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At home, she was greeted like, "It's been a long time since we've seen each other."
Her dad smiled with that signature "CEO of the Year" twinkle in his eye, her mom gave her a hug that felt like it could squish the truth out of a criminal, and her brother—Marvin Jay Reyes Laurel, the human equivalent of a walking spreadsheet—actually looked up from his laptop.
That, in itself, should've been a red flag. Marvin only looked up from his screen when something exploded or when there was cake.
"Okay," Maggie said slowly, narrowing her eyes and clutching her bag like it was a shield. "What's going on?"
They all exchanged that look. The kind of synchronized family glance usually reserved for serious, universe-shifting news. Like winning the lottery. Or—more accurately—losing everything except the furniture and familial guilt.
And just like that, the friendly mall date with Zia turned into the beginning of something Maggie could feel brewing in her bones. Something catastrophic. Something that had the exact energy of "Your life is no longer your own, surprise!"
Her father, Reynaldo Andres Reyes Laurel—distinguished, soft-spoken, with that deep, benevolent CEO voice that could sell refrigerators to Antarctica—gestured toward the living room.
"Let's all sit down," he said gently, as if they were about to talk about something sentimental. Like a terminal goldfish.
Maggie didn't move. "Is someone dying?"
"No! No," her mom, Marjorie Angelique Reyes Laurel, said quickly, her tone bright and nervous, like a woman trying to sell an idea she herself wasn't fully on board with. "Well, not literally, no one's dying—just…"
"Our company," Marvin muttered.
Reynaldo cleared his throat like a man about to deliver a DEEP Talk titled "How to Softly Break the News That You're Betrothed to a Billionaire."
"Maggie," he began, in that soothing tone that always meant he was about to say something insane, "we want to talk to you about Laurel Luxury Goods."
"Okay…" Maggie said cautiously, finally sitting on the couch as if it might eject her at any second. "What about it?"
There was a pause.
"It's just, oumm…" her mom started, clasping her hands like she was about to cry over a broken sewing machine. "It's not doing well."
"Define 'not doing well." Maggie blinked.
Marvin let out a sigh so deep it probably came from the depths of his soul. "We're broke. Bankrupt. As in 'there's a sale, but we can't even afford the SALE' broke."
Maggie looked between them like she was being pranked. "You're joking."
"I wish," Marvin said. "But no. Laurel Luxury Goods is—how do I say this professionally?—a mess."
"It's more than a mess," Reynaldo admitted. "It's a collapse. Our investors pulled out. Production costs have skyrocketed. Even your grandmother's favorite boutique in Paris closed."
Marjorie looked as if someone had just stepped on her sketchbook. "Paris, Maggie. Even Paris."
Maggie blinked again, slowly. "Okay… that's awful. But how is this my problem?"
Cue the second wave of synchronized looks.
"Because, darling," Marjorie said delicately, "we have a… solution."
"No, no, no," Maggie interrupted. "The last time you said that, I ended up in ballet class for three years."
"This one's more effective," Reynaldo said confidently, like he was offering a business merger and not a romantic death sentence. "We've arranged a marriage."
Maggie stared. "A WHAT?!"
Marvin stood up. "See?! I told you she'd freak out!"
"You told her like a bomb," Marjorie snapped. "You're supposed to ease her into it!"
"Excuse me," Maggie said, standing too, her voice going shrill. "Can we circle back to the part where I'm being married off like a character in a teleserye?!"
Her father raised his hands. "Maggie, please. Calm down. We're only doing this because it's the best solution. The only solution."
"To whom?! Some Spanish prince? A mafia heir? Please tell me it's not someone named 'Bong' from Batangas."
Reynaldo straightened his back and said it like it was an honor. "Maverick. Maverick Poblador Gaisano."
Maggie squinted. "What kind of name is Maverick?"
"He's the owner of Gaisano Global Holdings," Marjorie added with a flourish, like they were introducing a contestant in a beauty pageant. "He's twenty-three. He's very handsome. And more importantly—he's very rich."
Maggie blinked. "So… let me get this straight. Our business is failing. And instead of restructuring, downsizing, or literally anything else, you're throwing me at a billionaire like I'm the solution in a business proposal?!"
"To be fair," Marvin added, "you aren't the only reason. It's also because they're merging holdings."
"That's worse!" Maggie shouted. "That makes me property in a corporate transaction!"
Reynaldo held up a hand. "He's not a bad man, sweetie. And you don't have to marry him now. Just… when you turn eighteen."
"Oh, cool," Maggie said, crossing her arms. "So I have, what, a countdown now?"
"You'll get to know him first," her mother said, as if that made everything fine. "We'll arrange formal dinners. Charity galas. Spa days, if you like. He has a helicopter."
"I don't care if he has a unicorn," Maggie snapped. "You can't just marry me off!"
"We're not forcing you," Reynaldo said carefully. "But it's the only way we can survive. With Gaisano Global Holdings backing us, Laurel Luxury Goods won't just recover—it'll thrive. You'll be helping preserve the legacy that began with your great-great-great grandpa."
"She doesn't even remember that guy," Marvin muttered.
"And what about you?" Maggie turned to him. "You're okay with this?!"
"Of course not," Marvin said firmly. "This is insane. She's seventeen. She gets nervous ordering food on the phone—how is she supposed to handle marriage?"
Reynaldo rubbed his temples. "Marvin, we've been through this. There are no other investors. No more time."
Marjorie sighed. "We understand it's a lot to take in. But Maverick… he's a gentleman. He's smart. He's responsible."
"Is he allergic to girls?" Maggie asked hopefully.
