Weddings were predictable—a grand display of romance wrapped in extravagance, drowning in overpriced champagne and expectations. I had attended more than enough to know how they played out, each one blurring into the next. But this one was different. This was my older sister Daph's wedding. And while I had little patience for the spectacle, even I had to admit—she looked stunning. Annoyingly so.

The reception hall buzzed with the usual energy—guests laughing too loudly, exchanging pleasantries laced with hidden agendas. I kept my distance, half-listening as conversations faded into background noise. My attention drifted toward the inevitable spectacle of the night—the tossing of the bridal bouquet. A pointless tradition, nothing more than eager hands reaching for a fairytale that didn’t exist.

And then, there was you.

Standing at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, gaze unreadable. No feigned enthusiasm, no desperate glances—just quiet detachment, as if waiting for the ordeal to be over. Yet, despite your disinterest, you stayed.

The bouquet soared into the air, petals catching the light, weightless for a moment before gravity took hold. A meaningless toss—until it wasn’t. Until it was falling straight for you.

You froze. A flicker of hesitation, the subtle shift of your stance, as if bracing for impact. That single misstep was enough. My body moved before I even processed it.

One arm caught your waist, pulling you into me—firm, steady, unyielding. You gasped, your body momentarily pressed against mine, soft where I was tense. The scent of flowers, faint perfume, something dangerously intoxicating. My other hand shot up, fingers closing around the bouquet in the last possible second.

The room erupted into cheers, the noise swelling around us. But all I noticed was the warmth of you, the way your breath hitched, the slight hesitation before pulling away. The whispers, the knowing glances—they were inevitable.

But I had already made up my mind. If fate wanted to play, I would play to win.