Work Text:
The Late Arrival
It is a memory Lingling keeps tucked inside a ribcage, right next to her beating heart.
High school graduation. The sun was setting, casting long, golden shadows across the football field. Lingling had a single sunflower in her hand—Orm’s favorite—and a speech rehearsed in front of her mirror a thousand times. She was going to tell Orm. She was going to risk the friendship that started when they were babies drooling on the same playmat.
She had run to the bleachers, heart hammering, ready to say, “It’s always been you.”
She was twenty minutes late.
When she arrived, she saw Orm. But Orm wasn't looking for her. Orm was in the arms of Popor, the popular senior. Orm was laughing, that bright, bell-like sound that made Lingling weak, and she was nodding yes to something Popor was asking.
Lingling had stepped back into the shadows, the sunflower crushed in her grip until the stem snapped. She watched Popor kiss Orm, and she watched Orm kiss back with a hopefulness that was blinding.
That was seven years ago. The universe had given Lingling a twenty-minute window, and she had missed it.
The Fortress of Smiles
The bell above the door of Petal & Stem chimed aggressively.
"Lingling! Hide me! My father is trying to make me sit through a presentation about synergy again!"
The peace of the flower shop was instantly shattered. Lingling looked up from the arrangement of hydrangeas she was trimming to see Orm Kornnaphat storming in. As always, Orm looked like she had just stepped out of a fashion magazine, despite the chaotic energy radiating off her. She was wearing a cream power suit, her hair perfectly waved, clutching an iced americano like a lifeline.
"You're the Marketing Executive, Orm," Lingling said softly, a small, habitual smile touching her lips. "Synergy is literally your job."
"It’s boring!" Orm groaned, throwing herself onto the vintage velvet sofa Lingling kept in the corner specifically for this purpose. Orm kicked off her heels and curled her legs up, looking like a petulant child rather than a corporate heiress. "I hate it. I want to be a cat. Can I be the shop cat? I’ll just sleep in the window and hiss at customers."
Lingling abandoned the hydrangeas. She walked over, picking up the discarded heels to set them neatly aside. "You’d be a terrible shop cat. You’re too loud."
Orm grinned. It was a dazzling, thousand-watt smile. It was the smile that charmed clients, placated her father, and made their entire friend group laugh.
But Lingling knew better. She watched Orm’s eyes. The smile didn't reach them. The eyes were dark, flat, and tired.
It had been three years since Popor. Three years since the engagement was broken, since the cheating, since Orm had cried in Lingling’s lap until she threw up. Since then, Orm had rebuilt herself. She became louder, funnier, more chaotic. She was the life of the party.
But inside, the doors were locked. Orm had decided that romantic love was a scam, a biological trick, and she refused to participate.
"Make me that tea?" Orm asked, batting her eyelashes, shifting from complaints to childish pleading in a second. "The one that smells like rain?"
"Earl Grey with lavender," Lingling corrected, already moving toward the kettle. "You know, Fluke called. He said you bailed on the lunch meeting."
"Fluke is a snitch," Orm huffed, pulling a cushion to her chest. "And I didn't bail. I strategically relocated to a better environment."
"You're hiding."
"I am prioritizing my mental health," Orm countered. She watched Lingling move around the small kitchenette.
Lingling felt the gaze on her back. It was heavy and familiar. They were twenty-six now. Lena and Miu were already sending out 'Save the Dates' for their wedding. Oom and Bam had just bought a condo together. Everyone was moving forward.
"Are you coming to dinner tonight?" Orm asked, her voice dropping the childish act for a fleeting second. "Miu is cooking. Which means Lena will be feeding her by hand and we’ll all lose our appetites."
"I'll be there," Lingling said, pouring the hot water. "Someone has to make sure you eat vegetables."
Orm laughed, but then she sighed, staring at a bucket of red roses near the counter. Her expression shifted—the coldness seeping through the cracks. She looked at the flowers with a distinct lack of affection.
"Why do people buy those?" Orm muttered, gesturing vaguely at the roses. "Dead things wrapped in plastic. It’s such a waste of money. They just rot in a week."
Lingling paused, the teapot in her hand. "They buy them for the sentiment, Orm. To show someone they’re thinking of them."
Orm scoffed, a harsh sound that clashed with her soft features. "Sentiment. Right. It’s just a transaction, Ling. 'I buy you this red thing so you'll sleep with me' or 'I buy you this so you'll forgive me for screwing your assistant.'"
The venom in her voice was sudden and sharp. This was the real Orm. The one who had been burned so badly she viewed affection as a threat.
Lingling walked over and placed the tea on the low table. She sat on the edge of the sofa, close enough to smell Orm’s expensive perfume, far enough to keep safe.
"Not everyone is Popor," Lingling said quietly.
Orm’s head snapped up. The mask slammed back into place instantly. She forced a bright, terrifyingly fake giggle and grabbed the tea.
"God, don't be so serious, Lingling! You’re going to get wrinkles." She took a sip, burning her tongue, but didn't wince. "Anyway, I need you to help me pick a dress for the charity gala. I need to look hot enough to make my ex regret being born, but professional enough that my dad doesn't have a stroke."
Lingling watched her best friend pivot away from the pain, dancing around the wound like a jester.
I am right here, Lingling thought, the yearning aching in her chest like a bruise that never healed. I am right here, and I would never buy you roses just to apologize. I would plant the whole garden so you’d never have to leave.
