By the time Grace Barron reached Oakley Ponciano, the sheen of sweat dotting Oakley's forehead was unmistakable.
Grace leaned over, tapping her knuckles gently against the edge of the table, her voice low and steady:
"Are you alright?"
Oakley's small face had gone pale, lips trembling as she tried to endure what was clearly a crushing wave of pain. "I…"
Before she could finish the sentence, she suddenly felt her body lift from the chair.
She'd been picked up—cradled in someone's arms.
Startled by the sudden lack of gravity, Oakley instinctively wrapped her arms around Grace's long neck to avoid falling, their bodies suddenly much too close.
Wobbling slightly, she stiffened and yelped, "W–what are you doing?!"
All around them, heads snapped toward the scene. Oakley's cheeks flushed bright red.
Still holding her tightly, Grace glanced down, her brow furrowed.
"What do you think I'm doing? Stop moving. I'm taking you to the hospital."
Oakley had no choice but to fall silent—like a disgruntled cat with flattened ears.
Grace nodded briefly at Sabrina Myers as she passed, then carried Oakley out of the restaurant in full view of the crowd.
She gently placed Oakley into the front passenger seat, then selected the nearest hospital and sped off.
The scenery blurred past the windows. Oakley clutched her abdomen, forehead drenched in sweat, barely able to speak from the pain. There was no strength left to argue with Grace, or even talk at all.
About twenty minutes later, they pulled into the hospital's lot. Grace parked and guided her inside to get her registered.
Oakley was already drenched in cold sweat from the persistent cramps in her stomach. It felt like her insides were staging a full revolt, and she half-expected to keel over and meet her ancestors at any moment.
After some tests, the diagnosis came in: chronic stomach issues, triggered by erratic eating habits—bingeing some days, starving others. Her body had finally had enough.
Grace collected the prescribed meds and filled a paper cup with warm water before returning to Oakley's side.
"Here," she said, calm and courteous. "Take your meds. You'll feel better after."
Under the sterile, white light, Grace looked crisp, composed—like the embodiment of a modern-day gentleman.
Oakley was too exhausted to question whether Grace was an angel or a devil. She accepted the pills and thanked her weakly, swallowing them down with the water.
The taste was… vile. Even after swallowing, the bitterness clung to her tongue and throat like an unwelcome guest.
Just then, a delicate hand appeared before her, offering a crystal-clear candy.
"I've taken those before," Grace said. "They're awful. So I asked the front desk for this."
Oakley blinked in surprise.
If it weren't for their complicated history, she might've sworn that if she were into women, she'd have fallen for Grace then and there. She was that composed, that polished. Too composed, in fact. She was like a real-life Jekyll and Hyde—kind to your face, dangerous behind your back.
Still… the taste in her mouth was unbearable.
Swallowing her pride, Oakley took the candy and popped it in.
Grace watched her a moment, then added softly:
"The doctor said we caught it in time. You'll be fine. I know things have been rough lately, but you need to take better care of yourself. Eat on time. Be kind to your body."
Oakley looked like a deflated balloon, her voice hoarse. "I'd like to, really. But right now… I just can't seem to manage it."
Grace's mind flashed to the recent online frenzy. "Is it because of the scandal?"
Oakley turned her gaze toward her. "You know about it?"
Grace nodded. "Yeah."
Of course. She was her editor now. Naturally she'd know. Oakley felt silly for asking.
But even so, she fell silent. She'd always been the kind of person who attracted bad luck, ever since she was little.
Grace's voice dropped.
"The internet's like that. Most people lack critical thinking. They jump on bandwagons, believe whatever's trending. Once it snowballs, it's impossible to stop."
At that, Oakley looked at her. Her feelings suddenly tangled in knots.
This woman, who had once helped fan the flames when Oakley was under fire… now calmly explained how mob mentality worked like some kind of wise sage?
Grace glanced at the clock.
"Get some rest. Your health matters most. The draft can wait till tomorrow. I'll head out."
"Alright. Take care," Oakley replied, watching her go. Her mind too foggy to dwell on anything else, another wave of pain rippling through her.
As she lay there, the fortune teller's voice echoed in her mind.
He'd warned her to watch her stomach this year.
She hadn't believed him.
But he'd been right again.
Which meant… maybe he was right about the marriage thing too.
The thought sent a chill down her spine.
Where on earth was she going to find a woman to marry—someone trustworthy, reliable, who wouldn't backstab her like Grace?
If she picked another smiling predator, she'd be doomed.
No. She had to take this seriously. Carefully screen every potential partner.
With that resolve, Oakley pulled out her phone, opened the Skylark Forum's matchmaking board, and started a new post:
"Looking for a marriage partner. Female only. No romance, just companionship."
In the body of the post, she wrote:
"Hi. I'm 27. I don't smoke, drink occasionally, club rarely. I've got my values straight, no bad habits. I'm not interested in love or dating. I just want someone like a friend to share a household with. Preferably a woman (men, please don't message me). If this sounds like you, send me a DM. I'm here 24/7, rain or shine."
Satisfied, she tossed her phone aside and let out a sigh.
–
After leaving the hospital, Grace drove home.
The city of Skylark glowed beneath the twilight. The sky was ablaze in orange, like it had caught fire, the clouds bleeding into each other. High-rises shimmered beneath the molten hues, their glass facades catching the color like stills from a dreamlike film.
