ephie @opeighty1 - Tumblr Blog

ILLICIT AFFAIRS — charles leclerc x fem!reader.

summary: to the world, Charles Leclerc is perfection incarnate — polished smiles, steady hands, devotion worn like a tailored suit. A man praised for loyalty, promised to a future as pristine as his public image.

She was never supposed to be part of the wreckage.

YN YL — global sensation, six years younger, once the child who trailed after him like sunlight through Monaco corridors. The girl who felt like the little sister he never had. Time, however, is a quiet traitor. Children grow. Glances linger. Lines blur.

Now she belongs to someone else — publicly, beautifully — the girlfriend of Louis Partridge, the kind of man who fits beside her in photographs.

But one night — a bachelor party, too much champagne, music too loud to hear his conscience — Charles ends up at her door. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

That is the thing's first rule.

After that come the cities. The penthouse suites paid in secrecy. The elevators that never speak. Fights in underground parking lots where headlights slice through words they don’t mean. Stolen hours. Shaking hands. Promises neither of them believes.

Because what else can illicit affairs be, if not beautiful disasters already written in invisible ink?

ephie's radio: content warnings: infidelity, emotional cheating, angst, jealousy, moral conflict, complicated relationships, implied mature themes, a lot written . there will probably be a second part. also, I’m sorry if some parts feel a little inconsistent or messy, and english isn’t my first language. thank you for reading and being patient with me. 🤍

—

charles_leclerc

♥︎ liked by oscarpiastri, kimi.antonelli and 2,780,712 others.

charles_leclerc: Mr². & Mrs. Leclerc 💍❤️❤️❤️❤️

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scuderiaferrari: Fantastic news!! Congratulations 🙌

oscarpiastri: congrats!

carlossainzs55: Yesssss👏👏❤️

pierregasly: so happy for you both 🤍

estebanocon: beautiful couple, congrats 🥹

lewishamilton: wishing you both nothing but love 🤍

arthur_leclerc: proud of you always ❤️

yourusername: congratulations to you both! hope I get to be maid of honor 🤍

charles_leclerc: of course you will 🤍 wouldn’t be the same without you

fan01: the way he said “of course you will” like it was obvious… sir 🤨

fan02: “wouldn’t be the same without you” oh that’s suspicious…

maxverstappen1: congrats mate 👏

georgerussell63: huge news!! happy for you both

fernandoalo_oficial: felicidades 👏

valtteribottas: legend. congrats to you two

rebeccadonaldson: this is so beautiful 🥹 congratulations

louispartridge_: happy for you guys 🤍

fan03: louis somewhere smiling politely

fan04: not yn in the comments acting all sweet knowing their history 😭

fan05: I’m sorry but if my boyfriend’s childhood best friend looked like that I’d simply pass away

fan06: y’all remember that interview where Charles said she was “family”? yeah. okay. sure.

fan07: yn being maid of honor is either adorable or the start of a movie that ends badly

fan08: the way he replied to her before half the grid 💀 priority is LOUD

fan09: alex is so classy though, queen behavior

fan10: yn, charles AND louis all in one place oh this is messy already

fan11: the crossover of worlds here is insane

—

Charles Leclerc woke before the sun had fully decided to exist.

Morning in Monaco was still half-asleep, the horizon painted in that fragile shade between night and confession, and he moved through it like a man already guilty. He didn’t leave a note. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t let himself think about the ring resting somewhere behind him in that quiet apartment. He only took his keys, the low metallic purr of his Ferrari slicing the silence, and drove.

The city blurred. Streets, lights, strangers — all of it dissolved into one thought with a name.

Her.

On the passenger seat rested peace offerings that looked almost absurd in their tenderness: her favorite flowers, still jeweled with dew; a box heavy with the expensive makeup she loved, colors chosen with the precision of someone who knew exactly how her face changed when she smiled, when she argued, when she pretended not to care. Anyone else would have said she had no right to be angry. Anyone else didn’t understand that whatever lived between them had never obeyed the rules other people lived by.

Because it had always been strange the way she watched his girlfriends, polite but sharp around the edges. The way he studied her boyfriends, friendly but never warm. Like two monarchs smiling across a border neither of them acknowledged drawing.

By the time he reached her building, his heartbeat had taken on the rhythm of a countdown.

He stepped out, flowers in one hand, the small velvet-lined bag in the other, and crossed the distance to her door. For a second — just one — he hesitated. Not out of doubt.

Out of recognition.

Some doors, once knocked on, never close the same way again.

He lifted his hand. Knocked.

The sound echoed softly inside.

Footsteps approached. Slow. Bare. Unhurried in a way that felt deliberate, like she already knew exactly who stood on the other side.

The door opened. And she looked at him.

Not surprised — that would’ve been easier. Not angry, either, though the faint tension in her jaw suggested the feeling hadn’t gone far. She looked at him the way one looks at a storm seen from a balcony: aware it might pass, aware it might not, aware it might rearrange everything if it chose to stay.

Barefoot. Sleep-rumpled. Wrapped in one of those soft sweaters that always seemed to slip off one shoulder as if fabric itself wanted to linger on her skin. Her hair was loose, slightly tangled, the way it only ever was when she hadn’t expected anyone to see her.

He forgot, briefly, how breathing worked.

“Hi,” he said. It came out quieter than he intended, like the word itself was afraid of her.

Her eyes dropped — not to his face, but to his hands.

The flowers.

The box.

The apology he hadn’t spoken yet.

“You came,” she said.

Not warm. Not cold. Just… stated. Like a fact written in ink long before this morning.

“You didn’t say not to.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“But you didn’t lock the door either.”

A pause.

Her gaze lifted back to his, and there it was — that look. The one that had undone him since she was small enough to hold his finger instead of his attention. It was dangerous now. Not childish. Not harmless. It carried questions. Accusations. Memories. Things that did not belong in the space between an engaged man and the girl he was not supposed to orbit.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured.

“I know.”

He didn’t move to leave.

Silence slipped between them, thin and electric. Somewhere down the hall a clock ticked, absurdly loud, like time itself had stopped to eavesdrop.

He held out the flowers first.

“They’re your favorites.”

“I know,” she said. She didn’t take them.

His hand hovered there a second longer before he lowered it slightly, the petals trembling from the motion. He tried again, lifting the small box.

“And these.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Bribery?”

“Peace offering.”

“You announced an engagement, not a war.”

“Felt like one.”

That — that almost did it. The corner of her mouth twitched, betraying the ghost of a smile she clearly hadn’t authorized. She looked away quickly, as if afraid he’d see it and claim victory.

“You woke up early just to come negotiate?” she asked.