"Okay," Lingling said, pushing the yearning down, locking it away where Orm couldn't see it. "I'll help you pick a dress."
Orm beamed, resting her head on Lingling’s shoulder, oblivious to the havoc she was wreaking on Lingling’s heart. "You’re the best, Ling. I don't know what I’d do without you. Probably die of boredom."
"Probably," Lingling whispered, staring at the red roses across the room.
The Twenty-Minute Deficit
Seven Years Ago. High School Graduation Day.
The hallway was a river of discarded papers, confetti, and students screaming in liberation. Lingling stood by her locker, checking her watch for the tenth time.
4:40 PM.
She was supposed to meet Orm at the bleachers at 4:30 PM.
"I just need one minute, Lingling, please!" Nong Fern from the drama club was sobbing, clutching the hem of Lingling’s skirt. "I can't find the costume key and Mrs. Suda is going to kill me!"
Lingling looked at the sunflower in her hand—a singular, perfect giant yellow head she had driven to three different shops to find because Orm once said roses were cliché and sunflowers looked like happy people.
"Okay," Lingling said, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "Okay, I'll help you look. Quickly."
It took fifteen minutes to find the key under a pile of scripts. It took another five for Lingling to sprint across the campus, her graduation gown billowing behind her like a dark cloud, the sunflower gripped so tight the green stem was bruising under her thumb.
She had rehearsed the speech in the shower. Orm, we’ve been best friends since birth. But I don’t want to just be your friend anymore. I want to be the person who holds your hand when you’re scared.
Simple. Terrifying. True.
Lingling burst through the gym doors and out onto the field. The sun was dipping low, painting the world in bruised purples and oranges. The bleachers were mostly empty, except for a silhouette near the top row.
Lingling smiled, the breath rushing back into her lungs. Orm waited. Orm always waited.
"Orm!" Lingling shouted, taking the first step up.
But Orm didn't turn. Orm was standing very still. And then, a second figure stepped out from behind the pillar.
Popor. The cool senior with the undercut and the guitar. The girl everyone wanted.
Lingling froze, one foot hovering on the metal step.
"Really?" she heard Orm’s voice carry on the wind. It sounded breathless. Hopeful. A sound Lingling had never heard directed at her. "You mean it?"
"I mean it," Popor said, her voice smooth and confident. "Be my girlfriend, Orm. Let’s go to university together."
Lingling watched, paralyzed, as Orm let out a squeal—a genuine, unbridled sound of joy—and threw her arms around Popor’s neck. Popor caught her easily, spinning her around. Orm was laughing, burying her face in Popor’s shoulder, looking like she had just been handed the moon.
Lingling looked at the sunflower in her hand. It looked stupid now. A childish, yellow weed.
She was twenty minutes late. If she hadn’t stopped to help Fern... if she had run faster...
Orm pulled back to look at Popor, her eyes shining with a vulnerability she rarely showed anyone. "I thought you didn't like me back."
"I was waiting for the right time," Popor smiled.
Lingling slowly lowered her foot back to the grass. She stepped backward, once, twice, until she was in the shadow of the gym building. She walked to the nearest trash can and gently placed the sunflower inside, right on top of a pile of empty soda cans.
She wiped her palms on her skirt, fixed her hair, and put on the smile that she would wear for the next seven years.
The Dinner from Hell (Heaven)
Present Day. Miu and Lena’s Apartment.
"If you two don't stop, I’m going to throw up my escargot, and it was very expensive."
Orm was sprawled across two chairs at the head of the dining table, swirling a glass of red wine with dangerous enthusiasm. She was glaring—playfully, but with a sharp edge—at the other end of the table.
Miu was currently feeding Lena a piece of grilled prawn. Lena, looking smug, bit the prawn right off Miu’s fork, maintaining intense eye contact that made the air in the room feel sticky.
"You're just jealous because you're cold and dead inside, Orm," Lena said, chewing happily. "Miu cooked this with love. You wouldn't understand. The secret ingredient is devotion."
"The secret ingredient is MSG, Lena. Don't lie to yourself," Orm shot back, taking a massive gulp of wine. "And I am not dead inside. I am efficient. There is a difference."
"You're a marketing executive," Fluke chimed in, stealing a bread roll from Junji’s plate. "That’s practically a diagnosis for sociopathy."
"Hey!" Orm threw a napkin at him. "I am the heart and soul of my father's company! I sell dreams!"
"You sell overpriced skincare to teenagers," Gina corrected dryly.
The table erupted in laughter. It was warm, chaotic, and loud—the kind of noise that usually made Lingling feel safe. But tonight, she was too focused on Orm.
Lingling sat to Orm’s right, as she always did. While Orm was busy defending her honor against Fluke and Gina, Lingling silently reached over. She took the bowl of Tom Yum soup that Miu had placed in front of Orm and swapped it with her own.
"What are you doing?" Prigkhing asked, catching the movement.
"Orm hates the coriander stems," Lingling whispered, not looking up as she deftly used her spoon to fish out every single green speck from the bowl she had taken. "She likes the taste but hates the texture."
She finished cleaning the soup, swapped the bowls back, and placed a fresh napkin on Orm’s lap before Orm even noticed the soup was gone.
Orm turned back to her, breathless from shouting at Fluke. She looked at the soup, then at Lingling. For a second, the manic energy faltered. The 'Executive Orm' mask slipped, revealing the tired girl underneath.
