Leonard's father was already parked on the sofa like a statue, all sharp suits and cold eyes, barely offering her a glance. Classic. Melisa could've tripped on the threshold and bled out, and he might've sighed at the stain on the carpet. His wife, though—Mrs. Soveir—stood up halfway, took two steps forward as if propelled by manners, then stopped like someone had pressed pause.
Melisa didn't blame her. Who wouldn't hesitate in front of a last-minute substitute bride?
"Hello, Uncle. Aunty," she said with the kind of polite calm that only came from being too tired to care anymore. She could practically hear the ghost of her dream self whispering Just smile, Melisa. Be grateful you even got a seat at the table.
Mrs. Soveir blinked, then offered a seat beside her. "Come, sit here, Melisa."
Melisa did. Because why not? She'd already signed away her life—might as well get a cushioned seat out of it.
She sat down slowly, folding her hands neatly in her lap, the way you do when you're visiting strangers who are technically now your in-laws. She glanced up—and, oh. There was Leonard, lurking silently behind his mother like a perfectly tailored shadow. His expression? About as readable as a blank wall.
Of course he'd mastered the fine art of poker face. Being born into this family probably came with a course in emotional constipation.
As her nerves built into a nice internal storm, Melisa tried to pretend she wasn't seconds away from pulling a vanishing act. And then—warmth.
Mrs. Soveir's hand, gently covering hers.
"Melisa, you remember how you used to come here with your sister?" Her voice was gentle, too gentle. Like someone walking across thin ice. "Olivia was always lively… running around. You were quiet. Always by my side, listening. Massaging my hands."
Ah yes, the forgotten extra in Olivia's golden child show.
Still, Melisa gave her a soft smile. "I remember," she said. "You liked chamomile tea. You're allergic to peanuts."
That earned her a startled blink, and then a real smile—tentative, almost guilty. "You're such a filial child."
Aunt Eleanor's eyes glistened, but Melisa could tell it wasn't just nostalgia. It was the guilt of someone who had liked her more than Olivia, but still watched her be handed off like a spare toothbrush.
Before the moment could turn even vaguely heartwarming, Mr. Soveir cleared his throat like a man announcing the death of sentiment.
"Ahem. Melisa."
She snapped to attention, ready to be cross-examined, but then—enter the maid, stage left, bearing news that dinner was served.
Saved by soup.
"Let's talk after eating," Mr. Soveir said, rising like a judge adjourning court.
The dining table was a battlefield disguised as mahogany. Melisa stood there awkwardly for a second, unsure if she was supposed to take her usual role as invisible guest or now-grudgingly-accepted daughter-in-law.
Aunt Eleanor didn't wait for her to figure it out. She took her hand and led her to a seat beside her. "Here," she said softly. "Eat."
And eat she did. Mostly because Aunt Eleanor wouldn't stop piling food into her bowl like she was afraid Melisa might vanish if not properly weighed down with carbs.
"You've always been too thin," Aunt Eleanor muttered, half-chiding, half-affectionate.
Melisa didn't know what to say to that, so she just chewed and nodded. It felt... familiar. A little surreal. Like deja vu, but warmer. Not that she trusted it. Comfort was a suspicious thing in this family.
Meanwhile, the father and son duo discussed business in low, unbothered voices—just loud enough for Melisa to catch the words "collaboration" and "Everhart Corporation."
Ah yes. The Olivia Everhart Corporation. Gifted to her like a Barbie Dreamhouse, except with shareholders and a press release.
Melisa sipped her soup. It tasted fine. Bland. Like every "equal treatment" speech her parents had ever given.
She tried to focus on her food, but in the dream—no, in the future—this exact meeting had happened. The negotiation had gone through. The project had flopped. Leonard cleaned up the mess while she spiraled into a depression and Tristan blamed her for the Soveirs' loss.
Not this time.
When the last spoon clinked against the last bowl, she placed her chopsticks down, spine straightening. "Uncle George," she said quietly, "I have something to say."
Everyone looked up. Leonard paused mid-sip. Aunt Eleanor's chopsticks froze midair.
"Hm," Mr. Soveir said. "Let's go to the study."
As they got up, Melisa turned. "Aunt, are you coming?"
Aunt Eleanor hesitated. "I have to visit an old friend. She's unwell." Her gaze softened. "We'll talk later in my room, alright?"
Melisa nodded. Of course. Leave the shark tank to the two men. Perfect.
Once inside the study, Mr. Soveir gestured to a chair without looking up from the folder he was flipping through. Melisa sat, every movement composed, the way you learn to be when you've spent your life walking on eggshells.
"I assume this is about the project," Uncle George said.
Melisa gave a nod. "Yes. I hope you won't consider me while making the decision."
That made him pause. He looked up. Even Leonard blinked.
"The deal isn't worth it," she added, voice steady. "The numbers don't support the risk. Even if the Everharts are pushing for it… I don't want you to accept it just because of me."
Silence. For a beat, it pressed against her like a weight.
Then—Mr. Soveir chuckled. Not warmly. More like someone who just discovered their chess opponent brought their own pieces.
"Interesting," he said. "Most people would push for family interest."
Leonard finally spoke. "You've looked into the proposal?"
Melisa shrugged slightly. "The presentation was… optimistic. But the market isn't. You'll be footing the bill for their gamble."
Mr. Soveir leaned back, crossing his arms. "You're not bad at this."
Leonard didn't speak, but his gaze on her had changed. Less cold now. Still unreadable—but something had shifted.
Melisa, despite herself, felt her pulse quicken. Not from fear, but from the terrifying realization that she had surprised them.
For better or worse.
After a pause, Mr. Soveir leaned forward slightly. "What do you think about this marriage?"
And there it was.
Melisa didn't answer right away. Her fingers curled against her skirt again.
What did she think?
That she was a replacement, yes. That she had no idea what Leonard wanted from this union. That once, years ago, he had confessed to her behind the school gym. His ears had turned pink, and his composed mask molded into awkwardness, running away after confessing."
But before she could think about her answer, Olivia had fallen sick, and everything—like always—had spun back to revolve around her sister.
By the time Melisa had thought to bring it up again, Leonard already left her side , being busy like nothing else in the world matter expect his books.
So, no. She didn't think that childish confession had meant anything. Certainly not now.
But if she said that aloud, she'd sound petty. Weak. Like a girl still chasing ghosts.
"I think," she said slowly, "I've already married into the family. I'll do my part."
Neutral. Professional. And emotionally distant enough to be safe.
Mr. Soveir nodded. "Fair enough."
Leonard said nothing.
Melisa didn't need him to. She wasn't here to be validated. She wasn't here to fight for love, or attention, or whatever Olivia used to collect like trophies.
She was here to survive.
And maybe—if she was lucky enough—to win on her own terms.