Sereia's POV
"Let's postpone the wedding."
The words slipped into the room so quietly they almost didn't feel real.
Sereia didn't move at first.
The bridal suite still held the warmth of irons and too many hands—steam lingering faintly in the air, the scent of pressed fabric and expensive perfume settling into the curtains. Sunlight poured through the tall windows and scattered across the marble floor, catching in the mirrors behind her and throwing light back at her from every angle.
She sat in front of one of them.
Half-dressed.
The gown hadn't decided on her yet—lace pinned along her ribs, the back open, the fabric gathered at her hips where the seamstress had been working minutes ago. Her fingers rested lightly against it, dark against ivory, the contrast sharp in the glass.
She blinked once.
"…postpone?"
Across the room, Adrian Virell stood near the window.
He didn't look like someone undoing a wedding.
Dark suit, perfectly cut. No tie. The top button of his shirt undone like he had stepped out of a meeting, not into something personal. His hair was slightly out of place, as if he'd run a hand through it and left it there.
He wasn't fully looking at her.
His gaze hovered just past her shoulder.
"Yes."
No explanation.
No apology.
Just a decision already made.
Sereia's chest tightened, slow and steady, like something pulling inward.
An hour ago, he had stood behind her while the seamstress worked. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her back. His hand had rested at her waist—brief, measured, neither tender nor distant.
Enough to make it feel real.
"You wanted to move it up," she said, her voice quiet but even. "You said waiting didn't make sense."
"I know what I said."
His tone didn't shift.
Calm. Controlled. Final.
Sereia turned slightly in her seat, the dress shifting with her, the pins along her side tugging faintly at her skin. Her dark hair—softened into loose waves for the fitting—still held its natural weight, the ends already beginning to curl back in the humidity.
"Then what changed?"
A pause.
Short.
Deliberate.
Adrian exhaled through his nose, glancing briefly toward the table where his phone rested beside a glass of untouched champagne.
"It's not the right time."
Clean.
Empty.
"Not the right time?" Sereia echoed. "Adrian, everything is already set. Your family, my family—"
"I'll handle it."
He didn't raise his voice.
Didn't need to.
The conversation shifted anyway.
Like he had already decided it was over.
Sereia watched him reach for his phone without urgency, like this was just another adjustment in his day. Another detail to manage.
The tightness in her chest deepened.
"You'll handle it?" she said. "That's it?"
Now he looked at her.
His gaze moved over her face, her hair, the unfinished dress clinging to her frame—the exposed line of her back where the fabric hadn't been secured yet.
Evaluating.
Not soft.
"You're overreacting."
The words were quiet.
They landed anyway.
Sereia went still.
The room sharpened around her—the light, the mirrors, the low hum of the air conditioning overhead.
"I'm overreacting," she repeated. "You just postponed our wedding, and I'm overreacting?"
"It's a delay," he said.
"That doesn't make it better."
"It makes it temporary."
Her fingers tightened against the lace at her waist.
"Temporary for who?"
His jaw tightened—small, controlled.
"I don't have time for this right now."
And just like that—
it ended.
Not because they reached anything.
Because he decided they were done.
He turned.
Walked to the door.
Sereia watched him go—the man she had spent five years adjusting around, learning the shape of his silences, the edges of where she was allowed to exist.
"I see," she said quietly.
He didn't stop.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The room felt too open without him.
Too quiet.
Sereia stared at her reflection.
Her makeup was flawless—subtle, polished, meant to look effortless. Her skin held a warm sheen beneath the lights, the kind that caught gold when the sun hit it just right.
She didn't look like someone whose wedding had just been postponed.
She looked… fine.
That made it worse.
"We can fix the hem," the seamstress said softly behind her.
"Leave it."
Sereia pressed her palm lightly to her chest.
Her heartbeat felt uneven.
The light shifted—too sharp this time.
The mirror blurred at the edges, her reflection bending in a way that didn't match her movement.
Her fingers tightened.
"Wait—"
The room dropped.
Not physically.
But everything else did.
Sound dulled.
Light stretched.
Then—
nothing.
When Sereia opened her eyes again—
she didn't know where she was.