"Thanks, Ling," Orm mumbled, picking up her spoon.
"Eat," Lingling said softy. "You had three coffees for lunch. I saw your Instagram story."
"I’m busy!" Orm whined, leaning her head onto Lingling’s shoulder. She didn't pull away. She just stayed there, heavy and warm, using Lingling as a human furniture piece. "Everyone wants a piece of me, Lingling. It’s exhausting being this popular."
"I bet," Lingling murmured, resisting the urge to kiss the top of Orm’s head.
Across the table, Oom and Bam were arguing about curtains.
"I’m telling you, Bam, beige is boring. It’s a sad color. It’s the color of depression," Oom insisted.
"It’s eggshell, Oom. And it matches the sofa!" Bam argued back, though she was smiling.
"See?" Orm lifted her head, gesturing at them with her spoon. "Look at that. Conflict. Stress. Compromise. Why do people do this? Why do you actively choose to bind your life to someone else just to argue about the color of eggshells?"
"Because they love each other, Orm," Lingling said, her voice cutting through the noise. It was quiet, but it made Junji stop chewing.
Orm turned to look at Lingling. Her eyes were hard, the 'Ice Queen' peering out. "Love is just a chemical reaction that fades after eighteen months, Ling. Look at the data. Look at the divorce rates. Look at... everything."
She didn't say 'Look at Popor,' but the name hung in the air like smoke.
"It’s not about data," Lingling said, feeling reckless. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the memory of the sunflower. "It’s about having someone who knows how you take your coffee. Someone who knows you hate coriander stems but won't pick them out yourself. It’s about not being alone."
The table went silent. Lena stopped chewing. Miu put down her fork.
Orm stared at Lingling. Her expression was unreadable. A flicker of something—fear? confusion?—crossed her face. Then, the walls slammed back up.
Orm let out a loud, harsh laugh. She slapped Lingling on the back, hard enough to sting.
"Oh, Lingling! You are such a hopeless romantic! You’ve been reading too many of those romance novels in your flower shop." Orm grabbed the wine bottle and refilled her glass to the brim. "Don't worry, guys. I’ll make sure Lingling doesn't get scammed by some guy with a guitar and a sob story. I’m the designated gatekeeper of her heart. No entry allowed."
She downed half the glass in one go.
"Now," Orm slammed the glass down. "Who wants to hear about how I made a 50-year-old creative director cry today?"
The group hesitantly laughed, the tension breaking. But Lingling didn't laugh. She took a sip of her water, watching Orm perform happiness, knowing that the 'No entry allowed' sign on Orm’s heart was written in permanent ink, and Lingling was standing on the wrong side of the fence.
The Invisible Third Wheel
Three Years Ago. University Library, 2:00 AM.
The fluorescent lights of the private study room hummed with a headache-inducing buzz. The table was littered with textbooks, empty coffee cups, and highlighting markers.
"I’m going to fail," Orm groaned, dramatically sliding down in her chair until her chin hit the table. "Marketing Strategy is a scam. Who cares about the 4 P’s? I just want to sell things because they’re pretty."
"You’re not going to fail," Popor said smoothly. She was sitting next to Orm, her arm draped possessively over the back of Orm’s chair. She wasn't studying. She had her guitar case open on the floor and was strumming a silent rhythm against her jeans. "You’re Orm Kornnaphat. You’ll charm the professor."
Orm giggled, turning her head to nuzzle into Popor’s shoulder. "Only you think I’m charming when I’m a zombie."
"I think you’re charming all the time," Popor whispered, leaning down to kiss Orm’s temple.
Across the table, Lingling didn't look up.
Her pen was moving furiously across a notebook. She wasn't writing her own notes. She was summarizing the entire Chapter 14 of Advanced Consumer Behavior into bullet points because she knew Orm learned better from lists than dense paragraphs.
Definition of Brand Equity... Types of Loyalty...
Lingling’s hand cramped, but she kept writing. If she stopped, she would have to look up. And if she looked up, she would have to see Orm’s eyes—the way they turned into crescents when she looked at Popor. The way Orm let Popor play with her hair, twisting the strands around her fingers.
"Babe," Orm murmured, the sound like a cheese grater against Lingling's heart. "My neck hurts."
"Come here," Popor said. She pulled Orm entirely into her lap.
In the middle of the university library, Orm curled up against Popor’s chest, abandoning her books completely. Popor began to massage Orm’s neck, whispering something that made Orm let out a soft, contented sigh.
The sound broke Lingling’s focus. The pen snapped in her hand. Ink bled onto the pristine page of notes.
"Shit," Lingling whispered, grabbing a tissue to dab at the mess.
"You okay, Ling?" Orm asked, her voice muffled against Popor’s hoodie. She sounded sleepy and happy. So incredibly happy.
"Fine," Lingling said, her voice tight. "Just a pen malfunction."
Next to her, Junji kicked her shin under the table. Hard.
Lingling looked up, startled. Junji wasn't looking at her notes. She was staring at Lingling with a mixture of fury and heartbreak. Junji’s eyes flicked to the couple across the table—entangled, glowing in their own private universe—and then back to Lingling, who was currently covered in ink, rewriting notes for a girl who wasn't even looking at her.
"I'm going for a smoke," Junji announced abruptly, standing up and scraping her chair loudly against the floor. "Lingling, come with me."
