topic.

Heather shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Good. If I'm suffering, so is she.

Javis, meanwhile, looks entirely unbothered. "It'll be fun," he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You're the most opinionated person I know-who better to help us pick a venue?"

Sarcasm.

I stare at him. I could list about a thousand people better suited for this, including a random drunk tourist we could pull off the street.

But I say nothing. Because I did want this.

I wanted to be in the middle of this mess.

I just didn't think it would be this fucking annoying.

Melanie shoots me a wink before escaping, leaving me with the happy couple and my ever-growing resentment.

This sucks.