Ava
The morning felt strange, like the world was trying to pretend everything was normal. I'd taken a bath, picked at some toast, and was wrapped in a blanket on my bed, just staring at the wall, when a soft knock came at the door.
My heart jumped. Sandra. It had to be Sandra. A rush of relief went through me. I needed my best friend's chaotic, grounding energy.
I opened the door with a small, ready smile.
It froze on my face.
Standing in the hallway were Camilla Van Horn and her daughter, Cynthia.
Ethan's mother and sister. Dressed in immaculate, quiet luxury, they were like a vision from another planet, one of polite smiles and unshakeable poise.
"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Van Horn said, her voice not warm, but not unkind. It was assessing.
"H-Hello," I managed, my voice a squeak.
"How are you feeling? And my grandson?" she asked, her eyes dropping pointedly to my still-flat stomach.
The directness stole my breath. My grandson. The baby was already a person to them. A Van Horn.
"Hi, sister-in-law-to-be!" Cynthia chimed in, her smile brighter, more genuine, tinged with curiosity.
I think I actually flinched at the title. Sister-in-law-to-be. It was so formal, so… final. "We're… we're fine," I stammered, answering Mrs. Van Horn. "Thank you."
"Is your mother home?" she asked.
I nodded, dumbly, and called out, "Mom! Mrs. Van Horn is here!"
What followed was a masterclass in high-society pleasantries. My mother appeared, and the two matriarchs exchanged greetings that were perfectly cordial and about as emotionally revealing as a stock report.
After a few minutes of discussing the "situation" and the "arrangements," Mrs. Van Horn delivered the news.
"We've come to take Ava for the day."
My mother didn't miss a beat. "Of course. She's your daughter-in-law now, after all. Take good care of her."
And just like that, I was handed over. Again. I was too stunned to protest.
As we walked out to the waiting town car, a flash of color and movement came rushing up the path. Sandra, her arms full of bags from the bakery.
She skidded to a stop, her eyes wide as saucers, taking in the scene—me, trailing two Van Horn women like a lost lamb.
"Ava? What's…?"
"Shopping," Cynthia said cheerfully. "Wedding things! Come with!"
And that's how Sandra, my lifeline, got swept up into the surreal vortex. She squeezed into the car beside me, giving my hand a quick, fierce squeeze under the fold of my coat.
The mall wasn't a mall. It was a hushed, marble-lined sanctuary where dresses had their own rooms.
I stood in the middle of a boutique, feeling like a mannequin, as Mrs. Van Horn and Cynthia debated with a serious-faced consultant.
I'd braced myself for coldness, for resentment. But this… this was different. Cynthia held up a sleek, dramatic gown with a daring slit. "Power move," she declared.
Mrs. Van Horn presented a timeless, elegant sheath dress in ivory silk. "Classic. Respectable."
They began a quiet, intense argument over lace versus clean lines, over statement versus tradition.
It wasn't about me, not really. It was about the image of the Van Horn family. But as they debated, a strange thing happened. Cynthia rolled her eyes playfully at her mother. Mrs. Van Horn huffed, but there was a fondness in it.
A real smile touched my lips. It was so… normal. So familial.
"Ava," Mrs. Van Horn said, turning to me. "You must choose. It is your dress."
My dress. For my wedding to a man who hated me. I looked between the two gorgeous, intimidating garments. Cynthia's was a dress for a woman who claimed a room. Mrs. Van Horn's was for a woman who belonged in one.
I reached out and touched the sleeve of the classic silk sheath. It felt cool and heavy, like destiny. "This one," I whispered.
Mrs. Van Horn's approval was a slight, satisfied nod. Cynthia shrugged, grinning. "Mom wins. Shocker."
Ethan's pov
I stood in the middle of the boutique like a statue, watching the farce unfold. Oliver, Jae-min, and Ji-hoon were arguing over swatches of fabric like it was a matter of national security.
"The navy is classic, but predictable," Jae-min declared, holding a sample against his chest.
"The charcoal has more authority," Ji-hoon countered, peering at it analytically.
"You're both overthinking. Midnight. It's sleek, it's deep, it works," Oliver concluded, the mediator as always.
They were debating which of them would wear what as my best man. As if any of this had meaning.
"Ethan," Oliver said, turning to me. "You're the groom. You need to choose your suit. This," he gestured to a rack of impeccably tailored jackets, "is for you."
I didn't look at the rack. I stared out the window at the oblivious city. "Why?" The word was flat. "Why should I choose a nice suit for a ceremony that means nothing?"
The bickering stopped. My friends turned to me, their expressions shifting from playful to concerned.
"Because," Ji-hoon said slowly, pragmatically, "you are Ethan Van Horn. The press will be there, even if it's 'private.' Every shareholder, every rival, every social page editor will dissect the photos. If you wear something less than impeccable, you will be talked about. The narrative won't be 'private family wedding.' It will be 'Ethan Van Horn in crisis, neglecting even his appearance.' It will affect the brand."
The brand. Always the brand. My life was a subsidiary.
Jae-min nodded, uncharacteristically serious. "He's right. You can hate this, but you can't look like you hate it. That's the game."
A cold, familiar pressure settled behind my eyes. They were right. Every action was a signal. A poorly chosen suit would be seen as weakness, as dissent. It would spark questions I couldn't afford.
My jaw tightened. I turned from the window and walked to the rack. My fingers brushed over the wool, the silk lining. I pulled out a suit. Not the midnight, not the charcoal. A black so deep it absorbed the light. Severely cut. No vest. A uniform for a funeral, or a sentencing.
"This," I said, my voice offering no room for debate.
Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it. He gave a single, slow nod. "Fine. It's… definitive."
The fitting was a clinical procedure. The tailor's hands measured and pinned, his murmured approvals about my shoulders and posture feeling like assessments of a prize stallion being prepared for auction. I said nothing.
An hour later, we were in the car, the chosen garments bagged and hanging like ghosts in the partition trunk. The silence was heavy.
Ava's Pov
The rest of the blur involved shoes, lingerie (a mortifying experience with Sandra making wide-eyed faces behind Mrs. Van Horn's back), and a quiet lunch where they asked polite questions about my interests. They didn't mention Ethan once.
Mrs. Van Horn dropped us back at my house. "We will see you for the fittings," she said. Her goodbye was not a hug, but a precise, brief touch on my arm. It felt more significant than any embrace.
Sandra and I watched the car glide away. "Whoa," Sandra breathed. "That was… intense. But, bestie… his mom doesn't seem to hate you. His sister definitely doesn't. That's huge!"
I floated back into my house, a strange, buoyant feeling in my chest. For a few hours, I hadn't had a scandal or a problem. I'd been a bride. A girl being fussed over by her maybe-family. The memory of Cynthia's easy smile and Mrs. Van Horn's quiet approval wrapped around me like a shield.
For the first time since the blue lines appeared, I felt a flicker of… hope? Not for love, but for survival. Maybe it wouldn't all be coldness and hate.
Sandra cha
ttered beside me, already planning my "non-existent" bachelorette party. I nodded along, the smile still on my face.