"I don't smoke," Lingling said automatically.
"You do now," Junji snapped. She grabbed Lingling’s arm and practically dragged her out of the room.
The Fire Escape.
The night air was cold, biting through Lingling’s thin cardigan. Junji didn't light a cigarette. She just leaned against the brick wall, crossing her arms, staring at Lingling like she wanted to shake her.
"Stop it," Junji said.
"Stop what?" Lingling feigned ignorance, looking out at the campus lights.
"Stop rewriting her notes. Stop buying her the specific soy milk she likes and letting Popor hand it to her. Stop looking at her like she’s the sun and you’re a moth about to burn to death."
Lingling flinched. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling very small. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me, Lingling," Junji stepped closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I see it. Every time Orm laughs at Popor’s stupid jokes, you look like you’re bleeding. Every time they kiss, you look away."
Lingling closed her eyes. The image of Orm in Popor’s lap, safe and loved, burned behind her eyelids.
"She’s happy, Junji," Lingling whispered. "Look at her. She’s never been this happy. Popor... Popor makes her glow."
"And you make her pass," Junji countered. "You make sure she eats. You make sure she wakes up for exams. You do all the heavy lifting, and Popor gets the trophy."
"It’s not a competition."
"It should be!" Junji threw her hands up. "Why didn't you tell her? Back in high school? You had the flower. I saw you with the flower!"
"I was too late," Lingling said, the memory of the trash can and the crushed sunflower surfacing. "And now... now she’s planning a future with her. They’re talking about getting an apartment after graduation. Orm is talking about marriage."
The word hung in the air. Marriage.
Lingling looked at Junji, her eyes wet, finally letting the mask slip. The pain was etched into every line of her face. "I love her, Junji. I have loved her since we were five years old and she shared her sticky rice with me. I can't stop. I don't know how to stop."
Junji’s anger deflated instantly. She sighed, a long, ragged sound, and pulled Lingling into a rough hug. Lingling buried her face in Junji’s shoulder, shaking but silent. She couldn't cry. If she cried, she wouldn't stop.
"You're an idiot," Junji whispered into Lingling’s hair. "A massive, masochistic idiot."
"I know," Lingling mumbled.
Junji pulled back, holding Lingling by the shoulders. She looked her dead in the eye.
"I won't tell her," Junji swore, her voice solemn. "I will never tell her. I will take this secret to my grave because if she knew... if she knew and she still chose Popor, it would destroy you. And if she knew and she pitied you, that would be worse."
"Promise me," Lingling begged. "Promise you won't say a word. Not even when we’re drunk. Not even when you’re mad at her."
"I promise," Junji said. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
The door to the fire escape creaked open.
"Guys?" Orm’s head popped out. She was wearing Popor’s oversized hoodie now, looking small and adorable. She was smiling, holding a bag of chips. "Popor is playing Wonderwall and it’s actually really good. Come back inside! We’re taking a break."
Lingling wiped her eyes instantly, turning away to hide her face.
"Coming!" Junji yelled back, her voice bright and fake. She squeezed Lingling’s hand once—hard. "Just a minute."
Lingling took a deep breath. She inhaled the cold air, pushed the love down into the darkest corner of her stomach, and put the smile back on.
"Let's go," Lingling said to Junji. "She needs help with the Chapter 14 summary."
"You're hopeless," Junji muttered, but she walked back inside with her.
Lingling followed, walking back into the room to watch the love of her life be in love with someone else.
The Taste of Red Velvet and Betrayal
Three Years Ago.
The little boutique bakery smelled like vanilla and future promises.
"This one," Orm declared, pointing her fork at the red velvet slice with cream cheese frosting. "This is it, Lingling. Popor loves red velvet. It’s her favorite."
Lingling forced a smile, her stomach churning with a nausea that had nothing to do with the sugar. "Are you sure? The lemon sponge was lighter."
"No, no. Red velvet," Orm insisted, her eyes sparkling. She was glowing. Truly, painfully glowing. She wore a white sundress that made her look like she was already walking down the aisle. "We’ll have a three-tier red velvet cake. Popor is going to lose her mind."
Orm checked her phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. "She’s still not replying. She said her meeting with the thesis advisor was running late."
"We can just bring her a slice," Lingling suggested, signaling the waiter to box up the cake. "Surprise her at her apartment?"
"Yes!" Orm clapped her hands, bouncing in her seat. "Oh my god, Ling, I’m getting married. Can you believe it? Me! Orm Kornnaphat, domesticated wife!"
"I can believe it," Lingling said softly, watching Orm pack up the cake box with tender care. "You love hard, Orm. You deserve to be happy."
Even if it’s not with me.
Popor’s Apartment. 4:30 PM.
They had a key. Orm had practically moved in over the last few months of their final year, their toothbrushes standing side-by-side in the bathroom cup.
"Shh!" Orm giggled, pressing a finger to her lips as they crept up the hallway. She held the white cake box like a treasure chest. "I want to catch her off guard. Maybe she’s sleeping."
Lingling followed, a heavy feeling settling in her gut. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
Orm unlocked the door silently, swinging it open with a triumphant grin.
"Surpr—"
The word died in her throat.
The living room was a mess of clothes. Not laundry—discarded clothes. A familiar denim jacket. A pair of sneakers Lingling recognized instantly. And a pair of bright pink heels that definitely did not belong to Orm.