“I didn’t sleep.”

That made her glance back. Not dramatically. Not softly. Just instinctively — the way you look at something fragile when you didn’t expect it to be.

“You’re dramatic,” she said, quieter now.

“You’re mad.”

“I have reasons.”

“I know.”

Another silence. Softer this time. Less like a blade, more like a held breath.

He shifted his weight, eyes searching her face the way one reads a language they never formally learned but somehow understand anyway.

“Are you going to let me in,” he asked gently, “or are we doing this in the hallway like strangers?”

Her fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the door.

They both knew that word didn’t belong to them.

Strangers.

She exhaled through her nose — a small, steadying breath — then stepped back.

Not an invitation.

Not quite.

But enough.

The door opened wider.

And that was always the problem with them: neither of them ever knew how to close anything.

She didn’t close the door behind him.

It stayed slightly ajar, as if the apartment itself wanted a way out in case this turned into something dangerous.

Charles stepped inside slowly, careful, like the air might shatter if he moved too fast. Her place smelled the same — vanilla, expensive powders, something faintly floral — a scent he associated with late nights, quiet laughter, and conversations that had always gone a little too far for what they were supposed to be.

She crossed her arms.

Not defensive.

Anchoring.

“Well,” she said, “you’re here. Congratulations. You’ve successfully invaded my morning.”

“I brought gifts.”

“I saw. You think flowers can fix everything.”

“No,” he said softly. “Just… start a conversation.”

Her eyes flicked to the bouquet again. Then to him.

“You already started one yesterday.”

“And you ended it.”

“Because you were being impossible.”

“I’m always impossible with you.”

“That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

Silence.

Not empty — never empty with them. Silence with them was crowded. With memories. With almosts. With sentences neither of them let themselves finish.

He swallowed once.

Then, carefully, like he was placing something fragile between them instead of words:

“I want you to be her maid of honor.”

The sentence didn’t echo.

It dropped.

Her expression didn’t change right away — which was worse than if it had. Stillness spread across her face, smooth and composed and terrifyingly unreadable.

“…What?”

“At the wedding,” he said. “I want you beside her. Helping her. Planning with her. I want you there for everything.”

Her laugh came out soft. Soft — but sharp enough to cut glass.

“You came all the way here to ask me to help plan your wedding.”

“I came to ask you to be part of it.”

“I am part of it,” she said lightly. “I commented. Remember?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Her gaze lifted fully to his now, and there it was again — that look. The one that always made him feel like he was being seen down to the bone, every hidden thought dragged gently but mercilessly into daylight.

“You want me,” she said, “to stand next to your fiancée… and help her marry you.”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No apology. Just yes.

Her jaw tightened slightly. “That’s cruel.”

“It’s honest.”

“It’s torture.”

“It’s trust.”

That made her blink.

He stepped closer — not enough to touch, never enough to cross that invisible line they both pretended was still intact, but close enough that his voice didn’t have to be loud.

“She likes you,” he said. “She trusts you. And I…”

He paused. “…I need you there.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“You have a whole world of people who adore you. Designers, planners, friends, family. Why me?”

Because you’re the only one whose opinion has ever mattered.

He didn’t say it. Instead:

“Because you see things other people don’t.”

She held his gaze. “And what exactly do I see, Charles?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

They both knew.

Her fingers curled slowly against her sleeve. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I know.”

“You’re asking me to smile. To help pick flowers. To zip her dress. To hold her bouquet. To stand there while she walks toward you.”

Each image landed between them like a step closer to something neither of them wanted to name.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

She searched his face for hesitation.

Found none.

“That’s selfish.”

“I told you,” he murmured, “I’m impossible with you.”

Another silence.

Longer this time.

Quieter.

Dangerous.

Finally, she looked away first.

“…If I say yes,” she said, “it’s for her. Not for you.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t get to look at me like you’re relieved.”

“I’m not relieved.”

“No?”

“I’m terrified.”

That pulled her eyes back to his.

“Of what?”

“You,” he said.

Not joking.

Not flirting.

Not hiding.

Just true.

Her breath caught — barely, but he saw it. He always saw it.

“You should be,” she whispered.

He nodded once.

“I am.”

Another pause.

Then, softer:

“So,” he asked, “will you do it?”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Long enough that the morning light shifted across the floor. Long enough that the flowers in his hand tilted slightly toward her, petals brushing her wrist.

Long enough for both of them to realize this answer would change something they could never change back.

“…Fine,” she said at last.

Not gentle. Not easy.

Just inevitable.

“I’ll do it.”

And somehow, that yes felt far more dangerous than if she’d said no.

—

yourusername

♥︎ liked by louispartridge_, alexandrasaintmleux and 817,916 others.

yourusername: my london boy is in Monacooooo!!! 🇲🇨🤍

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louispartridge_: I love you, my beautiful Monégasque ❤️. I missed you with all my heart.

fan01: “my beautiful monégasque” I’M ON THE FLOOR

fan02: the way he talks to her vs the way he talks to everyone else… oh he’s DOWN BAD

tatemcrae: excuse me this is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen

taylorswift: london boy indeed 💌

magui_corceiro: you two are unreal 😭

gracieabrams: respectfully obsessed

fan03: I fear this relationship is actually endgame

fan04: he flew countries just to see her btw don’t forget that

fan05: the way everyone approves of him… that’s how you KNOW

fan06: she said my london boy and the whole internet folded

fan07: soft launch? nah this is a HARD launch with fireworks 💥

fan08: LONDON BOY IN MONACO?? long distance who??

fan09: not her soft launching domestic era content 😭

fan10: the way she sounds so proud pls

fan11: HE VISITED HER STOP THIS IS CUTE

fan12: Monaco looks good on you two idc idc

fan13: okay but why do I feel like there’s lore behind this trip…

fan14: distance means nothing when it’s that man huh

fan15: she said MY london boy btw. MY.

fan16: screaming crying throwing up they’re adorable

fan17: imagine casually flying from London to Monaco just for your girl

fan18: oh they’re in love love

fan19: meanwhile somewhere a certain driver just felt a disturbance in the force 👀

—

6 months later.

charles_leclerc

♥︎ liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainzs55 and 612,910 others.

charles_leclerc: less than two weeks until I can finally call you my wife. je t’aime, mon amour ❤️

