Leonard's voice was low, questioning. "What are you doing here?"
Melisa let out a laugh—dry, brittle, and dangerously close to cracking. "That's rich. I was supposed to marry Tristan. So… what are you doing here?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose, like her very presence had given him a migraine. "We'll talk later."
Of course. The classic male response to emotional chaos—delay it and hope it evaporates.
He turned away smoothly, greeting guests as if nothing about this day was bizarre. Like swapping grooms at the altar was a logistical hiccup, not the stuff of nightmares.
"Mr. Dayansh," Leonard nodded politely at a middle-aged man who looked thrilled to be breathing the same air.
"Congratulations, Mr. Leonard," the man said warmly, utterly unbothered by the fact that the bride had probably been swapped like a defective product.
Melisa watched, equal parts horrified and impressed. How did Leonard manage to glide through this mess with that calm, unbothered expression? Did she miss the part where they handed out emotional anesthesia?
Maybe she was the only one whose world had tilted sideways.
"Trying to sneak away already?" came a teasing voice behind her.
She turned. Her chubby aunt stood there with a knowing grin, the kind that said she thought this was all terribly romantic.
Melisa tugged her lips into something approximating a smile. "Just heading to the bride suite."
Her aunt's eyes softened. "You okay, dear?"
No. "Just a little tired," she said.
"Well, rest up. The reception's tonight. You'll want to look radiant."
Radiant. What a word.
She nodded and drifted away quietly, her heels silent on the polished floor, like she was hoping to vanish between the cracks in the marble.
The reception blurred by in a mess of polite smiles and untouched food. Melisa barely registered what she was eating—if she even ate. Her thoughts clung to one person, looping around him like a half-broken melody.
Leonard.
He moved through the crowd like a man made of smoke—untouchable, unreadable. He said all the right things to all the right people, wearing that blandly charming mask of his. Meanwhile, she sat like a placeholder in her own wedding.
And their parents? Missing in action. Probably too embarrassed to show their faces, or perhaps hiding behind their perfectly timed silence.
By the time the last guest shuffled out with a party favor and a full stomach, Melisa felt like a deflated balloon in a rented dress. She followed Leonard into the hotel suite in silence, unsure if this counted as a honeymoon or a hostage situation.
The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that made her skin itch.
She turned to face him, arms crossed. "So… are we going to talk about this?"
Leonard loosened his tie, not sparing her a glance. "I'm taking a shower."
Right. Heaven forbid a conversation gets in the way of hygiene.
He disappeared into the bathroom like a magician, leaving behind only the sound of water and unresolved tension.
Melisa stood in the middle of the room, staring at the bed strewn with rose petals. They looked like a crime scene. Her wedding night wasn't supposed to feel like this—awkward, suffocating, and somehow lonelier than being single.
She sat down at the edge of the bed, hands in her lap, and let the silence eat at her.
Tristan. Olivia. Leonard.
They'd grown up together, a perfect quartet of polished families and shared futures. Olivia and Tristan were always the noisy ones, charming and reckless, stealing the spotlight without trying. And Leonard… he'd once been her friend. Her real friend. The kind who noticed when she was too quiet or stayed behind when she didn't want to go home.
But something had cracked along the way.
Maybe it was Leonard's sudden confession. Maybe it was Olivia's illness. Maybe it was Tristan pretending not to notice the growing distance between them.
It didn't matter now.
The water stopped.
She looked up, her heart skipping for no good reason. She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words tangled like wires in her throat.
Leonard stepped out, damp hair clinging to his forehead, the top of his shirt undone. His sleeves were rolled up, and for a moment, he didn't look like a stranger.
For a moment, he looked like the boy who once helped her rescue a kitten from a storm drain.
And then the moment passed.
He walked right by her and settled into the sofa with a book, like the wedding, the petals, the awkwardness—none of it required acknowledgement.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," she said, more out of reflex than authority.
A staff member entered, carrying a tray with steaming soup.
Melisa blinked.
She turned to Leonard, expecting him to glance up. A nod, a word, anything.
Nothing.
He read on, unbothered, as if this was a Tuesday night at home.
Still, she reached for the tray. The heat of the bowl seeped into her fingers, thawing something frozen inside her. She lifted the spoon slowly and took a sip.
Simple. Warm. Familiar.
She blinked again, surprised by the comfort in something so plain.
Maybe he didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't explain a single damn thing. But he remembered she'd skipped dinner. That had to count for something, right?
She ate in silence. When she was done, the waiter took the tray and vanished with a respectful nod, leaving her once again in that maddening hush.
"You can take the bed," Leonard said suddenly, not looking up. "I'll sleep on the sofa."
Her gaze snapped to him, searching his face.
There. A flicker of something—helplessness? Guilt?—before it disappeared behind his carefully curated indifference.
She stood up slowly, walked to the bed, and swept the rose petals aside. They fluttered to the floor like discarded promises.
Slipping under the covers, she exhaled quietly. Her body ached with exhaustion, but her mind wouldn't stop spinning.
What had happened today… didn't feel real.
She closed her eyes.
Sometime in the fog of half-sleep, she felt something brush her cheek. Warm. Tentative.
She tried to open her eyes, but it was like dreaming underwater. Her body wouldn't cooperate.
And then it was gone.
The next thing she knew, morning light was bleeding through the curtains. Her eyes flew to the clock.
8:00 AM.
Panic flared as she turned toward the sofa—empty.
Was he gone?
The bathroom door clicked.
Leonard emerged, towel slung around his shoulders, hair wet again. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.
He saw her staring and said, "Get ready. We're going home."
Just like that.
No explanations. No apologies.
But Melisa didn't move. Not right away. Her eyes followed him, and her mind quietly wondered—
When had home become the last place she wanted to return?