Orm froze in the doorway. The cake box trembled in her hands.
From the bedroom, the door slightly ajar, came a sound. A giggle. Unmistakable. Low and throaty.
"Stop it, P’Popor! You’re bad!"
And then Popor’s voice, the voice that had promised Orm forever just last night. "Come on, Nam. Just once more before she calls me back."
Nam.
The junior from the drama club. The girl with the innocent eyes and the bubbly laugh. The girl Orm had asked about two months ago, only for Popor to roll her eyes and say, "Babe, she’s a child. She’s like a little sister to me. You’re crazy for even thinking that."
Lingling felt the world tilt on its axis. She looked at Orm.
Orm wasn't moving. She wasn't breathing. It was as if someone had reached into her chest and turned off the switch. The color drained from her face so fast Lingling thought she might faint.
Then, the bedroom door creaked open further.
Popor walked out, wearing nothing but a towel, her hair messy. She froze when she saw them.
Behind her, Nam peeked out, wrapped in a sheet, looking terrified.
"Orm?" Popor breathed, her face going slack with shock. "Babe? What... what are you doing here?"
Orm didn't speak. She just stared. She looked at Popor. Then at Nam. Then at the clothes on the floor.
The cake box slipped from her fingers.
SPLAT.
The box hit the floor upside down. The red velvet cake—the flavor Popor loved, the symbol of their future—exploded across the hardwood floor. Red crumbs and white frosting splattered onto Orm’s white sandals.
"Orm, wait, let me explain," Popor stammered, stepping forward, hands raised. "It’s not... it just happened. It didn't mean anything. Orm, please."
Popor reached for Orm’s arm.
That was the trigger.
Lingling moved.
She didn't think. She didn't plan. The rage that had been simmering for four years—the anger at seeing Orm ignored, the jealousy, the heartbreak of the graduation day, the hours spent rewriting notes while Popor played guitar—it all condensed into a single point of kinetic energy.
Lingling stepped in front of Orm.
She pulled her fist back and drove it straight into Popor’s face.
CRACK.
It was a sickening, satisfying sound. Knuckles meeting nose cartilage.
Popor stumbled back, clutching her face, blood instantly gushing through her fingers. "Holy shit!"
"Don't touch her," Lingling snarled. Her voice was low, dangerous, unrecognizable. Her hand throbbed with a dull ache, but her chest felt lighter than it had in years. "Do not ever touch her again."
"You broke my nose!" Popor screamed, blood dripping onto the floor, mixing with the ruined red velvet cake.
Nam was screaming in the background now, scrambling to find her clothes.
Lingling didn't look at them. She turned to Orm.
Orm was still staring at the mess on the floor. The red cake. The red blood. They looked the same.
"Orm?" Lingling whispered, reaching out but stopping just short of touching her.
Orm looked up.
Her eyes were dry. There were no tears. No screaming. No hysteria.
The light in her eyes—the chaotic, happy, trusting light that made Orm Orm—flickered and went out. It was replaced by a cold, dull void.
Orm looked at Popor, who was whimpering on the floor. She looked at Nam, cowering in the doorway.
"You said she was a sister," Orm said. Her voice was flat. monotone. Dead.
"Orm, baby, please..." Popor gurgled.
"Don't call me that," Orm said. She stepped back, her heel squelching into the frosting. She looked down at the ruined cake with a look of absolute disgust.
"Love is a joke," Orm whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "It’s just a lie people tell to get what they want."
She looked at Lingling. For a second, Lingling thought Orm might see her—really see her—as the protector.
But Orm’s eyes were glassy. She looked through Lingling, not at her.
"Let’s go, Lingling," Orm said. She turned around and walked out of the apartment, leaving the door wide open. She didn't look back. She didn't run. She walked with a terrifyingly calm, measured pace.
Lingling looked down at her throbbing hand, then at Popor, who was bleeding on the floor.
"You didn't just lose her," Lingling spat at Popor. "You destroyed her."
Lingling turned and ran after Orm, leaving the ruins of the wedding behind them.
The Car Park.
Orm sat in the passenger seat of Lingling’s car. She was staring at the dashboard.
Lingling got in, her heart racing. "Orm... do you want me to drive you home? Do you want to scream? You can scream."
Orm slowly turned her head. She looked at the dashboard clock.
4:42 PM.
"I don't want to scream," Orm said quietly. She reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror to look at herself. She smoothed her hair. She wiped a speck of nonexistent dust from her dress.
"I want to go to work," Orm said.
"Work?" Lingling blinked. "Orm, you just... we just..."
"I have a marketing presentation due on Monday," Orm said. Her voice was steely. "If I focus on that, I can get a promotion. Promotions are real. Money is real."
She turned to Lingling. Her face was a beautiful, frozen mask.
"Love is for idiots, Lingling. I’m done being an idiot."
Lingling watched her, feeling a new kind of heartbreak. The girl who loved sunflowers and red velvet cake was gone. In her place sat a stranger who looked exactly like her.
"Okay," Lingling whispered, starting the car. "We’ll go to work."
As she pulled out of the parking lot, Lingling flexed her bruised hand on the steering wheel. The pain was sharp, grounding. It was the only thing that felt real in a world that had suddenly turned very, very cold.
The masquerade of Happiness
Present Day. Friday Night at The Boiling Point Hotpot.
