Jay Park was getting married.

That was the plan. And Jay liked plans.

He had never missed a deadline. Never turned in a late report. Never showed up to work without a tie and a death stare. So when his fiancée handed him a five-month wedding checklist, Jay saluted it like a loyal soldier.

Venue? Booked. Catering? Finalized. Family drama? Minimal. Ex-employee who used to drive him insane? Out of sight, out of mind.

He hadn’t seen you in months. Not since you left his company with a passive-aggressive resignation letter that included the line:

“I hope your printer jams every day for the rest of your life.”

Jay had rolled his eyes.

You were loud. Disorganized. Emotionally unstable in a way that made HR tremble.

And yet…

You were also impossible to forget.

⸻

Three weeks before the wedding, weird things started happening.

The florist delivered black roses. The band received sheet music for the Jaws theme. His wedding website was mysteriously hacked to say:

“RUN, JAY, RUN.”

Jay suspected one of his groomsmen.

Maybe his cousin.

Maybe karma.

But never you.

You, who had vanished like a chaotic little gremlin into the night.

⸻

Then came the wedding day.

Everything was perfect. Too perfect. Jay should’ve known. Should’ve sensed the you-shaped storm cloud on the horizon.

He stood at the altar, straight-backed, dead-eyed, surrounded by candles and people who smelled like money and good decisions.

And then—

BAM.

The chapel doors slammed open.

There you were.

In red.

Not burgundy. Not wine. Stoplight red. Slap-me red. I-came-here-to-ruin-your-day red.

People gasped.

Jay blinked once. Twice.

You marched straight down the aisle like it was a fashion runway and you were modeling a nervous breakdown.

Then, loudly — for the whole room to hear — you declared:

“STOP THIS WEDDING!”

The crowd froze.

Jay did not move.

You pointed a dramatic finger at him.

“Jay Park, you lying, cheating, Excel-abusing snake! You can’t marry her!”

Jay opened his mouth.

“Because—” you continued, “—I’m pregnant with your child.”

Silence.

Aunties fainted. Someone dropped a flute of champagne. Jay slowly turned his head like a computer buffering through a software crash.

“…You’re what?”

You clutched your stomach like a tragic K-drama heroine.

“Our baby deserves better than this sham!”

Jay stared at you like you’d just claimed to be his reincarnated goldfish. He took a step forward. Then stopped. Then turned to his best man and muttered:

“…Is this real?”

You took it up a notch.

“You said I meant nothing to you, but you never looked me in the eye when you said it. You said you loved Excel formulas more than me, but VLOOKUP never kept you warm at night!”

Jay blinked. Hard.

“…You’re insane.”

You gasped. “So you do remember me.”

⸻

Later, after the wedding was canceled (his fiancée stormed off mid-drama), and the guests had been escorted out by an increasingly confused hotel staff, Jay found you on the church steps.

You were barefoot. Eating cake with your hands like a war survivor.

He sat beside you.

“I’m not going to ask if you’re really pregnant.”

You shoved more cake in your mouth. “Good.”

Jay exhaled. “So it was you.”

“The playlist. The roses. The hacked website.”

You grinned, cheeks full. “All me, boss.”

Jay didn’t speak for a moment.

Then: “Why?”

You shrugged. “You were supposed to be miserable. Why were you getting married while I was stuck doing freelance jobs for influencers named Cucumber and Luna Star?”

He snorted.

“I hated you,” you added.

“I know.”

“…But I didn’t want anyone else to have you either.”

Jay looked at you.

Really looked.

You — dress wrinkled, eyes smudged, fingers covered in cake. The same woman who once spilled coffee on his laptop and called it a “metaphor for capitalism.”

You were terrible.

You were completely, utterly you.

Jay smiled.

“…You know, it’s not a bad story.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What story?”

He stood, brushing cake crumbs from his pants.

“How I met my wife.”