Alaya Serrano arrived, standing before them like a Prada-wrapped goddess, wine glass in hand, smile polite, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"Althea." Her voice was light, sincere. "I was hoping I'd run into you. You were with Max, I didn't even realize."
Althea blinked. "You... were hoping for me?"
Alaya gave a little laugh. "Yeah. I wasn't sure you'd be here. You look... gorgeous. I love the lipstick."
Althea's brain short-circuited.
"I heard what all happened." Alaya continued, glancing around. "This place is a little... suffocating. Everyone's too polished. I was starting to think I was the only one here not pretending to enjoy it."
Althea tensed without meaning to.
Max looked between them, cautious. Alaya's gentleness was clearly not in his playbook either.
"I wanted to say, in case no one ever did — it was really brave of you. Everything that happened with Adrian, the way it all played out... You didn't deserve to be put in that position. And I'm really sorry if I had anything to do with it, even indirectly." Alaya said.
The words hit like a soft gut punch.
Althea opened her mouth to reply — something witty, maybe something cold — but her throat tightened.
She wasn't supposed to feel seen by this woman. She was supposed to hate her.
But all she could say was, "...Thank you."
Alaya glanced at her and softened her voice. "I was thinking maybe I could talk to you for a bit."
And just like that, Althea didn't know where to put all the bitterness she'd been carrying.
"Excuse me for a sec." She gave Althea a little nod — respectful, not pitying — and excused herself as someone called her name from across the place.
Althea stood frozen.
"She's been... nice to me. Unfairly nice. And stunning. And warm. And considerate. And now I want to both hug her and cry."
Max grinned. "And people say you're the dramatic one."
Althea glared at him half-heartedly. "This is psychological whiplash. My enemy is not supposed to be soft and perfect. She's supposed to be terrible. I was ready to throw cupcakes."
"Yeah, but now you want to share them with her, don't you?"
"…Shut up."
"See what she says. Don't fall in love with her though." Max smirked.
Althea gave Max a look. He shrugged like good luck surviving that and melted into the crowd like a traitor.
And so Althea followed Alaya, cupcake still in hand like a security blanket, into one of those quiet side lounges where rich people probably discussed mergers, scandals, and custom-built emotional trauma.
The moment the door shut behind them, Alaya turned to her — not hostile, not cold. Just… sincere.
"I wanted to thank you," Alaya said gently.
Althea blinked. "For what? Emotional damage? I give that away for free."
Alaya smiled a little. "For helping Adrian. For pretending. It can't have been easy."
Althea squinted, unsure if this was some kind of test. "You're being very calm. Are you about to adopt me or kill me?"
"No, really." Alaya stepped closer, folding her hands. "I know what he asked you to do. And I know it wasn't fair. You didn't deserve to be dragged into this… old mess. And I'm sorry for that."
Althea's brain short-circuited. "Wait. You're apologizing? To me?"
"Yes," Alaya said simply. "Because you deserve that."
Okay. Plot twist. This woman is too kind. Someone check if she's bleeding lavender.
Alaya let out a soft sigh and glanced at the floor, like she was picking her words carefully. "Adrian and I… we weren't allowed to be together. Our families didn't approve — it got complicated. And I thought…" Her voice wavered slightly. "I thought he'd give up eventually."
Althea swallowed. Hard.
Alaya looked up. "But he didn't. He found… creative ways to hold on. And you got caught in the middle of that. I don't think that's fair to you."
Althea bit her lip. "Yeah, well..."
"I didn't believe him," Alaya admitted. "When he said he'd do anything. That he'd fight for me. I thought it was just… talk. Because he's always been the dreamer. And I've always been the one waking him up."
She smiled sadly. "But this — you — proved he meant it. He fought in the only way he could. Through you."
Althea felt like the cupcake in her hand had betrayed her. Suddenly, it tasted like feelings.
Alaya stepped closer, voice lower now. "But I love him. And I still do. I've tried to let go. I really did. But I can't. And if there's still a chance… I'll take it. Even if that makes me selfish."
Althea opened her mouth. Closed it. Thought of seven things to say. Said none of them.
What the hell is happening right now. Is this a love triangle or a therapy session? Also, why does she smell so good?
Alaya placed a hand lightly on Althea's arm. "I don't know what you feel for him. I won't assume. But if it's not love, or if there's a piece of you that wants to walk away… then I hope you do. For your own peace. Not for me. Not for Adrian. Just for you."
Althea blinked again. Was this woman… making sense?Was she the emotional adult in the room?
Honestly, it was rude.
Because now Althea had to deal with emotional nuance and the fact that her eyeliner was probably going to smudge.
Alaya smiled once more. "Thank you again, for everything. I'm not here to fight you. I'm just… here. Honest. For once."
And with that, she turned and walked out.
Althea stood there for a moment, blinking at the wall like it had answers.
Then she looked at the cupcake in her hand and whispered, "Girl, I am so not equipped for this level of psychological kindness."
She wandered back into the chaos of the party, cupcake clutched like a prayer, heart weirdly heavy and head… quieter.
For now.
The lighting was too perfect, the angle too cinematic. Adrian and Alaya was standing on a corner of the room. They looked like a still from a film: the golden boy and the girl he never quite let go of. Alaya's hand was on his arm — light, careful. Adrian leaned in, saying something only meant for her, and whatever it was made Alaya smile. That soft, slow smile people saved for someone they knew — someone who had once been home.
Althea stopped mid-step, the noise of the party fading into a dull buzz.
She didn't move. She didn't blink. She just watched them — the way people watched train wrecks they already knew the ending of.
Why is it always me?
It wasn't even jealousy. Not exactly. It was older than that. Deeper. Lonelier. It was that familiar ache — the one that sat in the cracks of her ribs and asked questions she never had answers for.