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carlossainz55: hermanooo ❤️ so happy for you both

alexandrasaintmleux: te amo. ❤️

lando: leo stole the spotlight sorry mate

maxverstappen1: congrats guys 🤝

lewishamilton: beautiful ❤️ wishing you both happiness always

lorenzotl: let’s gooo 👏

pascale_leclerc: love you both ❤️

fan01: TWO WEEKS??? I’M NOT READY

fan02: the caption I’m crying 😭

fan03: he’s DOWN BAD your honor

fan04: wedding countdown officially activated

fan05: alex really won

fan06: THIS IS CINEMA

fan07: I just know he reread this caption 15 times before posting 😭

lilyzneimer: congrats ❤️

fan08: why am I emotional over someone else’s wedding

fan09: leo is literally the best man

fan10: this man is glowing

fan11: okay but am I the only one who noticed yn hasn’t liked this yet?

fan12: WAIT you’re right she always likes his posts immediately 👀

fan13: no because I checked too and she really didn’t like it…

fan14: maybe she just hasn’t seen it yet guys 😭

fan15: she saw it. she always sees his posts.

fan16: y’all remember when she used to comment first on everything…

fan17: something shifted idc

fan18: not me refreshing the likes to see if she appears

fan19: imagine she doesn’t interact at all… that would actually be insane

fan20: y’all notice everything and I respect that

fan21: the way half the grid is here but we’re all staring at one missing like 😭

—

louispartridge_

♥︎ liked by yourusername, milliebobbybrown and 816,913 others.

louispartridge_: the things i love most: my girlfriend and cinema. 🩷

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yourusername: STOP

yourusername: I LOVE YOU, LOUUUU 😪😪😪🩷🩷🩷

louispartridge_: i love you more, my love 🩷

yourusername: come here so i can cover you in kisses

louispartridge_: 🏃🏻

milliepartridge: okay but you two are actually disgusting (affectionate)

issiepartridge: i’m telling mum

milliebobbybrown: excuse me this is the cutest thing i’ve ever seen

tatemcrae: hard launch but make it film festival chic

fan01: THEY LOOK LIKE A MOVIE POSTER

fan02: the black and white aesthetic??? screaming crying

fan03: he said MY GIRLFRIEND so casually like sir we are fragile

fan04: the way she said stop but immediately said i love you 😭

fan05: relationship so soft i need sunglasses

fan06: not him running to get kissed BYE

fan07: they’re actually unreal

fan08: this is their world and we’re just watching

fan09: louis really said romance isn’t dead

fan10: okay but the way he looks at her in the first pic???

fan11: this man is DOWN BAD

fan12: she won. respectfully.

fan13: boyfriend of the year award goes to louis partridge

fan14: your honor they’re in love

fan15: i fear this is THE couple

fan16: if they break up i will personally stop believing in love

fan17: not them flirting publicly like we’re not watching

—

Bachelor party.

She had survived the months the way people survive slow winters — quietly, stiffly, pretending the cold didn’t hurt.

Every ribbon she tied, every flower she approved, every seating chart she adjusted had been another careful stitch in the dress of a wedding that wasn’t hers. And she had smiled through all of it, because loving him had never required permission, and losing him had never required a choice. It had simply… happened.

It wasn’t that her heart belonged to the past. It didn’t. Not entirely. Because Louis — sweet, patient, golden Louis — was everything gentleness was supposed to look like when it took human form. He loved her like she was something steady, something safe, something he had chosen and would keep choosing. He laughed at her worst jokes, held doors open even when she told him not to, listened like her thoughts were symphonies instead of scattered notes. Perfection didn’t exist, she knew that. But if it ever dared to come close, it would probably look like him.

And still.

Still, she had spent the evening planning another woman’s forever with the man her heart had memorized years ago.

Alexandra’s bachelorette party had been exactly what Alexandra deserved — elegant, soft, intimate, glowing with candlelight and laughter that sounded like crystal glasses clinking. YN had orchestrated it flawlessly, the way she orchestrated everything: invisible threads, steady hands, a smile no one questioned.

At 1:00 a.m. sharp, she’d checked her phone, widened her eyes just enough to sell the lie, and murmured something about an early morning obligation. They hugged her goodbye, thanked her, praised her, called her the best maid of honor anyone could ask for. She nodded. Smiled. Left. No one saw how quickly she exhaled once the door shut behind her.

Her apartment greeted her with silence — not the lonely kind, just the honest kind. She slipped into her pajamas, washed off the night, the perfume, the careful composure. The wine glass she poured was generous, nearly rebellious, and she curled into the corner of her couch like she was folding herself away for safekeeping.

On the screen, her comfort show played — soft dialogue, summer light, fictional love stories that always seemed to know where they were going. She watched. She sipped. She breathed.

Louis was in London, miles and hours and skies away, not arriving until the wedding day — three in the afternoon, punctual as always, two hours early because he liked being early for things that mattered. She imagined him there now, probably asleep, probably dreaming something gentle. The thought warmed her chest. She told herself that warmth was enough.

Outside, the city hummed low and distant. Inside, the television flickered across her face, painting her in shifting golds and blues. And for the first time all day, no one was watching her pretend she was fine.

On the other side of the city — in a place where the lights never softened and the music never apologized for being loud — he was still there.

Charles’s bachelor party was exactly what people expected from a man the world watched: excessive, glittering, untouchable. The bar was one of those places in Monaco that didn’t need a name because everyone important already knew it. Crystal glasses. Private sections. Velvet ropes. Laughter that sounded expensive. Models draped across couches like they’d been placed there as decoration. Champagne that never reached the bottom of the bottle before another appeared.

He smiled when people looked at him. He laughed when they expected him to. He played the part perfectly.

But sometime after midnight — that strange, fragile hour when parties stop feeling loud and start feeling hollow — the noise blurred. The music lost its rhythm. The alcohol settled into his bloodstream, not dulling him, not softening him, just… loosening the things he usually kept locked behind his ribs. It was the kind of moment that didn’t ask permission before turning honest.

Someone was talking to him. He nodded. Someone handed him another drink. He took it. Someone clapped his shoulder. He didn’t register who. Because suddenly, none of them were the person he wanted.

His phone was already in his hand before he consciously decided to pick it up.

Not Alexandra. Her name didn’t even cross his mind.

His thumb hovered for half a second — just long enough to pretend he still had control — and then he pressed call.

YN.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Across the city, she sat curled on her couch, television light flickering over her face, wine glass warm in her hand.

Her phone lit up.

His name filled the screen.

The phone vibrated against the cushion beside her.

His name. Of course it was his name.

YN stared at the screen for a long second, her heart doing that traitorous thing it always did when it came to him — stuttering first, then racing like it was trying to catch up with something it had lost years ago. She could still hear the soft echo of laughter from the TV, the romantic soundtrack swelling in the background, but it all sounded distant now. Muted. Like her apartment itself was holding its breath.

