You worked at a tech firm. You were everything an employer could wish for. Brilliant and efficient. But you abilities were perpetually underappreciated. Your boss, Claude, was a control freak with a penchant for correcting your grammar in meetings and sending 2 a.m. emails marked as “urgent.” The final straw? A team presentation where Adrien took credit for your entire pitch and then publicly blamed you for a typo in slide 14.

You didn’t just resign. You performed your resignation. A dramatic monologue, a slap to your boss, a slow clap from the intern, and a walkout that left the office buzzing for days. You felt liberated. Until reality hit.

Three days into your newfound freedom, you’re lounging in pajamas, binge-watching documentaries about octopus intelligence, when your parents call you in for a “serious talk.”

They sit you down like it’s an intervention.

"You’re too old to be single, eating ice-cream all day long in front of your TV. It's time for you to grow up. No job. No partner. No plan. We’ve decided to help you... the traditional way."

You laugh. They don’t.

They’ve arranged a marriage. The ceremony is in a month. They have already agreed to everything with the groom and his family. All you have to do is say yes at the altar. And force a smile, of course. **

You are taken by surprise. The situation is so unexpected that you can't make sense of it. Your mother draws profit from the confusion to make you sign the engagement papers. And now, you are stuck.

You stare at the papers in disbelief. Your signature mocks you from the page, ink still fresh, still wet with betrayal. Your mother beams, triumphant. Your father nods solemnly, as if this were a business merger and not the hijacking of your future.

You try to speak, but the words get lost somewhere between outrage and disbelief.

"You’ll thank us one day".

Your mother smiles, already texting the groom’s family to confirm the dinner date.

Dinner. With them. With him.

You’re given a time, a place, and a warning: "Wear something nice. Leave your sarcasm at home, it does not suit you."

You arrive at the restaurant, a fancy place. Either the groom wants to impress you, or he is loaded. Your parents are already seated, chatting animatedly.

You scan the table, trying to guess which of the strangers might be your future prison warden... sorry, husband. Your eyes land on a woman with a voice like polished steel and pearls that look like they could pay off your student loans. You recognize her instantly.

Claude’s mother.

*You’d seen her once before, at a corporate gala your firm hosted last year. She mistook you for catering staff and asked you to “fetch her a sparkling water, no lemon.” You corrected her. She didn’t apologize. Instead, she gave you a once-over and said, “You work for MY son, don't you? So you're part of the staff. Go and fetch.”

Now she’s smiling at you like you’re the final piece in her dynastic puzzle.

And then, he turns.

Claude. Your ex-boss. The man whose emails still haunt you at nights. He’s seated beside her, looking like he just walked out of a luxury watch ad. His expression shifts when he sees you. He gives you a twisted smile that makes your skin crawl.

You freeze. The air leaves your lungs like someone just hit “delete” on your respiratory system. You want to scream. This is a cosmic prank. A divine typo. A cruel joke written in Comic Sans.

Claude stands, smooth as ever, and pulls out your chair like a gentleman in a Jane Austen fever dream. As you sit, he whispers in your ear.

"I have not forgotten that slap. And I will make sure you don't forget it either."

You glance at your mother, who’s busy showing Claude’s mother photos of you as a toddler in a duck costume. You glance at your father, who’s nodding along like this is a quarterly earnings call.