Once home, Grace arranged for a cleaning service to help pack and then remembered her aging grandmother—still anxiously waiting for news of her marriage.
Since her messy breakup with Jessica Brooks, Grace had sworn off love entirely. The mere thought of dating made her skin crawl. Honestly, she probably had PTSD.
If she waited for "the right time," her grandmother would likely never see her "settled."
Maybe it was time to follow through on her idea:
Find a woman who also didn't want love—just legal partnership. That way, her grandmother's wish could come true. Maybe they could even get it done before the big birthday celebration and surprise her.
The real question: where to find such a unicorn?
She remembered Sabrina once mentioned a local matchmaking forum.
Grace downloaded the app.
Sure enough, the matchmaking section was buzzing—but nearly every post was about finding true love and long-term romance. Barely anyone was looking for a life partner without strings.
She was about to create her own post when she spotted one that made her eyebrows rise:
"Looking for a marriage partner. Female only. No romance, just companionship."
It was uncanny. Exactly what she needed.
Grace clicked into it and read every word.
The more she read, the more certain she became—this was the one.
She immediately sent a DM:
"Hi, I just saw your post. I'm very interested. Could you share your contact info?"
The reply came quickly:
"Add me on Apptalk – MissJ2019."
Grace grabbed her spare phone, opened Apptalk, and searched the handle.
A profile popped up: a fierce-looking leopard icon and the username "Let's Fight."
Amused, Grace smiled.
She sent a request and went to shower.
Afterward, while drying her hair, she returned to her study with a cup of warm water, opened her laptop, and just as she started typing, her spare phone buzzed.
The user "Let's Fight" had accepted her friend request.
Grace grinned and typed:
"Hello?"
Let's Fight replied with a gentle smile emoji:
"Hi there."
Grace found her surprisingly soft-spoken—nothing like the aggressive username and wild profile picture.
"May I ask your name?"
Oakley, still not ready to reveal her identity, replied:
"Just call me Apple. You?"
Grace understood the hesitation and didn't push.
She thought for a moment, then typed:
"What a coincidence. I'm Pie."
Let's Fight:
"…Apple Pie?"
"Miss Pie, are you joking with me? Do I look like I only have an IQ of 25?"
"Oops. Typo. I meant 250."
"No way you're only 25 IQ. You respond way too fast. That makes your IQ at least 250."
Apple—aka Oakley—sat cross-legged on a cushion, squinting at her phone in disbelief.
She'd roasted people online for years. No one ever won. People called her the Scarlet Poppy—a knockout with sharp thorns.
Yet here she was, losing to a Pie?
She snapped back:
"Enough jokes. Are you a woman?"
"Absolutely. One hundred percent, no question."
"Pics or it didn't happen."
"Video call?"
Oakley hesitated.
The last time she trusted a guy online, she'd been harassed and nearly extorted. Now, she couldn't help being cautious.
"Camera's broken. I'll send you a pic."
Grace didn't press.
Moments later, Oakley sent over two photos.
A short-haired woman with a round face, flat nose, dusty cheeks, a huge mole under her chin, and a blue T-shirt—looking like she'd just finished moving bricks.
The image felt… familiar.
Grace thought she'd seen it on an AI forum before.
Yep. It wasn't real. Definitely AI-generated.
She chuckled. Miss Apple's got her guard up.
"So… do you work in construction?"
"Yep. Was out under the sun all day, earned 200 bucks. So tired. I have two elderly parents to care for. I'm at my limit."
Grace humored her:
"Tough day."
"What about you? Let me see your picture."
Grace found an AI photo of her own—this one of a sweet-looking woman in a plain T-shirt, ponytail, tightening screws in a factory workshop.
"This you?"
"Yep. Screwed in 100 bolts today. My hand's falling apart. Planning to eat instant noodles later to restore my mental state before I continue tomorrow."
"Oof. Tough day."
Oakley blinked at the screen.
This Pie… is not your average Pie.
Just then, her phone lit up with a push notification:
"Pinocchio vanishes after scandal. Fans regret supporting her."
Oakley smirked.
Without thinking, she forwarded the article to Pie.
"Hey, what do you think about this?"
If this person was going to be her future partner, she needed to know the truth now. What if Pie turned out to be a hater too?
Better to find out early—cut ties before things got messy.
Grace opened the link. The thread was a storm of hate—people attacking Oakley viciously, like they wanted to see her shattered.
She took a moment, then replied:
"I don't know the full story, so I won't comment. But…"
"But what?"
"She doesn't seem like a bad person."
"Why not?"
"Her videos are meticulous, always polished. She's not sloppy or chasing clout with cheap tricks. Also, I've read her columns. Even if the stories are fictional, her values bleed through. I don't think someone like that would deliberately do something immoral."
Oakley had only been trying to test her.
She hadn't expected… this.
Support. Understanding.
Her throat tightened.
"You've read her column?"
"Yes. All of it. She's talented."
Oakley blinked, stunned. She felt an odd sting in her nose.
Suddenly, her impression of Pie soared. She seemed thoughtful, observant, kind. Like a beam of sunlight.
People really were different.
Not like Grace Barron, she thought bitterly—that soulless machine who'd tormented her, liked her hate posts, and made her rewrite the same draft, simply is a stupid idiot.
At that exact moment, Grace let out a sudden sneeze.