I arrived at the café on Fifth Street at 2:45 p.m., the scent of roasted coffee and anxiety clingling in the air like an uninvited guest. Rain dripped down the window, distorting the world outside into a watercolor mess, just like my thoughts. The plan was to meet Rafael, the stranger I’d “marry” to save Nicholas. I ordered a black coffee, extra bitter, and slid into the corner seat, watching droplets race each other down the glass.
3:00 p.m. ticked by. 3:15. 3:30.
No Rafael.
I pulled out my phone and texted Mom: He’s not here. What now?
No reply.
The barista wiped the counter for the fifth time, eyeing me like I was a ghost who’d overstayed my welcome. I sipped the coffee, now lukewarm and too sweet. _lIs this my life? Waiting for people who don’t show? For families who don’t care?
*Thoughts spiraled:*
- _What if he ghosted me? Does he even exist?
- _What if this is a scam? Did my parents lie?
- _What if I’m still invisible?
- _What if I say no? Throw it all away?
The café’s noise clipped laughter, hissing steam, a toddler crying felt like a scream. I checked my watch: *4:10 p.m.* Screw it.
I called Mom. “Hello?” she answered, her voice annoyingly cheerful.
“Rafael didn’t show,” I said, voice flat. “What’s going on?”
“We’ll sort it, Nikolai,” she said. “Don’t worry. Maybe he got delayed.”
“Delayed? For two hours?” I snapped. “Tell me the truth.”
“Trust us. You will meet him. Just… be patient.” She hung up.
I left the café, rain soaking my shoes, seeping into my socks. Trust them? The same people who forgot my birthday every year?
The walk home was a blur. I replayed the conversation:
“Nikolai, sweetheart…”
“Sweetheart.” Like I was five, not 25.
“We’re sorry.”
Sorry for what? For breathing?
*Saturday, 10:00 a.m.*
Mom’s text arrived: Don’t meet Rafael until the wedding. The family wants it “dramatic.” The wedding’s in *3 weeks*. Pack a suit. We’ll handle the rest.
I stared at the screen. Dramatic? What, like a bad rom-com?_l
I dialed her. “What does that mean?”
“Nikolai, this works for them. Just… cooperate. Nicholas needs you.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?” I demanded.
“The family wants control. Stop overthinking. Do this.”
“Control me, you mean.”
“Nikolai, *don’t make this harder.*”
Click.
I dropped onto my couch, numb. No interview. No choice. No escape._The walls closed in. I opened my journal, pen tearing the page.
*Journal Entry, 4:00 p.m.:*
*They treat me like a pawn. “Cooperate.” “Trust.” Like I’m nothing._l
What if Rafael hates me? Ugly. Boring. Unlovable?
*What if *I hate him? Cold. Entitled. Cruel?
But… Nicholas. The kids. R1 million.
What’s the cost of being a ghost in a suit?
A text buzzed: Nicholas: “Thank you, Nikki. I owe you.”_
I typed: *don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for _you._ I’m doing it for me._l
*6:00 p.m.*
I paced my kitchen, a plan forming:
*Research Rafael’s family.* Who are they?
*Talk to a lawyer.* Loopholes? Prenup?
*Tell the kids.* “I’ll be gone a year, but I’ll call.”
*Buy a suit.* Black. Like my future.
The fridge creaked open. A leftover apple. I bit it. Sour.
The phone rang. *Dad.*
“Nikolai, the wedding planner will contact you. Cooperate.”
“Dad… why me?”
“Because, kiddo,” he said, a crack in his voice, “we owe you. This… fixes it.”
Fixes it. Like a broken toy.
I hung up. I’m not broken.
*11:00 p.m.*
Rain stopped. The city glittered. I wrote:
Tomorrow, I’ll search. I’ll fight. I’ll see.
The clock ticked. Three weeks. A suit. A stranger’s hand. A life I didn’t choose.
What now, Nikolai?
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