Melisa had just sat down when Ivonne struck.
With the grace of a cat stretching before pouncing, Ivonne leaned forward and cooed, "Melisa, you're so lucky. Leonard's been acting like a proper husband ever since the wedding. It's adorable."
Melisa paused mid-reach for her water. One heartbeat. Two.
Then, she smiled—pleasant, mild, and as hollow as a gift box in a bankrupt boutique. "I suppose it's part of his duty. Appearances matter, don't they?"
Leonard didn't bother hiding the sharp look he threw Ivonne's way. It was the kind of glance that could freeze lava.
And for the first time since her arrival, he acknowledged Ivonne.
Only because of Melisa.
That stung.
Ivonne's smile faltered for half a second before she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like she was the misunderstood heroine of a melodrama no one had bothered to tune into.
"Relax, Leo. You're so overprotective. I was just teasing her," she said lightly, as if her claws hadn't been out.
Leonard's voice was calm, yet crisp enough to slice through silk. "Don't call me Leo, Miss Ivonne. We're not close."
Ah, the frostbitten knife of polite rejection.
Ivonne blinked. That nickname had once rolled off her tongue with impunity. Now it sounded like a trespass.
But Leonard was already moving on. He pulled out a chair for Melisa—her chair—and sat beside her, not in his usual seat, but close enough to send a very pointed message.
Ivonne had taken his usual spot. Strategic, predictable, useless.
Now, her cheerful mask cracked just a little. Under the table, her hand curled into a fist, nails digging crescents into her palm. If bitterness had a flavor, she was chewing on it.
Mr. and Mrs. Soveir, in the grand tradition of parents who had seen far too much drama, continued eating like professional bystanders.
Across the table, Tristan sulked in silence. His eyes flicked from Leonard to Melisa and back again like a spectator at a doomed tennis match. Somewhere between guilt and delusion, a storm was brewing.
He remembered Olivia's soft sobs on the phone, Ivonne's voice cracking when he accused her of jealousy.
Poor Olivia—gentle, kind, always second to Melisa in looks but first in purity, at least in his selective memory. And Ivonne—wasn't she just trying to help?
And Melisa?
A quiet girl who had supposedly forced her sister to step aside and claimed her fiancé like it was a seasonal sale?
He looked at Melisa, as if expecting guilt to drip from her like cheap mascara.
She didn't even flinch. Just calmly cut her food and chewed with the same energy as someone filing tax returns in silence.
'So, Olivia's opening move has arrived,' Melisa thought dryly. 'A pity. I was almost starting to enjoy dinner.'
She forced herself to eat, one bite at a time. Not out of hunger—she had lost her appetite the moment she saw Tristan's scowl—but because if she stopped now, someone would accuse her of being dramatic. Again.
Still, Leonard and his parents noticed. They mistook her faint appetite as hurt, as if Ivonne's words had shaken her to the core. As if she were delicate.
Ivonne and Tristan, naturally, assumed it was all a performance. Of course. Because when a woman doesn't eat, it must be a ploy. Surely, starvation was just step one in a master manipulation strategy.
After the awkward circus dinner ended, Melisa rose, excused herself quietly, and headed upstairs. She didn't expect to be followed.
But some drama just refused to leave the stage.
Knock, knock.
She opened the door halfway, and there stood Tristan.
His gaze swept past her like she was wallpaper. "Is Leonard in?"
Melisa blinked. "He's inside."
Leonard, seated at his desk flipping through documents, looked up. His eyes met Tristan's. They didn't sparkle.
"Brother, I have something to talk to you about," Tristan said, trying to keep his voice firm.
Leonard didn't even look up from his paperwork. "Say it."
Melisa, still holding the door, caught on immediately. This wasn't a casual visit. It was the prelude to another lecture. She met Leonard's gaze and gave him a small, resigned nod—permission to go get berated for marrying her.
Leonard stared at her for a second longer, as if trying to read her silence.
Then he stood, placed his file down, and murmured, "Let's go to the study."
Tristan let out a breath of relief and scurried off in his house slippers like he was about to confess a crime. Which, in a way, he was.
The study was warm, inviting, and thoroughly wasted on the emotional chaos it was about to witness.
Leonard shut the door and turned to face his brother, jaw tight. "Well?"
Tristan hesitated, swallowed, and finally said, "Brother… you should divorce Melisa."
Straight shot. No filter.
Leonard didn't blink.
Tristan went on, emboldened by silence. "She's not a good person. You don't know what she did. She forced Olivia to step aside. She manipulated everything. She's selfish, cold—she didn't even care that Olivia cried all night. She just—she just took your hand like it was normal!"
Leonard raised an eyebrow. "And?"
That threw Tristan off. "And? I mean—it's Olivia! She was your bride—"
"No," Leonard cut in, voice quiet but firm. "She was your bride."
Tristan flushed. "But I ran away! You were forced to marry someone else because of me—shouldn't you hate her too?"
Leonard tilted his head slightly. "And you think I do?"
"…Don't you?"
Leonard didn't answer. He simply walked to his desk and picked up the file again, flipping it open like the conversation was over.
Because it was.
Tristan stood there, stunned.
He had come here expecting his brother to be furious, to blame Melisa, to finally return Olivia to her rightful place beside him. Instead, Leonard looked… calm. Too calm.
He wasn't angry at Melisa.
He was angry at him.
And for the first time, Tristan realized something truly terrifying.
Leonard wasn't planning to undo this marriage.
He wasn't even trying to.