How To Annoy Your Fiancé (And Still Look Fabulous)
Episode 1:A Fiancé
NOTES
"...." : Character speaking
'...' : Character monologue
*...* : Character action
The porcelain clinked against the saucer, far too dainty for the chaos brewing in my chest.
My mother sat on my left—posture perfect, expression carved from marble—her hand resting near an untouched cup of tea that had probably gone cold from sheer tension.
Across the table, my father adjusted his glasses and gave me that look. The one that could make a person confess to a crime they didn’t commit.
Ah yes, another beautiful morning in the Astoré household. The air was so heavy you could slice it and serve it for breakfast.
Marrisse Astorè
'Honestly, I’d rather be asleep right now, drooling on my pillow, than sitting here waiting for whatever bomb they’re about to drop. '💭
Marrisse Astorè
'I could smell trouble brewing before anyone even opened their mouths.'💭
My father didn’t “invite” me to breakfast out of love or curiosity about my wellbeing—he called me here for business.
Because to him, everything is business.
Money before family. Numbers before names. Profits before… me.
So when he cleared his throat, I braced myself like a soldier facing the firing squad.
He call me in that terrifyingly calm voice that always came before disaster,
Mr Astorè
"You’ll be moving to Halberd City next month.”
Marrisse Astorè
*blink again*
Marrisse Astorè
"...What?"
My poor brain stuttered like a dying engine.
Marrisse Astorè
'Moving? Why? Did my parents suddenly decide they were allergic to my presence?'💭
Marrisse Astorè
'Honestly, I would’ve preferred if they just said so directly.'💭
Mr Astorè
"To continue your studies."
He said that like he was announcing the winning lottery numbers.
Mr Astorè
"You’ve been accepted into Halberd University. It’s a better environment for someone of your standing.”
There it was. The sacred family word.
Not, “Hey, honey, are you okay with this?”
Marrisse Astorè
'Because God forbid their daughter ruin the family’s spotless image by thinking for herself.'💭
Mrs Astorè
"you’ll be staying at Lucan’s residence while you’re there.”
My spoon clattered against my plate.
Marrisse Astorè
"I’m sorry, what?”
Mrs Astorè
*smile serenely*
Marrisse Astorè
'That smile means something awful is coming.'💭
Mrs Astorè
"Lucan D’Arden. It’s about time you got to know your fiancé properly.”
Big, nuclear, mushroom-cloud-type bomb.
Lucan D’Arden. My so-called fiancé. The man I was apparently destined to marry before I could even spell ‘marry.'
We’d met a few times—emphasis on few—and he’d spent those encounters looking at me like one might look at an annoying housefly.
Marrisse Astorè
'I honestly thought he’d forgotten I existed.'💭
Episode 2: Living Arrangements
Because laughing was the only thing keeping me from flipping the table.
Marrisse Astorè
"You’re sending me to live with a man in his thirties? Alone? And you think that’s appropriate?”
Mr Astorè
*brows twitching*
Marrisse Astorè
'That brows twitching always a sign I was entering “danger zone” territory.'💭
Mr Astorè
"Don’t be dramatic,”
Mr Astorè
"Lucan is a respectable man. You’re engaged. It’s time you start getting used to one another.”
Marrisse Astorè
'Respectable, my ass.'💭
Marrisse Astorè
'Respectable men don’t ghost their fiancées for six years.'💭
Marrisse Astorè
*lean back*
Marrisse Astorè
"Sure, respectable. But he’s still old. You do realize I prefer men who don’t have back pain, right?”
A sharp pain shot through my foot as my mother stomped on it under the table.
Marrisse Astorè
*hissed in pain*
Marrisse Astorè
*glaring at her mother*
Marrisse Astorè
"What? He is old! What’s wrong with stating facts?”
Mrs Astorè
*eyes narrow into slits*
Mrs Astorè
"Watch your tongue, Marisse! He’s in his mid-thirties—still in his prime.”
Marrisse Astorè
“Prime for what, exactly? Golf?”
Marrisse Astorè
*wisely shut up*
Marrisse Astorè
"Such a sugar daddy energy.." *mutter under her breath*
Mrs Astorè
*sighed dramatically*
Mrs Astorè
*pressing her hand to her temple like I was her greatest trial in life*
Mrs Astorè
“You’ll get to know him, Marisse. This arrangement is for your future—and for our family’s future.”
Marrisse Astorè
'Ah, yes. Family. My favorite word after standing.'💭
Translation: “Do as you’re told, and don’t embarrass us.”
