The final decision belonged to the boss and the first wife. And to her their word was law.
Ciry barely had time to process that betrayal before Flora's voice broke the silence—syrupy sweet and laced with malice.
"Don't cry, Ciry," she said, tilting her head mockingly. "You'll finally be useful for once."
Ciry cries and asks sadly, "What about Luka?"
Cynthia smiles wickedly from her seat in the corner of the sitting area. "Luka belongs to me now."
Luka, a charming young singer, who had unknowingly captured the hearts of both Cynthia and Ciry.
While both admired him from afar, it was Ciry who gently found her way into Luka's heart.
Their connection blossomed like a quiet melody, leaving Cynthia heartbroken, her admiration quietly fading into bittersweet longing.
Ciry shot to her feet, rage burning through her veins. Without another word, she turned on her heel and ran. Up the stairs.
Through the hallway.
Into her room.
The door slammed shut with a deafening bang, rattling the walls.
Her chest heaved as she threw herself onto her bed, burying her face in the sheets as a broken sob tore through her.
For a long time, she just lay there, the agony twisting inside her.
Then, with shaking hands, she reached for her purse—the same one she had tossed onto the bed earlier—and fumbled for her phone.
She pressed the call button.
Her best friend's name flashed on the screen.
Ringing…
The call went straight to voicemail.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
She tried calling her other friend, the phone rang no response. She called again and again there was no response.
A desperate, heart-wrenching scream ripped from her throat as she clutched the phone, her fingers digging into the fabric of her bedsheets.
And then, she broke.
Sobs wracked her body as she kicked her legs in frustration, her cries muffled by the soft comforter.
Because no matter how much she screamed, no matter how much she fought…
No one was listening.
Seconds faded into minutes, stretching endlessly.
Ciry lay motionless on her bed, her tear-streaked face pressed against the pillow, her sobs long since reduced to silent hiccups.
Then, slowly, she sat up.
She wiped her tears, and a cold, menacing laugh rose from her throat.
She knew what she had to do.
Snatching a notebook from her nightstand, she opened it and began scribbling furiously—plotting every detail of how she's going to ruin the marriage.
Never is she going to ever accept a fate like this.
She wants to be Luka's one and only and that is what's gonna happen.
Downstairs, George, Marla, Cynthia, Flora—sat in uneasy silence.
Flora narrowed her eyes toward the ceiling, then glanced at the others. "Is Ciry alright. I think I heard her laughing madly. Is she planning to burn the house again?"
Cynthia raised an eyebrow. "She's always un
predictable."
...
Next day early in the morning,
Ciry's dressing room was a whirlwind of movement as maids hurried about, their hands working with practiced precision.
Some applied the finishing touches to her makeup, while others adjusted the intricate dress still hanging on the mannequin, making sure every detail was flawless.
A few attended to her hair, curling and pinning each strand to perfection. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and the low murmur of attendants ensuring nothing went wrong.
"Miss, which shoes will you wear?" one maid asked, holding up two pairs in her hands.
One pair gleamed with diamonds—extravagant stilettos that caught the candlelight. The other, a glossy blue platform with delicate straps.
Ciry barely looked at them. Instead, she asked, "How about a pair of plain flip-flops?"
Silence.
The maids froze, their eyes darting to one another in disbelief. A few exchanged nervous glances, their hands hovering uncertainly.
"I said," she repeated, her tone firm now, "a pair of flip-flops, please."
One maid swallowed hard. The air in the room thickened, as if trouble was brewing on the horizon.
Another maid, eager to change the subject, stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Young Miss, your dress is ready."
Ciry turned toward the gown. It was breathtaking—a white masterpiece adorned with silver and gold threads, intricate floral designs woven into the sheer fabric that cascaded over the neck and arms.
Even from where she stood, untouched on the mannequin, it looked like it belonged to a goddess. It hung, waiting for her to step into it, to become the perfect vision of elegance.
But Ciry barely reacted. She turned away, her voice soft but resolute. "I'm fine just as I am."
The maids exchanged glances but said nothing. They didn't dare question her, though their furtive looks spoke volumes.
Instead of the gown, Ciry stood in the middle of the grand room wearing a simple white pajama set adorned with colorful bunny faces—a stark contrast to the regal dress waiting for her.
Then, the doors swung open with force.
The chief butler, a woman of rigid discipline and unwavering devotion, entered, her eyes widening at the sight. She clutched her chest, her breath catching in shock.
"Oh my God, you're not ready!" she gasped, horror coloring her voice.
Ciry smirked, turning to face her with an air of quiet defiance. "I am ready, Cherry," she said, her voice slow and deliberate.
She met the butler's disbelieving gaze, her own eyes filled with something unreadable—mischief, defiance, or perhaps something darker. Then, with a breath, she whispered,
"I am so ready."
Cherry placed a gentle yet firm hand on Ciry's shoulder, her voice taking on a soft, forced edge. "I know it's hard," she said, her eyes a mix of sympathy and duty. "But this is your moment. Your life is about to change forever—you should at least try to enjoy it."
Ciry let out a hollow laugh, her lips twisting into a bitter smirk. "Yeah, I should really enjoy being a bargaining chip. A pawn in someone else's game." The sarcasm dripped from her words. "Never been so thrilled in my life."
Cherry sighed, but before she could speak again, Ciry let out a chilling dark chuckle, "my wedding my choice, " she shrugged.