It rang again. She answered. “Hello?”

There was noise on his end. Not loud, not chaotic — just enough to tell her he wasn’t somewhere quiet. Voices blurred together. Glass clinked. Music thumped low and distant like a second heartbeat.

Then his voice. Soft. Rough around the edges. Not the voice he used for interviews or cameras or polite company. “Hi.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass. “You’re drunk.”

A pause. Not defensive. Not offended. Just honest. “…a little.”

She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose. “Shouldn’t you be busy? Isn’t this the part where someone puts a ridiculous crown on your head and makes you do embarrassing things?”

“I left that room.”

“Of course you did.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

When he spoke again, the noise behind him was fading, like he’d started walking. “I needed to hear your voice.”

Her stomach dropped. She forced a light tone. “You have a fiancée for that, remember?”

Silence. Footsteps. A door opening. Closing. The background noise vanished completely. When he spoke again, it was quiet. Just him. Just his breathing. “I’m coming to see you.”

Her heart stopped. Restarted harder. “…Charles.”

“I’m serious.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“I know.”

“You’re at your bachelor party.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I know.”

Each answer was calm. Certain. Like he wasn’t arguing with her — he was simply stating facts that didn’t matter.

Her voice softened despite herself. “You shouldn’t.”

“I already left.”

Her grip on the phone tightened. “Charles—”

“I’m outside,” he said, and she could hear it now — the faint sound of the night, distant cars, wind brushing past the receiver. “Getting in the car.”

Her pulse slammed against her ribs. “You cannot drive if you’ve been drinking.”

“I’m not driving. I called someone.”

Of course he had. Of course he always solved problems before they fully formed.

A beat. “I just… need to see you.”

That did it. That stupid, quiet confession. The one he didn’t dress up, didn’t dramatize, didn’t hide behind charm or jokes or arrogance. Just need.

She swallowed. “Why?” It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t cold. It was fragile.

On the other end, he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath all night. “Because,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re the only person I want to talk to when everything gets loud.”

Her chest tightened.

Outside, a car door shut on his end.

“Charles…”

“I’m already on my way.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You shouldn’t be.”

“I know.”

Silence. The kind that says too much.

“…are you going to tell me not to come?” he asked softly.

She looked around her apartment — at the empty space beside her, at the wine glass, at the TV still playing a love story that wasn’t hers.

Her lips parted. Closed. Then, barely audible— “…no.”

On the other end, she heard it. The smallest sound. Relief.

The ride across the city felt shorter than it should have.

Monaco at night blurred past his window in streaks of gold and glass, neon reflections sliding across the car like liquid light. Charles barely registered it. His knee bounced once, then stilled when he forced it to. His fingers tapped against his thigh, stopped, curled into his palm.

By the time the car pulled up to her building, he was already reaching for the door.

The lobby lights were warm, soft, expensive in that quiet way wealth has when it doesn’t need to prove anything. The concierge looked up — and immediately smiled.

“Late night, Charles?”

“Something like that,” he replied, returning the smile with ease. They greeted each other like old acquaintances, like men who understood the same language of privilege and discretion. A brief exchange. A quiet laugh. Nothing unusual. Nothing suspicious. Except for the fact that Charles didn’t linger.

He walked to the elevator with purpose, pressing the button before the doors had even fully opened. Inside, the mirrored walls reflected a version of him he didn’t quite recognize — tie loosened, hair slightly undone, eyes sharper than they should’ve been at this hour.

Floor numbers blinked upward.

12.

13.

14.

When the doors slid open, the hallway greeted him with silence.

Apartment 161.

He didn’t hesitate. He knocked.

Once.

Twice.

For half a second, nothing happened.

Then the handle turned.

The door opened just enough for her to appear in the frame — and whatever composure he’d been holding onto snapped cleanly in half.

She looked like midnight itself had decided to take a human shape. Her makeup was hours old, softened at the edges in that way that made it prettier instead of ruined. Her hair was twisted into a loose, imperfect bun that should’ve looked careless but somehow looked intentional, strands falling like they’d escaped on purpose. Her pajamas were simple, soft, the fabric brushing her thighs in a way that made his chest tighten before he could stop it.

Charles swore, in that exact second, that sanity was a fragile, temporary thing — and his had just abandoned him completely.

She blinked at him, surprised but not shocked. Like some part of her had known he’d actually come. “…You’re here.” Her voice was quieter in person. Warmer. More dangerous.

His gaze dragged up from her legs — slowly, helplessly, like gravity worked differently around her — until it reached her face.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then, softly: “You didn’t tell me not to.”

She let it go. She knew — with the kind of clarity that only arrives when it’s already too late — that opening that door had been the worst decision she’d made in years. But she was hours away from losing him for good, hours away from watching him become someone else’s forever. So she let him in. She stepped aside, and he crossed the threshold like he belonged there, like he always had.

Neither of them spoke while she walked toward the kitchen. The apartment was dim except for the soft glow of the TV, the quiet soundtrack of The Summer I Turned Pretty filling the space with someone else’s love story. Charles’ eyes drifted over everything — the blanket folded on the armrest, the glass on the table, her shoes abandoned near the door — memorizing details like evidence.

From the kitchen came the soft clink of glass. She returned with a champagne bottle in one hand and a single flute in the other. Not two. One. She held it out to him. “For you.”

Her fingers brushed his for half a second as he took it, and the contact was so brief it shouldn’t have mattered. It did.

Charles glanced at the glass, then at her. “You’re not having any?”

“I already did,” she said simply, lifting her own wine glass from the coffee table as proof.

He hummed, low, thoughtful, like he didn’t quite believe that was the only reason. They sat. Not too close. Not far enough.

The couch dipped slightly under his weight, the cushion shifting toward him until her thigh almost touched his. Almost. The kind of almost that felt louder than contact.

On the screen, someone was confessing love. In the room, neither of them were breathing normally.

Charles leaned back, champagne loose in his hand, eyes on the TV but not seeing it.

“You left early.”

She didn’t look at him. “So did you.”

A pause. His voice dropped, softer now. “I left because you weren’t there.”

Silence. The kind that presses against your ribs from the inside.

She swallowed, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen. “You had models, music, alcohol, your friends. I’m sure you survived.”

“I didn’t want them.”

Her grip tightened slightly on her glass.

“I wanted you.” The words didn’t sound dramatic. Didn’t sound rehearsed. Didn’t even sound intentional. They sounded like something that slipped out before pride could catch it.

The TV kept playing. Neither of them moved. And somehow, without either of them noticing when it happened, the space between their legs disappeared.

