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Peach had a photographer’s sense of timing—patience, light, the shutter’s click—but he’d managed to miss the significance of the date entirely. That changed the moment Marn began her countdown. Only then did it occur to him that the calendar wasn't just marking time anymore; it was looming.
She was sitting at the kitchen island, looking less like a bride-to-be and more like a political prisoner in one of her father’s beloved period Lakorns. Her chin was buried in her palms, her gaze lost in the middle distance—the moment when the glamour of the engagement ring fades into the realization that "I do" is really just a series of escalating administrative tasks. Seating chart real. Non-refundable deposit real. The part where "forever" is organized into three-ounce cardstock and sent out for public review.
Peach leaned against the counter, offering the silent, patient solidarity of a man who had navigated decades of dramatic scripts and "lakorn-spouting" outbursts. He’d seen this look on his own face in the mirror more than once.
He rinsed the mug slowly, giving the ceramic his full attention. He’d learned long ago that the world stayed upright as long as you did things one at a time.
Peach kept the old house as a repository for the versions of himself he no longer used. It was an archive for his memories, a place for quiet visits with P’Kian, the children, or Plub when the world felt too loud. But lately, nostalgia had been buried under the logistics of Marn’s upcoming nuptials. She had moved in, transforming the space into a wedding command center where white cardstock and floral motifs sprawled across every flat surface. Time, Peach noted with a weary sort of irony, didn't just flow—it flooded, transitioning from the days of raising children to the days of helping them organize their own "forever."
They eventually settled on the living room floor, backs pressed against the sofa, surrounded by the debris of Marn’s future. Together, they began sorting the invitations into neat piles. In this family, he was the only one who realized that a wedding was just a very expensive way to agree to disagree forever.
He watched her fidget—obsessively lifting and resetting the cards: up, down, left, right. It was like watching a particularly depressing game of Solitaire. He recognized the ritual for what it was: a focus on the aesthetics of the trap to avoid looking at the jaws themselves.
“What paper weight did you use?” she asked, then immediately, “Do you think cream envelopes are too warm?”
She knew it was 120gsm. She knew the answer was "no." But after three hours of dissecting the nuances of off-white shades, the conversation had ceased to be about invitations. She was grasping at the mundane to tether herself to the ground.
“If someone RSVPs late, do you think it’s rude?” she added, her voice a pitch too high.
He moved through her questions methodically, providing a steady anchor for her spiraling nerves. There was a familiar cadence to this brand of preparation that Peach understood in his bones: the way people fixate on the trivial to avoid touching the terrifying.
"Dad’s asking about the venue,” Marn muttered. She was currently drowning in her fiancé’s oversized hoodie, her hair held back by a plastic clip that looked like a pharmacy checkout-aisle afterthought.
Peach remained focused on his task; he knew better than to engage with Thee’s logistics too quickly. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him I wanted it indoors,” Marn said, her voice sounding a little hollow. “He just nodded and asked me which country he should buy for the weekend.”
Peach smoothed down the flap of another envelope.
“Now he’s on a tangent about the cake,” Marn continued, her voice trailing off. “I told him one was enough. He said one was merely a gesture, and a deeply impractical one at that.”
Peach nodded. He always nodded first; it was a professional courtesy that allowed the air in the room to settle before he spoke. “And what was his logic for the impracticality of a single cake?”
“He said love is an ever-expanding force,” Marn recited, sounding exhausted. “And that a single-tiered dessert is essentially an insult to the heart.”
Peach made a soft sound in the back of his throat—one of those noncommittal sounds that was technically a response but stopped miles short of an agreement. In the theatrical ecosystem of their family, he had become the undisputed master of the neutral response. It was his way of holding space for Marn’s existential crisis without actually validating her father’s absurd logic.
“I insisted on a small wedding,” Marn continued, staring blankly at an invitation. “He gave me that smile—the one that means he’s already ignored everything I just said—and told me he understood. Then he asked if three helicopters would be too flashy, or if four would look more 'understated.’”
Peach halted his work for half a second before meticulously realigning the stationery. “And what do you want, Marn?”
“A normal wedding,” she said, looking at the ceiling.
A twitch started at the edge of Peach’s mouth—a micro-expression born from decades of surviving Thee’s grandiosity. “Normal is subjective,” he offered.
“Dad’s exact words,” she countered. “He told me that ‘normal’ is the refuge of people who’ve given up on life. He’s already looking at vintage horse-drawn carriages.”