The private room was a haze of steam, shouting, and the clatter of chopsticks against ceramic. It was the kind of chaos that usually gave Lingling a headache, but tonight, the noise was a welcome distraction from the thoughts looping in her head.
"Okay, shut up! Everyone shut up for a second!" Junji slammed her hand on the table, rattling the plates of raw beef.
The table quieted down—mostly. Lena was still whispering something into Miu’s ear that made Miu turn bright red, and Oom was trying to secretly fish a piece of corn out of the spicy broth without Bam noticing she was using the wrong spoon.
"Thank you," Junji huffed, pushing her hair back. She was glowing, a stark contrast to the fluorescent lights. "Mario just texted. He got the role. The lead in that new heavy drama about the time-traveling surgeon."
A collective cheer erupted. Fluke let out a high-pitched whoop and threw a napkin in the air.
"Yes! Finally!" Gina shouted, raising her glass. "Drinks are on Junji tonight!"
"I knew he’d get it," Prigkhing added, nodding sagely. "He has the face of a tragic surgeon. It’s the eyebrows."
"Congratulations, Junji," Lingling said warmly, smiling across the table.
Junji beamed at her, but her eyes lingered on Lingling for a fraction of a second too long—a silent check-in. Are you okay? Lingling gave a tiny, imperceptible nod. I’m fine.
"Well, tell him to read the contract carefully," Orm’s voice cut through the celebration. She was leaning back in her chair, twirling a strand of hair, looking bored but beautiful. "Production companies are sharks. They’ll own his likeness in perpetuity if he’s not careful. Next thing you know, his face is on a hemorrhoid cream billboard in 2035."
"Orm!" Junji threw a piece of lettuce at her. "Don't jinx it! Let us be happy for five minutes!"
Orm caught the lettuce with surprising reflexes and popped it into her mouth. "I’m just being realistic! Happiness is great, but intellectual property rights are forever."
She grinned, that wide, chaotic smile that fooled everyone except the woman sitting next to her. Lingling watched Orm’s hand—it was trembling slightly, just a tremor, as she reached for her water. Orm hated hearing about other people’s relationship successes. It reminded her of the deficit in her own ledger.
"Speaking of faces on billboards," Gina interrupted, shoving her phone into the center of the table. "Have you seen Mint Ranch's new post? The third slide? The one with the wet shirt?"
"Please," Prigkhing scoffed, pulling up the same post on her own phone. "Slide three is try-hard. Slide five, where he’s holding the cat? That is peak husband material. It shows emotional depth."
"Emotional depth? It’s a cat, Prig!" Gina argued. "Slide three shows obliques."
"Abs fade, Gina! A love for felines is eternal!"
As they bickered, a sudden clatter-splash sound came from the end of the table.
"Oom!" Bam groaned, closing her eyes.
Oom had attempted to transfer a slippery fish ball from the pot to her bowl, missed entirely, and dropped it into the saucer of soy sauce. Dark liquid splattered across the white tablecloth and, tragically, onto the sleeve of Bam’s pristine blouse.
"Oops," Oom squeaked, shrinking into her seat. "I... the ball... it jumped."
"It’s an inanimate object, Oom," Bam sighed, but she was already reaching for a wet wipe. She didn't look angry. She looked resigned and affectionate. She wiped the sauce off Oom’s cheek first, then her own sleeve. "You are a hazard to society. Why do I date you?"
"Because I’m cute?" Oom offered a tentative smile.
Bam fought a smile and lost. "Yeah. Unfortunately." She kissed Oom’s forehead. "Be more careful, idiot."
It was a small, domestic moment. Messy, clumsy, and undeniably loving.
Lingling felt a phantom ache in her chest. She instinctively turned to Orm to share the moment, to smile at their friends’ antics.
But Orm wasn't looking at Oom and Bam with affection. She was staring at the soy sauce stain on the tablecloth, her jaw tight.
"Look at them," Orm murmured, low enough that only Lingling could hear. "Bam’s wearing a limited edition silk blouse. Ruined. Because Oom can't use chopsticks. That’s what relationships are, Ling. Just one person constantly cleaning up the other person’s mess and pretending they like it."
Lingling paused, her own chopsticks hovering over a piece of perfectly cooked wagyu. She placed it into Orm’s bowl instead of her own.
"Bam doesn't mind the mess, Orm," Lingling said quietly. "She’d rather have the stain than eat alone."
Orm looked at the beef in her bowl, then up at Lingling. Her eyes were dark pools, the 'marketing executive' mask slipping just enough to show the scorched earth behind it.
"Then Bam is a fool," Orm said, skewering the meat. "I’d rather have a clean shirt."
"You have a stain on your collar," Lingling lied gently.
"What?!" Orm’s composure shattered. She panicked, grabbing her phone to use as a mirror, frantically checking her reflection. "Where? Is it visible? Oh god, is it the chili oil?"
"I’m kidding," Lingling said, taking a sip of her tea, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "You’re perfect, Orm. Not a stain on you."
Orm froze, realizing she’d been played. She narrowed her eyes at Lingling, then let out a sharp, loud laugh that made Fluke jump.
"You’re evil, Lingling Kwong! Absolute evil!" Orm shouted, playfully shoving Lingling’s shoulder. "I hate you!"
"I know," Lingling whispered into her tea cup, watching Lena feed Miu a mushroom across the table. "I know."