Do I not deserve to be chosen?
It stung because she'd been doing fine. She'd eaten half the dessert table, spiraled behind plastic flowers, made a fool of herself with Max — and she'd laughed. She'd genuinely laughed. She thought she'd leveled up. Moved on.
But seeing Adrian and Alaya now — all those thoughts came rushing back.
Everyone leaves.
No one stays.
Her fingers curled around the now half-melted cupcake in her hand. The red lipstick she wore suddenly felt too loud. Her hair too messy. Her entire presence too much and yet never quite enough.
She turned her face away from them — from the golden-boy-and-the-girl-who-never-left-his-heart — and looked down at her shoes.
Maybe I'm just meant to be temporary, she thought.
And for a moment, she wasn't Althea, the girl with the quick comebacks and untouchable eyes.
She was just… tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of pretending. Tired of watching everyone else find their forever while she stayed stuck in the prologue.
She took a breath, slow and shaky.
Smile, she told herself. Just smile. No one needs to know.
But the cupcake stayed in her hand, untouched. And her smile never quite made it to her eyes.
Althea slipped out into the garden like a secret.
The night greeted her with the kind of stillness that didn't feel peaceful—just empty. The noise from inside the ballroom dulled to a low, distant hum, like laughter behind a closed door she wasn't invited to enter.
She found the bench tucked under the crooked tree. Sat down. With a small sigh, she pulled her heels off and set them carefully beside the bench. Barefoot, she stretched her toes against the cool stone path, relishing the sudden freedom.
One thing's for sure: no one's going to make me wear these heels again tonight.
Her ankles ached, her chest ached worse.
Across the ballroom, she'd seen them. Adrian and Alaya. Standing just close enough for it to hurt. He hadn't even glanced her way. And Alaya, with her softness and her grace, hadn't needed to try. She belonged in that moment. Althea hadn't. It wasn't even jealousy, or sadness because if she asks herself did she ever love Adrian; the answer would be no. But it was the pain of never being chosen.
She leaned back against the wooden bench and stared up at the stars.
Why does it always end up like this?
She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or throw her stupid heels into the nearest fountain and walk barefoot until she hit the edge of a different city. But instead, all she could do was breathe—and remember.
Her mind dragged her backward, like it always did when loneliness pressed too close.
A door locked behind her.
A younger Althea, maybe five or six, tiny hands grabbing, voice cracking as she begged. "Please, Mommy. Please don't leave me."
The door never opened. Her knees had gone raw from the floor. Her voice hoarse from pleading.
That kind of rejection didn't just sting—it grew roots.
And yet, she'd gotten up the next day. And the next. Like children always do.
That was the first time, she thought, I learned that someone can love you less than they love comfort.
It wasn't shame she felt now. Not anymore. Just that familiar ache—sharp in its accuracy, quiet in its cruelty.
She was so young back then. Too small to carry pain that big. And yet, she did. She still was.
Still carrying. Still standing.
Maybe not winning. Maybe not glowing like Alaya. But still breathing. Still here.
Althea let her head fall back, eyes closing. Not to sleep—just to feel everything without flinching.
And in the quiet of that garden, barefoot and bruised in places no one could see, she let herself be that girl again.
But this time, she didn't beg.
This time, she just sat in the dark and didn't apologize for taking up space in it.
Then a familiar voice—
"I always knew you were secretly a forest goblin," Max walked towards her.
Althea didn't move.
A beat passed. Then:
"Even you seem to be lurking always."
Her voice was quiet, but not fragile. Just... tired.
Max sat down beside her without asking. Close enough to share space. Far enough to let her have her own. He looked ahead, like if he looked at her directly, she might disappear.
"You left without threatening anyone. I got worried that maybe you and Alaya started throwing hands." Althea gave the smallest huff of air. "I ran out of emotional weapons."
More silence. Not uncomfortable. Not yet. She didn't look at him, but her words came out anyway, like a dam cracking just slightly.
"Do you ever wonder if there's something broken in you?"
Max blinked, turned. "You're not broken, Althea."
"I didn't say I was." She looked up, moonlight catching the gleam in her eye. "I asked if you ever wondered." He didn't answer right away. Which was the right answer. So she went on, voice softer now. "Every time, it's the same. I love. I stay. I try. And still… I end up outside. Watching through the glass."
Her hand curled around the edge of the bench. "Sometimes I think… maybe people can smell it on me. That I'm the kind of girl who begs not to be left. That I'll survive being locked out. So they just… do it."
Max didn't know what to say. He wanted to say they're stupid, or you deserve better, or I'd never do that — but none of it felt right. So he just said: "I see you."
That made her pause.
He looked at her fully now. "Not the lipstick. Not the comebacks. You. Sitting here barefoot like the world's falling apart and still trying not to make a scene. I see you."
Althea blinked, then looked away. Her eyes stung. "…Don't be nice to me right now," she mumbled.
"Consider yourself lucky, woman," he said, leaning back, voice gentler now.
She snorted. Then wiped under her eye quickly, like she could pass it off as fixing her makeup even though she hadn't worn any under her eyes tonight.
They sat in silence again. This time, it felt like safety.
He leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms behind his head like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn't trying to fill the silence — just share it.
The garden buzzed faintly with the sound of distant laughter and clinking glasses. But here, on this stone bench under the ghost light of the moon, it felt like another world entirely.
"I'll just sit here," he said after a while, his voice low and even. Althea didn't respond. She just pulled her legs up a little more, rested her chin on her knee, and let the quiet hold them both.
And Max — for once — didn't speak, didn't joke, didn't try to fix it. He just stayed. Not as a solution. Not even as a promise. Just… as a presence.
And for a girl who had begged not to be left behind, that, maybe, was enough. For now.
End of chapter 10.