They worked in silence for a few beats, the rhythmic sliding of cardstock the only sound in the room.
“I think he’s worried I’ll regret not letting him do more,” Marn added, her focus still on the envelopes. “Like I’ll look back and think his lack of interference was a lack of care.”
Peach finally set down his pen and looked at his daughter. “He cares,” he said. “His capacity for caring has never been in doubt. That is the one constant in this entire theatrical production. He just doesn't realize that sometimes the most loving thing you can do is stay off-stage.”
Marn nodded, then hesitated, her thumb tracing the edge of an envelope. “You didn’t… mind, right?”
“Mind?” Peach prompted gently.
“His… creative direction,” she said, choosing her words like she was walking through a minefield. “Back then.”
Peach took a moment to consider, his expression unreadable. “I had my reservations about the execution,” he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “But I never doubted the intent. In your dad's world, the two are rarely on speaking terms.”
Marn let out a small, relieved breath. That was enough of an answer. They went back to work, sliding "forever" into paper sleeves.
Marn broke the silence with a soft, almost guilty sigh. “I want him to understand that a wedding shouldn't require a satellite to track it,” she said, twisting to meet his eyes. “But I don't want to be the one to burst his bubble.”
Peach didn't look up immediately. He kept his hands flat on the wood. “A marriage is a life-structuring choice,” he said. “A wedding is just the branding. Don't confuse the two.”
“Dad thinks the branding is the most important part,” Marn countered. “You know what Dad would say. He’d say a real decision has to be decisive—loud, unmistakable.”
“He would,” Peach replied, his wit as dry as the cardstock in front of him. “But a decision without mutuality is just an override. And those are a lot harder to live with.”
Marn let out a long breath and tucked her chin over her knees. “Did you ever feel that way? Like you were… just being swept along by it all?”
Peach didn’t answer right away. Love, he’d learned, wasn't necessarily the opposite of a surprise, but it wasn't the same thing as a landslide, either, though his life with Thee often blurred the distinction.
Sensing the weight of the silence, Marn suddenly chirped, retreating to shallower waters. “P'Peach, can I ask you something incredibly stupid instead?”
“Go ahead,” Peach replied. “In my experience, the stupid questions are the only ones that actually matter.”
She smiled, visibly relieved, before pivoting to a question she’d clearly been saving. “Why didn’t you dress up for your own wedding?”
Peach looked down at himself out of habit. He was wearing his usual: a breathable white shirt and cotton pants that lacked any formal ambition. They were clothes meant to disappear the moment you stopped paying attention to them—the uniform of a man who preferred to be the observer, never the subject.
“I did,” he said, his voice perfectly level. “I wore white. It was very on-theme.”
Marn let out a laugh before she could catch herself. “P’Peach. Honestly.”
Peach tilted his head, a silent invitation for her to dig herself deeper into the thought.
“I mean… Dad was in a suit,” Marn said, her hands tracing the air. “A proper suit. He looked like he was halfway through a hostile takeover of a small nation and then escape on a jet. And you just looked—” she paused, searching for a polite term “—like a man who had accidentally wandered into a wedding while on his way to the post office.”
Peach let out a short, dry chuckle. “I was under the impression we were going for a walk,” he remarked. “If I was going to be an unwilling protagonist in a Lakorn, I at least wanted to be a comfortable one.”
Marn let out a skeptical hum, though she managed to suppress an eye-roll. “And did Dad give you a dress code, or were you supposed to guess?”
“Oh, he was very specific. He called it a ‘white event,’” Peach said, smoothing an invitation.
Marn went still. “A white event?”
“Indeed. He told me, ‘Wear white. That is the only requirement.’”
Marn stared at him, her mouth working but no sound coming out. Peach watched her closely; he could practically see the mental gears shifting as the realization dawned on her.
“Did you… pick them out together?” Marn asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer. “The outfits, I mean.”
Peach shook his head. “His suit had been ready for weeks,” he replied.
“And yours? Did you at least get a fitting?”
“He insisted it wouldn't be necessary.”
Marn’s smile faltered, just a fraction. “That’s… very Dad,” she said, the kind of understatement they both lived by.
Peach aligned the final stack of envelopes, tapping the edges against the wood until they were perfectly flush. “He told me not to worry,” he added. “He assured me that everything of importance had already been settled.”