She looked at him. God — for some cruel, unexplainable reason, he didn’t look like a man she couldn’t have. He looked like something forbidden placed gently within reach. Like something her hands remembered before her mind could stop them.

Her voice left her before permission could exist. “Why her?” The question hung there — fragile, irreversible.

Charles didn’t answer immediately. Not because he didn’t hear. Because he did.

His eyes shifted from the TV to her slowly, like turning toward a sound he’d been waiting for all night. There was no confusion in his expression. No offense. Just something steady. Careful.

He set the champagne flute down on the table without looking away from her. “You really want to know?”

She shouldn’t have nodded. But she did.

A breath passed between them. Then another. And then — “Because she’s safe.” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t defensive. They weren’t proud. They were honest.

Her brows knit faintly. “Safe?”

“She doesn’t look at me like she knows me,” he said. “Not really. Not like you do.”

Her pulse stumbled.

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs now, closer without touching. His voice dropped — not seductive, not pleading. Confessional.

“With her, I’m who I’m supposed to be. The version people expect. The one that doesn’t ruin things. Doesn’t make mistakes. Doesn’t…” he exhaled softly, searching for the word, “…feel like I’m constantly about to lose control of something.”

Her fingers tightened around her glass. “And with me?” she asked, barely audible.

His eyes lifted to hers. “With you,” he said quietly, “I don’t get to pretend.”

Silence swallowed the room again.

On the TV, someone kissed someone. Neither of them noticed.

Her throat felt dry. “That’s not a reason to marry someone.”

“No,” he agreed. A beat. “It’s a reason to survive.”

That landed heavier than anything else he’d said.

She stared at him now, fully, openly, like she was trying to read the truth off his face the way he always read hers. But his expression didn’t flinch. Didn’t dodge. Didn’t hide. It stayed. Steady. Certain. Tired.

“And love?” she asked. It wasn’t accusatory. It was worse. It was hopeful.

His jaw tightened slightly. “I do care about her.” Not the same as I love her. They both heard the difference.

Her chest rose slowly. “That’s not what I asked.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

His gaze flickered down — to her mouth, to the way she was biting the inside of her cheek like she used to when she was nervous, like he remembered, like he’d always remembered — and something in his restraint visibly strained.

When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “Love isn’t always the deciding factor.”

Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it. “That’s a sad way to live,” she whispered.

His answer came without hesitation. “It’s a safer one.” The word again. Safe. Careful. Controlled. Everything he had never been with her.

Her laugh came out faint and breathless, not amused — just overwhelmed. “You’re really going to marry someone because she’s safe?”

He didn’t blink. “I’m going to marry her because she won’t destroy me.”

The air shifted. Something fragile tightened between them like a string pulled too far.

“And I would?” she asked softly.

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“You already do.”

She looked at him.

“But do you love me?” The question didn’t sound dramatic. Didn’t sound accusing. Didn’t even sound afraid. It sounded tired.

Charles stilled. Not the kind of stillness people fake when they’re thinking — the real kind. The kind that happens when a truth walks into the room and both of you recognize it at the same time.

His throat moved slightly when he swallowed. For once, he didn’t answer immediately. And that was answer enough to make her chest tighten.

She held his gaze anyway. Stubborn. Brave. Ruined. “Well?” she whispered.

His fingers flexed once against his knee, like he was resisting the instinct to reach for her. His voice, when it came, was low and rough in a way she’d never heard from him in public, never heard in interviews, never heard around anyone else. “You don’t ask questions like that unless you already know the answer.”

Her breath hitched — small, involuntary. “That’s not fair,” she said softly.

“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.” Silence pressed in again, thick, electric.

On the television, laughter filled the room from someone else’s storyline. It sounded distant. Unreal. Like it belonged to another world entirely.

She didn’t blink. “Say it anyway.”

His jaw tightened. He looked at her the way men look at things they aren’t supposed to touch. The way people look at fire when they already feel the burn. “You want me to say it,” he murmured, “or you want me to lie?”

Her lips parted slightly. “That’s not the same thing.”

“For me it is.”

Her heart stuttered. Because that meant—Because that meant the truth wasn’t safe. And Charles, he realized suddenly, had never been afraid of danger. He’d only ever been afraid of truth.

Her voice dropped to almost nothing. “Charles.” Just his name. A warning. A plea. A surrender.

Something in his composure cracked — not loudly, not visibly to anyone else, but she saw it. She always saw it. His eyes softened in that quiet, devastating way that only ever existed when he looked at her like this. Like she was the only real thing in a room full of illusions.

When he spoke, it wasn’t careful anymore. It wasn’t controlled. It was honest. “I never stopped.” The words barely existed above a breath. But they hit like thunder.

Her inhale trembled.

His gaze flicked to her lips again before returning to her eyes, voice lower now, almost hoarse —

“That’s the problem.” She moved closer. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to matter.

The space between them — that fragile, trembling line they’d been pretending still existed — dissolved like mist. She could feel the warmth of him now, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of her sleeve, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with champagne and night air.

She knew she shouldn’t. She knew every instinct she’d ever had was screaming don’t. But who was going to see them here? Who was going to stop them?

Her voice came out softer than she intended, almost fragile — like the truth had edges.

“I’ve loved you for years,” she whispered. “And you’ve never been mine.” The confession didn’t shatter the room. It sank into it.

Charles didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t look away.

For a moment he just stared at her, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of the words on her lips, like he’d been waiting his entire life to hear them and now that they existed he didn’t know what to do with them. Something flickered behind his eyes — not surprise. Recognition.

Slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something sacred or dangerous or both, his hand lifted. He didn’t touch her. Not yet.

His fingers hovered near her jaw, barely there, the ghost of a touch instead of the touch itself. Waiting. Asking. Begging permission without pride left to hide behind.

“You think you’ve never been mine?” he said quietly. His voice wasn’t steady anymore. It was softer than she’d ever heard it. Rougher. Realer. His thumb brushed her cheek. Just once. Featherlight. “You always have been.”

And without waiting for anything more — for permission, for reason, for sense — she crashed into his lips.

Her fingers tangled instantly in his hair, gripping like she needed something solid to hold onto, something real, something that wouldn’t vanish the second she blinked. The kiss wasn’t gentle, wasn’t careful; it was desperate, breathless, years of restraint unraveling all at once.

His hands found her hips like they already knew the way, like they had memorized that place long before they were ever allowed to touch it. His grip tightened, pulling her flush against him, anchoring her there as if the world outside the apartment had ceased to exist.

She kissed him like she was claiming something. He kissed her like he already belonged to her.

