The CEO's Regret: You made me your lie, I become your Loss-Chapter 91: The wedding drama

The true exhaustion hit during the dress fittings. Amara stood on a pedestal for four hours as three French tailors argued over the architectural integrity of her train.

"I can’t breathe," Amara whispered as a corset was cinched. "I feel like I’m being packaged for shipping."

Amira leaned against the doorframe, sipping a bright green smoothie and scrolling through her phone. She looked effortlessly cool in her leather jacket, her red hair a vibrant contrast to the sea of white lace in the room.

"You look like a very expensive marshmallow, sister," Amira teased, her eyes dancing with mischief. "If you trip on that train, Julian’s going to have to tackle you just to keep you from rolling down the aisle."

"Oh, shut up," Amara laughed, though she looked ready to cry. "At least I’m not sneaking out of high-society galas to go to ’dive bars’ with mysterious architects. How is Leo, anyway? I noticed you’ve been ’working late’ at the foundation every night this week."

Amira’s smirk faltered for a microsecond, a rare blush creeping up her neck. "We’re discussing blueprints, Amara. It’s very technical."

"Blueprints? Is that what they call it now?" Amara countered, a playful glint returning to her eyes.

"Don’t worry, Amira. Your time will come too. And when you’re standing on this pedestal being poked by pins and arguing over ’Oyster’ cardstock, I am going to sit right there with a giant tub of popcorn and laugh until I choke."

Amira blew her a kiss. "Keep dreaming, sis. I’m a creature of the shadows. No one’s putting me in a veil."

—

Weeks didn’t just pass, they spiraled.

One minute, it was a simple "let’s taste a few cakes," and the next, Julian was on slice number six of Madagascar Vanilla, nodding like a man making life-altering decisions... when really, he was just trying to survive the room.

"Hmm. Yes. Very... vanilla," he said for the third time, earning a suspicious look from Madam Pedro.

Then came the seating chart. Oh, the seating chart.

What started as a polite discussion turned into full-blown strategy warfare. Alliances were formed. Names were moved. Removed. Moved again. At one point, Madam Pedro nearly disowned a cousin over a table placement that was, according to her, "an insult to generations of dignity."

The house buzzed with all its voices, opinions, fabrics, flowers, colors, and an endless storm of decisions that never seemed to sleep.

It was loud. It was chaotic. It was... a lot. But then. Night would fall.

The doors would close. The mothers would retreat to their rooms, no doubt whispering about roses versus peonies like it was a matter of national importance.

And Julian would slip away. Quietly. Carefully. Always to her.

He’d find Amara by the window, just as he knew he would bathed in soft moonlight, her gaze lost somewhere far beyond the glass, like she was searching for a version of herself untouched by all the noise.

He never asked about the wedding. Never mentioned the guest list. Not tonight. Not in that space.

Instead, he’d walk over, slow and familiar, and sit on the floor at her feet. Like that was where he belonged.

Then, gently, he’d rest his head on her knees. No words. Just quiet. Just presence. And somehow, in that silence... everything heavy from the day would begin to loosen, to fade, like the world outside that room didn’t matter nearly as much as this small, fragile peace they had found in each other.

"Only twelve more days," he’d whisper.

"Only twelve more days," she’d repeat, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "Then the world goes away, and it’s just us."

The wedding morning arrived with the force of a hurricane. The mansion was crawling with makeup artists, photographers, and security detail.

Amidst the chaos, Amira slipped into Amara’s dressing room. She handed her sister a small, velvet box. Inside was a hair clip made of silver and a single, tiny emerald.

"Something blue is cliché," Amira said softly, her voice uncharacteristically tender. "This is something green. For growth. For the fact that we’re both still standing."

Amara looked at her sister in the mirror, the two of them finally seeing each other without the shadows of the past. She pinned the clip into her hair.

"Ready?" Amira asked, holding out her arm.

"Ready," Amara replied.

As the music began to swell from the gardens below, Amara took a deep breath. She wasn’t the girl who had been kidnapped, or the girl who had been broken by a first love. She was a woman walking toward a man who had built a world for her to be safe in.

And as she stepped out into the sunlight, she saw Julian. He wasn’t looking at the flowers, the five-tier cake, or the five hundred guests. He was looking at her as if she were the only person he had ever truly seen.

The grand gardens of the Pedro estate were a masterpiece of Oyster silk and white orchids, but away from the prying eyes of the five hundred guests, a different kind of drama was unfolding behind the tall, manicured hedges.

Amira had cornered Leo Vance near the stone fountain, far from the reach of her mother’s scrutinizing gaze. She looked lethal in her violet suit, but her hands were shaking as she gripped her champagne flute.

"You’ve been staring at me all through the ceremony, Vance," Amira challenged, her voice a defensive rasp. "Is there a problem with the architecture of my face today?"

Leo didn’t back down. He stepped into her personal space, the scent of expensive cologne and rain-drenched cedarwood surrounding her. "The architecture is perfect, Amira. It’s the foundation I’m worried about. You’re terrified."