The room didn't go silent so much as it lost its rhythm, the atmosphere shifting into something uncomfortably still.
“P'Peach,” Marn began, searching his face. “You knew. You had to have known what was going on.”
Peach regarded her with the patient empathy of a man who had spent his career looking through a lens, observing rather than participating. “Yes,” he answered. Then he paused, a dry smile tugging at his mouth as he corrected himself. “Actually, let me rephrase. I knew what he was doing.”
Marn’s throat moved as she swallowed. “And you?” she pressed.
“I was a guest,” Peach said simply. “I was invited to my own wedding.” The irony was delicious in a bitter sort of way. It occurred to him that he’d never told this stripped-down version of the story before—not to a soul, not even to Plub.
Marn’s laugh was brief and jagged, as if she couldn't quite decide whether the story was a tragedy or a prank. “You didn't know? You didn’t know it was your own wedding?”
In retrospect, the breadcrumbs had been there. The car that picked him up had been unfamiliar—not a standard ARSENI company vehicle, nor one of the Lee family fleet that seemed to occupy every parking lot in Thailand. It was a Rolls-Royce Phantom, its chrome grille gleaming with aggressive luxury and its windows tinted a secretive black. The chauffeur, clad in a tuxedo, hadn't uttered a word, which he’d mistaken for standard operating procedure for Thee’s staff rather than conspiratorial secrecy. Then there were the flowers—a botanical invasion that must have required half the cargo planes in Southeast Asia. At the time, Peach had just filed it under “Thee’s Usual Excess” and assumed he himself had walked into that mansion thinking he was supporting Thee at a social function.
“He was very persuasive,” Peach remarked, smoothing a stray crease on the table. “He said he needed me by his side, which—to be fair—mattered to me,” he added, because that was the part that always bypassed his better judgment. “He suggested it would be easier if I didn't ‘overthink the details.’ So, strictly speaking, he did mention it was a wedding. He just omitted the fact that it was ours.”
“That is literally a kidnapping,” Marn started.
“I didn't want to hurt his feelings,” Peach replied. He could see the humor in it now, years later. “It seemed easier to just go along with the plan than demand an explanation in front of a florist.”
Marn was silent, staring at the wood grain. “Did you ever wish it had happened differently?” she asked quietly.
Peach’s mind went back to that day: the warm pressure of Thee’s hand closing around his wrist, the ritualistic precision of the staff, and the realization that the wedding was happening to him rather than with him.
“In that moment? I kept wishing I’d worn loafers with rubber soles—something that wouldn't echo if I decided to walk out the back door.”
Marn looked up, horrified. “You don't mean that.”
“I didn't leave, did I?” he countered gently.
“But was it because you couldn't?” Marn’s face fell; she looked like she was about to cry on his behalf. “P'Peach—”
Peach reached out. “Don't look like that, love. I love him. I’ve always known the man I fell in love with is a force of nature. In the end, I wasn't staying because I had to. I was staying because I chose him—and it’s a choice I’ve made every day since.”
Marn’s tears were quiet, the sort of weeping that happens when you realize your family history is a bit of a car crash. Peach didn't rush to comfort her; he offered her the dignity of his silence instead. Eventually, she scrubbed her face with her sleeve and managed a brittle laugh.
“Okay, I’m setting terms,” she announced. “For my wedding and my life.”
Peach tilted his head, waiting.
“No surprises,” she insisted. “Ever. Not even the ‘romantic’ kind.”
“A highly reasonable boundary,” Peach noted.
“And if I ask a question, I expect the truth—not a ‘creative interpretation’ of the truth.”
Peach’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “That would certainly save a lot of time.”
She leaned into him, her head heavy on his shoulder. “I’m going to wear something spectacular,” she whispered. “I want the record to show I showed up by choice.”
Peach’s hand settled between her shoulder blades, steady as a heartbeat. “Choice,” he agreed, “is the only thing that makes the rest of it bearable.”
Later, when Thee notices Peach lingering over the invitation proofs and asks what’s bothering him, Peach will simply say, “We should ask Marn what she wants for the seating.”
Thee will huff, confused by the sudden need for a survey. His brow will furrow in that specific brand of theatrical confusion. “Isn’t it obvious? Everyone wants the best view.”
Peach will offer him a patient, slightly tired smile. “No,” he’ll reply. “Nothing is ever that obvious. That’s why the question exists in the first place.”