Air grew scarce between them, breaths breaking against each other, noses brushing, lips parting only to find each other again. The room was too warm, too quiet, too full of everything they had never said.

And for that suspended, reckless moment, there was no wedding, no promises, no consequences. Just her mouth on his, his hands on her, and the undeniable, ruinous truth they had spent years pretending wasn’t there.

When the kiss deepened, it became clear there was nothing left for them to do but surrender to it.

What had started as hesitation dissolved into something heavier, warmer, inevitable. Between breaths and stolen seconds, they moved together down the hallway, lips still meeting, hands still holding, like distance itself had become unbearable.

The bedroom waited at the end. Her bedroom. The one she shared with someone else.

Charles noticed — of course he did. His eyes skimmed the space in a single glance, catching the quiet details that didn’t belong to him, the subtle traces of another life threaded into the room. And yet none of it stopped him. If anything, something unreadable flickered across his expression, something fierce and quietly possessive, like the knowledge only made this moment feel more real, more dangerous, more theirs.

Her fingers tightened lightly in his shirt as they stepped inside, her pulse loud enough she was sure he could feel it.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

The air between them already said everything words couldn’t.

His hand slipped into hers, warm, certain, as if he’d made his choice long before tonight. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t look back. She only let him guide her one step further inside, into the soft dimness, into the quiet, into whatever came next.

And behind them, the door closed with a soft, final click.

—

When the morning came, sunlight slipped through the curtains of YN’s bedroom in thin, golden lines, quiet and indifferent, as if the world hadn’t shifted at all.

The weight beside her was gone. It had vanished hours ago — no goodbye, no whisper, no lingering warmth except the faint imprint on the sheets and the ghost of him still clinging to the air. She dragged a hand down her face, slow, frustrated, the reality settling over her skin like something she couldn’t wash off.

Of course he’d left. Of course he had.

She pushed herself upright, the blanket sliding down as she glanced around the room. Her clothes were scattered across the floor, a silent map of last night’s decisions, each piece carrying the unmistakable trace of his cologne — that clean, expensive scent that now felt less like luxury and more like evidence.

For a moment she just sat there, staring. She could go after him. She could call. She could demand something — an explanation, a promise, a lie, anything. Her chest tightened. She didn’t.

Instead, she stood, gathering her clothes one by one, movements slower than usual, like gravity had grown heavier overnight. The bathroom light flickered on, the shower running soon after, steam filling the space until the mirror blurred and her reflection disappeared completely.

Safe. Hidden. Temporary. Because in less than seven hours, he was going to get married. And she already knew what he would choose. The safe option.

—

YN arrived at the salon five minutes late, the kind of late that didn’t ruin anything but still made her feel like she’d stepped into the scene half a breath behind everyone else.

The wedding planner was already there, clipboard in hand, whispering final confirmations into her headset while scanning the room with sharp, practiced eyes. Everything smelled faintly of hairspray, roses, and expensive anticipation.

Alexandra — radiant, glowing, impossibly calm — stood near the mirror as if she’d been born meant to be a bride.

Alexandra turned when YN entered, her face lighting instantly, the nerves she’d been hiding softening into relief. “There you are,” she breathed.

Before YN could answer, another voice cut in — warm, elegant, unmistakably affectionate. “Finally.”

Pascale crossed the room with open arms, greeting Alexandra first with a gentle kiss to both cheeks, murmuring something soft in French meant only for her future daughter-in-law. But when she turned to YN, her smile widened, eyes bright with a kind of fondness that ran deeper than politeness.

“My darling,” she said, pulling her into a hug that lingered a second longer than expected.

Anyone watching would think she was greeting family. And in a way, she was.

“You’re late,” Pascale added lightly, though her tone held no reprimand at all.

“Only fashionably,” YN replied, her voice smooth, composed, perfectly believable.

Pascale laughed, delighted, and brushed a strand of hair from YN’s face like she used to when YN was younger — a gesture so instinctive it slipped out before anyone could question it.

Across the room, the planner clapped her hands once. “Alright, ladies — timeline.”

The energy shifted immediately. Chairs turned. Tools clinked. Assistants moved.

Pascale guided Alexandra gently toward the styling chair, hands already assessing her hair with a professional’s eye and a mother’s quiet pride. “Today,” she said softly, meeting Alexandra’s reflection in the mirror, “you become part of our family.”

YN stood just behind them. Smiling. Watching. Silent.

And for a fleeting second — so quick no one noticed — her gaze drifted to the empty chair beside Alexandra’s, the one that would’ve been hers if life had tilted just slightly differently. She clasped her hands together so no one would see them tremble.

—

When the clock struck three, YN slipped out of the salon at last, pressing careful goodbye kisses to cheeks, offering reassurances, promises, smiles that looked effortless from the outside. Pascale squeezed her hands once before letting go; Alexandra told her not to be late; the planner reminded her of the timeline as if it were sacred scripture. And then she was gone. The quiet of the hallway felt louder than the celebration she’d left behind.

By the time she reached her apartment, the sky had shifted into that soft golden hour Monaco wore so well — warm light spilling across balconies, glinting off glass, making everything look gentler than it really was.

The door opened. He was already there.

Louis stood just inside with his suitcase by his feet, travel-worn and beautiful in that effortless way he had, hair slightly mussed from the flight, shirt creased, eyes tired but lighting up the second he saw her.

And in his hand — flowers. Fresh. Carefully chosen. Her favorites.

The sight hit her all at once, sharp and quiet and heavy. Guilt didn’t arrive dramatically; it slipped in softly, settling somewhere behind her ribs.

Because he looked exactly like someone who loved her.

She didn’t let herself think. She ran to him.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss that was warm and real and safe — so safe it almost hurt. He laughed softly against her lips, surprised but pleased, one hand instinctively sliding around her waist to steady her as she nearly collided with him.

“God,” she murmured, pressing her face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in like she needed proof he was real, “I missed you more than you can imagine.”

He exhaled, arms tightening around her. “I think I can imagine,” he said gently.