Orm went back to laughing at Fluke’s imitation of a crying surgeon, loud and vibrant and the center of attention. But Lingling noticed that Orm’s hand had moved under the table, gripping the fabric of her own skirt tightly, as if she were afraid that if she let go, she might float away—or worse, fall apart.
The Strategic Lie
The Golden Dragon Restaurant. Sunday Dinner.
The private dining room was suffocatingly opulent. Gold leaf wallpaper, a crystal chandelier that looked heavy enough to kill someone, and a lazy susan spinning slowly with enough dim sum to feed a small army.
Lingling sat next to Orm, her posture perfect, sipping jasmine tea. Opposite them sat the "Board of Directors"—Orm’s parents, Por Oct and Mae Koy, and Lingling’s own mother, Mae Kwong.
"So, Orm," Por Oct started, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "I ran into Mr. Viroj yesterday at the golf club. You remember him? The CEO of Siam Estate?"
Orm stiffened beside Lingling. She put down her chopsticks with a sharp clack. "Vaguely, Pa."
"Well," Mae Koy chimed in, her smile tight and terrifyingly bright. "His daughter, Lada, just came back from London. She has a Master’s in Economics. Very smart girl. Very… suitable."
Lingling saw Orm’s hand clench into a fist on her lap. The knuckles turned white.
"She’s taking over their international division," Por Oct added, oblivious to the temperature drop in the room. "We were thinking it would be good for you two to have dinner. Discuss… synergy."
Synergy. The word made Orm’s eye twitch.
"I’m busy, Pa," Orm said, her voice cool and professional. "We’re launching the summer campaign next week. I don't have time for blind dates disguised as mergers."
"It’s just dinner, darling," Mae Koy pressed. "Lada is lovely. And single. And wealthy."
"And boring," Orm muttered under her breath, reaching for her wine glass.
"Orm!" Mae Koy scolded. "You are twenty-six. You cannot just work and drink wine with your friends forever. You need a partner. Someone who understands our world."
"I have partners," Orm deflected, gesturing vaguely with her glass. "I have business partners."
"We mean a life partner, Orm," her father said sternly. "Mr. Viroj is expecting a call. I already told him you were free this Friday."
The trap snapped shut.
Orm looked at her parents, then at Lingling’s mother, who was politely pretending to examine a dumpling. She felt the walls closing in. The arranged dates. The expectations. The inevitable disappointment when she didn't fall in love because she had surgically removed that part of her heart three years ago.
She couldn't do it. She couldn't sit through another dinner with another heiress who talked about her polo ponies.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in Orm’s chest. She needed an out. A shield. An excuse so ironclad they couldn't argue.
Under the table, Orm’s hand shot out and gripped Lingling’s thigh. Her fingers dug in hard, desperate.
Lingling jumped slightly, turning to look at Orm. Orm’s eyes were wide, pleading, the 'Ice Queen' mask cracking to reveal the terrified girl underneath.
Help me, her eyes screamed.
"I can't go on Friday," Orm blurted out.
"Why not?" Por Oct demanded. "Cancel your meeting."
"It’s not a meeting!" Orm’s voice rose an octave. Her brain was spinning. Think, Orm. Marketing. Spin the narrative. Create a barrier to entry.
"I can't go on a date with Lada," Orm said, her voice shaking, "because... because I’m already seeing someone."
The table went dead silent. The lazy susan stopped spinning.
"You are?" Mae Koy blinked. "Who? You never tell us anything. Is it a boy? A girl? From which family?"
Orm’s grip on Lingling’s thigh tightened until it was painful. She looked at Lingling. Lingling, who was always there. Lingling, who was safe. Lingling, who would never hurt her.
"It’s..." Orm took a breath. "It’s Lingling."
Lingling choked on her jasmine tea.
She coughed violently, setting the cup down with a rattle. Mae Kwong looked at her daughter, eyes popping out of her head.
"Lingling?" Por Oct repeated, looking from his daughter to the florist. "Our Lingling?"
"Yes," Orm said, gaining confidence now that the lie was out. She sat up straighter, slipping back into her executive persona. She pulled her hand from Lingling’s leg and instead clasped Lingling’s hand on top of the table, interlacing their fingers for everyone to see.
Lingling stared at their joined hands. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. This isn't real, she told herself. This is a lie. Don't cry. Don't smile. Just breathe.
"We’ve been... dating," Orm lied smoothly, squeezing Lingling’s hand. "For about six months now. We wanted to keep it private because... well, because we’ve been friends for so long, we wanted to be sure before we told you."
Orm turned to Lingling, her eyes shining with a frantic, manic intensity. "Right, babe?"
Babe.
The word hit Lingling like a physical blow. It was the word Orm used to use for Popor. It was the word Lingling had wanted to hear for a decade. And now she was hearing it, weaponized as a lie to get out of a dinner date.
Lingling looked up. She saw Orm’s parents staring at her with shock. She saw her own mother looking confused but hopeful. And she saw Orm, looking at her with that desperate trust.
Lingling could deny it. She could pull her hand away and say, 'No, she’s lying.' She could save herself the pain.
But this was Orm. And Lingling was incapable of denying Orm anything.
Lingling forced the corners of her mouth up. It was the hardest smile she had ever constructed.
"Yes," Lingling said, her voice steady, though her soul was shaking. "That’s right. We’re together."