I wanted to throw my teacup just to make a statement, but instead, I stabbed my pancakes like they’d personally betrayed me.
Marrisse Astorè
*hesitate*
Marrisse Astorè
'Moving away from home… honestly, that part didn’t sound too bad. Maybe I could breathe a little. Maybe I could wear ripped jeans without being scolded for being “unladylike.” '💭
Marrisse Astorè
'But living with Lucan? That was a disaster waiting to happen.'💭
Marrisse Astorè
“I already have a place here,"
Marrisse Astorè
"My apartment’s paid up until the end of the semester. It’s not like I need—”
Mr Astorè
"You’ll move in with Lucan next month. That’s not up for debate.”
The tone in my father’s voice was final, like a judge banging his gavel.
And just like that, it was over.
The decision made. My opinion? Irrelevant.
Marrisse Astorè
*sat there quietly while staring at her breakfast*
The sunlight glinted off the silver cutlery, mocking me.
Marrisse Astorè
"My money…”
Marrisse Astorè
*whispers mournfully*
Thinking of my lovely apartment—the one I’d paid for with my own hard-earned money. Because despite being a so-called heiress, my parents didn’t believe in spoiling me.
No allowance. No credit card.
"Earn it yourself,” they’d said. So I did—through online jobs, freelance work, whatever I could find. That apartment was my baby. And now they were ripping it away like it was nothing.
But I knew the rules of this game. Argue, and they’d tighten the leash.
So I plastered on my best polite smile—the one I reserved for family functions and fake friends—and nodded.
Marrisse Astorè
"Of course, Father,” *said sweetly*
Marrisse Astorè
"Whatever you think is best.”
Episode 3: Inner Feelings
Mrs Astorè
*smile in relief*
They went back to eating, completely unaware that I was plotting emotional arson in my mind.
I took a sip of my cold tea, staring into it like it held answers.
Marrisse Astorè
'Fine. I’ll move in with him.'💭
Marrisse Astorè
'But that doesn’t mean I’ll behave.'💭
Marrisse Astorè
'If Lucan D’Arden thinks I’m going to play the role of the obedient little fiancée, he’s in for a rude awakening.'💭
Marrisse Astorè
'Because if I have to live under his roof, then he’s about to experience the full chaos that is Marisse Astoré.'💭
Marrisse Astorè
'And I never lose at games I didn’t choose to play.'💭
The last week at home felt like living inside a countdown — the kind that ticks louder with every second, reminding you that doom, apparently, has a schedule.
I was both thrilled and absolutely dreading the upcoming week. One part of me was excited to be free — finally, no more parental surveillance.
Pure, slow-cooked dread. Because freedom came with a price: having to share a house — and God forbid, a roof — with a fiancé I didn’t even ask for.
Marrisse Astorè
'Life is hell when you’re Marrisse Astoré.'💭
I didn’t choose this family. I just happened to be born into it — like a really bad lottery draw where the grand prize is generational expectations and emotional suffocation.
Every morning, my mother would peek into my room with that same practiced gentle smile. The kind that could probably qualify for a perfume ad.
Mrs Astorè
"Sweetheart, isn’t it exciting?." *coo*
Mrs Astorè
"A new chapter, a wonderful opportunity.”
Marrisse Astorè
'Yes, Mother.'💭
Marrisse Astorè
'A wonderful opportunity to make you regret every life choice that led to this arrangement.'💭
Every evening, my father would throw in his own version of encouragement over dinner, fork in hand like a royal scepter.
Mr Astorè
"I’m proud of your maturity, Marrisse.”
Marrisse Astorè
'If maturity meant surrendering my will to live, then yes — I was practically glowing with it.'💭
But not in the way he wanted. I wasn’t surrendering. I was plotting.
My suitcases stood by the window, packed too neatly for someone who had zero desire to leave.
Dresses, shoes, the kind of books my parents thought were “too common,” and a handful of photographs — all folded between layers of fabric softener and resentment.
Beside them sat a box labeled in glitter pen: ESSENTIALS — which, in my case, meant contraband.
Colorful, sugar-loaded, happiness-in-a-bag snacks my parents would have an aneurysm over.
I’d been smuggling them in for months, disguised in makeup pouches and tote bags. Now, they were all stacked neatly like precious treasure.
A girl needs her priorities.
Especially when she’s about to move in with a man rumored to live like a monk who’s allergic to fun.
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