—

yourusername

♥︎ liked by milliebobbybrown, taylorswift and 1,128,012 others.

yourusername: my bridesmaid outfit makes me look a little silly but I look pretty with him by my side :)

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louispartridge_: how is it possible that you get more beautiful every time I see you? I swear the room stopped when you walked in. proud to be the one next to you today 🤍

yourusername: stop it right now you’re going to ruin my mascara ☹️🤍

louispartridge_: also for the record — you don’t look silly, you look like the reason love songs exist.

yourusername: you’re dangerously close to making me cry in the middle of a wedding

louispartridge: still not over the fact I get to call you mine.

fan01: OH?????? SIR?????????

fan02: he’s down BAD and I support it 🧎‍♀️

alexandrasaintmleux: MY GIRL 😭 you look unreal, thank you for being my calm today 💐

carmenmmundt: excuse me??? bridesmaid or literal angel???

kikagomes: stop it right now you’re glowing

lilymhe: okay but the dress + you + that smile = illegal levels of pretty

fan03: the way he’s looking at you 😭😭😭

fan04: “with him by my side :)” OH WE SEE YOU

fan05: today’s wedding but y’all are the main characters idc

fan06: he’s holding her like she’s the only person in the room im sobbing

fan07: she said she looks silly meanwhile she looks like a literal princess

fan08: not to be dramatic but they’re soulmates

fan09: if THIS is the bridesmaid look I fear for the bride (respectfully)

fan10: the soft smile + his hand on her waist = movie scene energy

fan11: not to be dramatic but louis looks like he worships the ground she walks on

fan12: the way he’s holding her waist 😭

fan13: okay but… am I the only one who thinks charles looked better with her 👀

fan14: lowkey they had more chemistry sorry not sorry

fan15: nah fr there was something there once

fan16: y’all are messy in these comments omg 😭

fan13: I SAID WHAT I SAID

fan14: ignoring the chaos to say you look stunning

fan15: louis won life btw

louispartridge: I did.

fan16: SIR????? 😭

—

charles_leclerc

♥︎ liked by lorenzotl, pascale_leclerc and 1,516,171 others.

charles_leclerc: today a new chapter begins, and I’m happy to live it with you. @ lorenzotl @ arthur_leclerc.

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arthur_leclerc: always with you, frère ❤️ proud of you

lorenzotl: let’s gooooo 🤍 big day

pierregasly: not crying bro just allergies

carlossainz55: clean suits, clean hearts. proud of you mate

lando: why do you all look like a mafia family

georgerussell63: handsome group, congrats man 👏

lewishamilton: wishing you a beautiful day 🙏🏾

oscarpiastri: the cufflinks are doing serious work

maxverstappen1: don’t be late to your own wedding

fernandoalo_oficial: enjoy every second. it goes fast.

fan01: THE BROTHERS PHOTO 😭

fan02: he looks so happy stop

fan03: wedding day glow is REAL

fan04: arthur looks like he’s about to cry and I’m about to cry too

fan05: this is actually so wholesome

fan06: charles getting married wasn’t on my bingo card but okay I support

fan07: the suits??? the smiles??? the vibes???

fan08: manifesting this level of happiness someday

fan09: the most elegant trio today 🤵🏻‍♂️🤵🏻‍♂️🤵🏻‍♂️more comments

fan10: he looks happy… but is he happy happy?

fan11: anyone else feel like something’s off or am I dramatic

fan12: the smiles aren’t reaching the eyes I SAID WHAT I SAID

fan13: he’s glowing but like… in a mysterious way

fan14: lowkey feels like he’s convincing himself

fan15: y’all ever seen someone happy and conflicted at the same time

fan16: this is giving “character makes questionable decision before finale” energy

fan17: the way his brothers look happier than him 😭

—

alexandrasaintmleux

♥︎ liked by haileybieber, carmenmmundt and 1,091,012 others.

alexandrasaintmleux: I’m not going to lie, I’m nervous but incredibly happy to start a new chapter. Thank you to the people who have been there for me. 🤍

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carmenmmundt: MY GIRL 😭 you look like a dream

kikagomes: actual angel bride

lilymhe: I’m crying and I’m not even there yet

rebeccadonaldson: best day ever and it hasn’t even started

haileybieber: glowing is an understatement

fan01: you deserve every bit of this happiness

fan02: okay but this is bridal perfection

fan03: that dress was made for you

fan04: still not over how stunning you look

yourusername: charles better cry when he sees you or I will complain personally

tatemcrae: love you forever bridey 💐

fan05: you look unreal 🤍

fan06: the elegance is insane

fan07: why do I feel emotional and I don’t even know you

fan08: she’s pretty but I still think yn would’ve been a better bride

fan09: not to be messy but yn clears

fan10: yn looks a thousand times better I’m sorry

fan11: y’all can’t lie yn had more chemistry with him

fan12: she’s gorgeous but yn was always that girl

fan13: can we not compare women for once

fan14: nah cause yn should’ve been the one in that dress

fan15: ignore the weird comments queen you look stunning

fan16: this is what bridal glow is supposed to look like

alexandrasaintmleux: thank you all for the kind messages 🤍

—

The hour YN had been dreading arrived with church bells. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just final.

The doors stood open, sunlight pouring through them in pale gold ribbons, and the music began — soft, traditional, beautiful.

To everyone else, it sounded like a wedding. To her, it sounded like a funeral.

She sat perfectly still in the front row, posture elegant, hands folded neatly in her lap so no one would see the tension in her fingers. From the outside she looked composed, radiant even — the perfect bridesmaid, the perfect guest, the perfect picture of grace. Inside, something was breaking quietly.

She watched as Alexandra appeared at the end of the aisle, glowing beneath lace and light, moving slowly, almost floating. Like a pageant queen. Like a dream. Like a promise.

But I know you wish it was me. The thought slipped in before she could stop it. Her chest tightened. You wish it was me. Don’t you? Her gaze lifted.

At the altar stood Charles Leclerc, dressed in white and devotion, hands clasped in front of him, jaw set just slightly too tight for a man about to marry the love of his life.

Everyone was looking at the bride. Everyone except him. Because despite every ounce of discipline he possessed, despite the cameras, the guests, the vows waiting on his tongue — his eyes betrayed him for half a second. They found her. First row. Beside her boyfriend. Looking like something he had dreamed up and lost all at once. It was quick. So quick no one else noticed. But she did. Of course she did.

Her breath caught, barely there, her fingers tightening together in her lap as their eyes met across the aisle — across flowers, across guests, across everything they had chosen and everything they hadn’t.

In that instant, the church disappeared. No music. No priest. No guests. Just him. Just her. Just the silent, devastating question hanging between them like a secret neither of them would ever say out loud.

And then — He looked away. Back to the bride. Back to the moment. Back to the life he had chosen.

The music swelled. The ceremony began.

And YN smiled, perfectly on cue, like her heart wasn’t quietly shattering in a church full of witnesses. The ceremony unfolded with solemn grace, each word spoken with the kind of reverence that made time feel slower, heavier, inevitable. Incense lingered faintly in the air. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, painting the marble floor in fractured colors that trembled softly whenever someone shifted in their seat.

To everyone else, it was beautiful.To YN, it felt like watching the last page of a story she’d never been allowed to finish.