"I’m not terrified of anything," she snapped.

"Liar," Leo whispered, the word soft but heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.

Before she could deflect, joke, or run her usual circles around the moment, his hand came up, warm against her cheek, steadying her. And then. He kissed her. Not gentle. Not hesitant.

It tasted like rebellion... like all the things they weren’t supposed to be. Like every stolen moment, finally refusing to stay hidden.

When they pulled apart, the air between them felt thinner, charged, like something irreversible had just been set in motion.

But Leo didn’t step back. Didn’t let go.

"I love you, Amira," he said, his voice low, unwavering now. "I don’t want a ’technical’ relationship anymore." A small pause just enough to make her heart stutter. "Marry me. Let’s build something that isn’t a secret."

Silence.

Real, actual silence.

Amira...Amira...the woman who always had a comeback, a sharp remark, a perfectly timed escape line... just stared at him.

Eyes wide. Unblinking. Like the ground beneath her had shifted without warning.

"Marry?" she echoed faintly. "Like... this?" Her hands moved vaguely, as if gesturing to an invisible wedding unfolding around them. "The dresses? The napkins? The... commitment?"

Leo almost smiled but didn’t. Because this was real. And for once... she didn’t know how to fight it. For one fragile second, it looked like she might stay. Like she might actually feel it.

Then she ran. No warning. No explanation.

Just turned on her heel and bolted, her heels clicking wildly against the stone path, fast and frantic like her thoughts had finally outrun her courage.

And just like that. She was gone.

The bridal suite had been suspiciously quiet. For once, no planners. No mothers. No opinions about flowers or napkins or whether ivory was "too emotional." Just Amara... and a rare, fragile moment of peace.

And then...the door burst open.

"I’m leaving!" Amira announced like a woman declaring war on her own life. "I’m moving to Iceland! Or Mars! Whichever is colder and farther away!"

She was already pacing before the words even finished, her red hair wild, her energy somewhere between panic and full-blown chaos.

"Leo asked me to marry him, Amara," she blurted, throwing her hands up. "I have to break up with him. I have to run." Amara blinked.

Once. Twice. Then, slowly, very slowly, she rose to her feet, the heavy silk of her gown trailing behind her like a queen about to pass judgment. The soft rustle of her train filled the room... quiet, but powerful. A warning.

Before Amira could make her dramatic escape, Amara stepped forward. And blocked the door. Completely.

"You are not going anywhere," she said calmly. Too calmly. "Amara, move!" Amira snapped, trying to sidestep her. "I’m freaking out!"

"Yes," Amara replied, folding her arms, utterly unimpressed. "I can see that. You’ve escalated from emotional distress to interplanetary relocation in under ten seconds."

"THIS IS NOT A JOKE!" Amira groaned, dragging her hands through her hair. "Marriage? Me? That’s.... that’s dresses and forever and shared bathrooms!"

Amara tilted her head slightly, studying her like a puzzle she already knew how to solve. "Or," she said softly, "it’s love."

That stopped her. Just for a second. But Amira recovered quickly, pointing accusingly. "Don’t do that. Don’t make it sound soft and beautiful. It’s terrifying!"

Amara’s lips curved just a little. "Of course it is," she said. "The things that matter always are."

Amira groaned again, spinning in a small circle as she might combust. "I can’t do this. I don’t even know who I am half the time, and now he wants forever? That’s illegal. That should be illegal."

Amara didn’t move from the door. Didn’t budge an inch. "Then don’t answer him yet," she said simply. "But you don’t get to run." Amira froze.

"...I don’t?"

"No," Amara said, softer now, but firmer. "You stay. You feel it. You panic if you must...dramatically, preferably, but you stay." 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

A beat. Another. Amira exhaled slowly, like the fight was leaking out of her all at once. "...I hate you," she muttered.

Amara smiled faintly. "No, you don’t."

"...I really might."

"You won’t," Amara said, completely certain. And there, in the middle of silk and chaos and almost-running-away, Amira didn’t move. Not toward the door.

"Listen," Amara said, her voice soft but immovable. "I spent half my life being afraid of you, and the other half being afraid for you. I won’t let you run away from the first good thing that’s happened to you just because a ring scares you. You love him, Amira. Say it."

Amira stopped, her shoulders sagging as the bravado crumbled. "I do. I love him so much it feels like I’m dying. But the wedding... the ceremony... I can’t be a ’bride,’ Amara. I’m the shadow sister, remember?"

"You’re the woman who saved my life," Amara corrected, taking her sister’s hands. "You don’t have to be a ’bride’ like me. You can get married in a leather jacket on a rooftop for all I care. But you are not leaving that man."

Amira let out a shaky breath, a small, tearful laugh escaping her. "Fine. I won’t run. But if Mama starts picking out ’Pearl Oyster’ envelopes for me, I’m blaming you."