Her parents blinked.
"No?"
"Ugh," she groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch. "This is not how I imagined turning eighteen. I wanted freedom, fun, and Zia dragging me to karaoke. Not this!"
There was a long silence.
Then Marvin spoke again, quieter this time.
"If he even thinks about hurting her, I swear I'll destroy his entire online presence. Even his MyWorld."
"No one uses MyWorld," Reynaldo muttered.
"Exactly," Marvin said.
Maggie buried her face in a pillow and screamed into it. Muffled, she asked, "Do I at least get to say no?"
"You get to say 'maybe later," Marjorie offered sweetly. "With supervision."
After dinner—a thrilling two-hour family interrogation disguised as a meal—Maggie did what any emotionally unstable teenager with unresolved trauma would do: she fled to her room like it was a medieval fortress under siege.
Same old walls.
Same faint cracks on the ceiling she used to name when she was seven (she was pretty sure one still looked like a sad penguin).
Same posters of indie bands she didn't even listen to anymore—remnants of her "I'm Not Like Other Girls" era. At this point, they were more like strange artifacts of a forgotten civilization, gathering dust but still judging her silently for now having Taylor Swift on her playlist.
Her bed was still too soft, threatening to swallow her whole the second she flopped down onto it like an overdramatic Victorian ghost. The sheets smelled like lavender and an almost painful kind of comfort, the kind that made you want to sob about nothing in particular at 2AM. Basically: business as usual.
Maggie collapsed on the bed, starfished out, her phone clutched against her chest like it was a magic talisman warding off all adult responsibilities.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzzbuzzbuzz.
She peeled one eye open like a zombie in a bad horror movie and dragged her phone into her line of sight.
It was Zia. Of course it was Zia. Who else would be awake and actively causing chaos at 10PM on a school night?
[10:11PM] ZIA: mAGGIEEEEEE
[10:12PM] ZIA: did we dRINK the moon???
[10:13PM] ZIA: also why is my left shoe in the fridge
[10:15PM] ZIA: tell the cute waiter i say hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
Maggie let out a laugh so violent she almost scared herself. It started as a cute little giggle and quickly escalated into a full-body snort-wheeze-cackle, the kind that left her kicking her legs like a dying cockroach.
She could practically hear Zia's voice through the screen, slightly slurred, overly enthusiastic, and somehow vibrating at a frequency only dogs could detect.
Still shaking with laughter, Maggie wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and sat up, the phone slipping onto her lap.
And that's when it hit her.
Like a freight train made of anxiety and daydreams.
Him.
The man from the bar.
The one who caught her like he was auditioning for a slow-motion shampoo commercial.
Tall.
So tall she was pretty sure he got weather updates before anyone else.
Calm.
The kind of calm that suggested he could diffuse a bomb while holding a baby and maybe even win a Nobel Harmony Prize for it.
And that smile.
Oh, that smile.
It wasn't a big, goofy grin. No, no. This man had smirk mastery. It was like he knew exactly how stupidly dramatic he looked under those dim lights—and he used that power sparingly, like some kind of smug, sexy wizard.
Maggie groaned loudly and threw herself back onto her bed, covering her face with both hands.
Who was he?
A random fluke of the universe? A bartender's cousin just visiting for the free drinks? A mirage conjured up by her overwhelmed brain?
Or—God, no—a new student at her school.
Because of course. Of course. Her school, which had a strict "no fun, no dreams" vibe, would now also come with a brooding, mysterious, possibly soul-stealing handsome stranger.
Maggie had consumed enough fanfiction to predict exactly how this was supposed to go.
Mysterious man appears out of nowhere? Check.
Unexplained magnetic pull between two strangers? Check.
Potential montage sequence set to moody indie music? Big check.
She could already see the trailer for her life flashing before her eyes: slow-motion glances across the hallway, one of them dropping books and the other helping pick them up, accidental touches that sent shockwaves through their skin. Probably a dramatic "you don't even know me" argument in the rain by mid-semester.
Except.
This wasn't a movie.
This wasn't a book.
This was her life—a life where she tripped over her own feet, forgot her lines during school plays, and once got rejected by a vending machine twice.
"Calm down," she muttered, jabbing her own cheek with her finger like she could physically push the delusions out of her brain. "You're not the main character. You're... like, background noise. Maybe a comedic sidekick if you're lucky. Relax."
She rolled over and buried her face into her lavender-scented pillow, inhaling until she almost sneezed.
And yet.
Andyet.
Her mind continued to spiral like a badly-made rollercoaster.
What if he was someone important?
What if he remembered her?
What if he thought about her too?
Oh god, what if he didn't?
What if she was just "some clumsy girl" in his memory, filed somewhere between "lady asking for extra ketchup" and "kid who dropped their phone in the punch bowl?"
Maggie kicked her legs uselessly under the covers like she was fighting invisible demons.
Her phone buzzed again.
Zia, striking once more.
[10:27PM] ZIA: bro i found my shoe. it was hugging the lettuce. so wholesome. 10/10 fridge vibes.
Maggie laughed until she almost pulled a muscle.
Maybe she wasn't the main character of some sweeping love story. Maybe she wasn't destined to have a slow-motion first kiss on a rooftop while fireworks exploded behind her.
Maybe she was just Maggie.
Chaotic, awkward, probably doomed Maggie.
And honestly?
Maybe that was okay.
But just in case destiny was watching, Maggie pulled out her journal from her nightstand and scribbled: "Find out who Bar Guy is. Also buy Zia a new shoe. (Maybe burn the old one.)"
Because hey.
It never hurt to be prepared.
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