The priest’s voice rang clear as he turned toward Alexandra, his tone ceremonial, timeless.

“Alexandra Malena Saint Mleux, do you accept Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc as your husband, to love and to cherish him in poverty and in wealth, in sickness and in health?”

The church held its breath. “I do.” Her answer was steady. Certain. Bright with joy.

A soft wave of emotion passed through the guests — quiet smiles, misty eyes, hands squeezing hands. The kind of reaction weddings were made for. The kind people would remember fondly.

The priest nodded, satisfied, and turned toward the groom. Toward Charles. “And you, Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc—”

YN felt it instantly. Her chest tightened, breath thinning as though the air itself had grown heavier. Something inside her seemed to shrink, folding in on itself, smaller and smaller, like her heart was trying to make room for a reality it didn’t want to hold.

“…do you accept Alexandra Malena Saint Mleux as your wife, to love and to cherish her in poverty and in wealth, in sickness and in health?”

Silence. Not long. Just long enough. Long enough for her pulse to stumble. Long enough for hope — traitorous, foolish hope — to flicker somewhere deep inside her ribs.

She smiled anyway. A perfect smile. A bridesmaid’s smile. The kind meant for photographs.

Tears gathered along her lashes, shining like fragile glass. Anyone looking would think they were tears of happiness. Tears of emotion. Tears of witnessing love. Only she knew they were grief.

At the altar, Charles inhaled slowly. His jaw flexed once. And for the briefest fraction of a second — the smallest betrayal of composure — his eyes shifted. Not to the priest. Not to the guests. To her. First row. Beside her boyfriend. Looking like something he had lost and never stopped wanting.

The moment passed before anyone else could notice. His gaze returned forward. His voice, when it came, was calm. Certain. “I do.”

The words didn’t echo. They landed. Final. Absolute. Irrevocable.

A soft murmur of relief and joy rippled through the church. Someone sniffled. Someone sighed. Somewhere in the back, quiet applause began before quickly fading again into reverent silence.

Beside the aisle, YN’s smile didn’t falter. Not once.

Not even as something inside her quietly shattered for good.

—

At the reception, YN still felt like this was the worst day of her life. Watching him dance with her, kiss her, smile at her — it only made it worse. Louis was chatting animatedly with the guests, fitting in effortlessly, as always. Simply perfect.

YN said she felt a little sick and that she was going to get some air. Louis insisted on going with her, but she managed to convince him she was fine, that she just needed a moment alone. He agreed and let her go.

The night air met her like a cool sigh when she stepped into the small garden tucked away from the party. The music faded behind her, softened by walls and distance. The golden glow from inside barely reached the leaves nearby, and for the first time all day, no one was watching her. Except him.

Charles saw her from afar and walked over quietly, as if afraid of breaking something invisible between them. “You slipped away,” he said softly.

YN didn’t turn. “I just needed to breathe.”

He stopped behind her. Not too close. Never far enough. “You didn’t look okay.”

“It’s a wedding, Charles. No one stands alone in a garden during a wedding if everything’s perfect.”

Silence settled between them, heavy with words they couldn’t say out loud.

“Louis was looking for you,” he added.

She let out a small humorless laugh. “Louis always looks for me. That’s what men in love do.”

That hit him. It showed in the way his jaw tightened. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“No,” she said quietly. “You already have a ring for that.” Now she turned.

Their eyes met, and the world seemed to shrink to the exact space between them. Inside, applause burst out, followed by laughter, like someone had just told a joke. Neither of them reacted.

Charles’ voice dropped. “I didn’t want today to be like this for you.”

“Like what?”

“Hard.”

She held his gaze. “Don’t worry. I’m good at pretending.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “You’ve never been able to pretend with me.”

That cracked something in her. The breeze shifted her hair slightly, and he noticed — like he noticed everything about her. Like his attention still belonged to her. “You should go back,” she said finally, softer now.

He didn’t move.

“Charles.” Her voice sounded different. Lower. Fragile.

He swallowed. “When you walked into the church today…” he started, then stopped.

She didn’t breathe. “What?” Barely a whisper.

He looked at her like he was staring at something he wasn’t supposed to look at anymore. “Nothing.” A lie.

She took a small step back, like she needed space just to stand. “Your wife is waiting.”

The word landed between them like glass.

Something in his expression shifted — a fracture, quick and small. But he nodded. One step back. Then another.

And just before turning away, he murmured— “It’s still you.” He didn’t explain what he meant. He didn’t have to. Then he left.

And YN stayed there in the garden, the distant music echoing softly, her heart beating too fast, and the painful certainty settling deep in her chest that even on the day he married someone else… a part of him still hadn’t let her go

—

When the wedding ended, YN and Louis said their goodbyes to everyone. She smiled, hugged, thanked, laughed at the right moments — performed perfectly. Even when she reached Charles, she acted like nothing had ever happened between them. Polite. Warm. Distant. The kind of goodbye you give someone who means nothing. Then she left with Louis.

By the time they got back to the apartment, the night had settled into a quiet stillness. They changed into their pajamas, the soft domestic routine almost surreal after the glitter and noise of the reception. YN wiped off her makeup slowly, watching her reflection fade back into someone simpler, someone who didn’t have to pretend so much.

She slipped into bed beside him.

Louis didn’t say anything at first. But he had noticed. He always noticed. He knew her — maybe not in the way Charles did, not with that instinctive, dangerous familiarity, but in the steady way that came from choosing her every day. From paying attention. From learning her like a language he wanted to speak fluently.

His voice was gentle in the dark. “You’re quiet tonight.”

She stared at the ceiling. “I’m just tired.”

A pause. Not convinced. “That’s not your tired voice.”

Her chest tightened slightly.

He shifted onto his side, propping his head on his hand so he could see her better in the dim light. “What’s going on in that head of yours, hm?”

She turned to him, offering a small smile — soft, believable, practiced. “Nothing important.”

He studied her for a second longer, eyes warm, patient, searching. Louis didn’t push. He never pushed. Instead, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering lightly at her temple. “Whatever it is,” he murmured, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”

And that — that almost made it worse. Because kindness was harder to lie to than suspicion.

She swallowed, her throat tight, and nodded once. “I know.”

He kissed her forehead, slow and tender, like a promise rather than a question, then pulled her gently closer until her head rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Calm. Safe.Everything Charles had never been. Louis’ arm wrapped around her, protective even in sleep as his breathing began to slow.

YN stayed awake. Eyes open. Mind loud. Heart divided. And in the silence of the dark, she realized something that scared her more than the wedding had — being loved right… didn’t feel the same as loving wrong.

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