"Oh my god!" Mae Koy gasped, clapping her hands. The shock melted into delight. "I knew it! I told you, Oct! Didn't I say they were spending too much time together?"
"Well," Por Oct grunted, looking at Lingling with new appraisal. "Lingling is... good. She’s family. Not an heiress, but... stable. Good stock."
"This is wonderful!" Mae Kwong beamed, reaching over to pat Lingling’s other hand. "My daughter and my best friend’s daughter! It’s like a drama!"
"Exactly," Orm laughed, a breathless, high-pitched sound. She leaned her head on Lingling’s shoulder—a move practiced a thousand times in friendship, now rebranded as romance. "We’re very happy. So, no Lada. No dates. I’m taken."
"Of course, of course," Mae Koy waved her hand dismissively. "Forget Lada. We need to celebrate! Waiter! Champagne!"
As the parents erupted into chatter about weddings and compatibility and how "cute" they were as babies, Orm didn't let go of Lingling’s hand.
She leaned in close to Lingling’s ear, whispering under the noise of the toast.
"Thank you," Orm breathed, her voice dropping the act. "You saved my life. I owe you big time. We just have to fake it for a few weeks until they forget about Lada, okay?"
Lingling looked at the champagne being poured. She looked at Orm’s beautiful, relieved face.
"Okay," Lingling whispered back. "Just a few weeks."
She picked up her glass.
To us, she thought bitterly. The best marketing campaign of the year.
The Contract of the Heart
The Drive Home. 9:45 PM.
The interior of Orm’s Mercedes was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic thump-thump of tires on pavement.
Lingling stared out the passenger window, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of orange and white. Her hand was pressed against her chest, right over her heart, as if physically holding it together. Every beat felt like a fracture.
We’re dating. It’s a lie. She held my hand. It was a performance.
"I am a genius," Orm broke the silence, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. "A terrible, impulsive, evil genius. Did you see my dad’s face? He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon and then realized he liked the taste."
Lingling didn't turn. "You lied to them, Orm. To everyone."
"I strategized," Orm corrected, glancing at Lingling. The streetlights washed over Orm’s face, highlighting the relief in her eyes. The panic from the restaurant was gone, replaced by the thrill of a successful escape. "Ling, they were going to set me up with Lada. Lada. The girl who thinks 'charity' means donating last season’s Gucci bags to her cousins."
Orm sighed, the adrenaline fading slightly into genuine contrition. She reached over and squeezed Lingling’s shoulder.
"I am sorry, though. Really. I shouldn't have dragged you into it without asking. I just... I panicked. And you were there. You’re always there."
You’re always there. The words cut deeper than any insult.
Orm pulled up to the curb outside Lingling’s apartment building and put the car in park. She turned in her seat, tucking one leg under her, looking at Lingling with wide, pleading eyes.
"So..." Orm bit her lip. "Can we? Just for a little while? Until Lada goes back to London? Maybe a month? Please, Ling. You’re the only person I can trust with this. Everyone else would make it weird."
It’s already weird, Lingling thought. It’s excruciating.
Lingling looked at Orm. She looked at the face she had loved for two decades. The face that had cried over Popor. The face that was now asking her to play pretend with the one thing Lingling wanted to be real.
She couldn't say no. She never could.
But she couldn't just let herself be destroyed, either.
"Okay," Lingling said, her voice quiet but firm.
"Yes!" Orm pumped a fist in the air. "You are the best! I’ll buy you that limited edition fertilizer you wanted! I’ll—"
"I have conditions," Lingling interrupted.
Orm froze mid-cheer. "Conditions?"
"Rules," Lingling corrected. She turned fully in her seat, fixing Orm with a hard stare. "If we do this, we do it my way. I’m not going to be just a prop in your marketing campaign, Orm."
Orm blinked, surprised by the steel in Lingling’s tone. She nodded slowly. "Okay. Name your terms, partner."
Lingling held up a finger.
"Rule Number One: No 'Babe'. Ever."
Orm tilted her head. "Why? It’s classic couple cringe."
"Because she called you that," Lingling said, her voice sharp. She didn't need to say Popor’s name. "And I won't be her echo. If we have to use pet names in front of your parents, we use Teerak or Baobao. Nothing else."
Orm’s expression softened. The reminder of Popor dimmed her excitement for a second. "Okay. You’re right. Teerak or Baobao. Got it."
Lingling held up a second finger.
"Rule Number Two: If this becomes too much—if the lying gets too heavy, or if our families get too involved, or if it starts to hurt our friendship—we stop. Immediately. No arguments. We sit down, we tell them we broke up, and we go back to being Lingling and Orm. The friendship comes first. Always."
"Deal," Orm agreed instantly, looking solemn. "You and me first. The lie second."
Lingling took a deep breath. This last one was the safety net for her own sanity.
"Rule Number Three:" Lingling’s voice wavered slightly, then steadied. "If either of us starts dating someone for real... the charade ends that same day."
Orm scoffed, rolling her eyes. "As if I’m going to date anyone. I told you, love is a scam."
"I mean it, Orm," Lingling pressed. "If you meet someone. If I meet someone. We don't drag a third person into this mess. We end it."
Orm looked at Lingling. For a moment, she seemed to search Lingling’s face for something, perhaps wondering why Lingling was being so serious about a fake scenario. Then, she shrugged.
"Fine. If by some miracle I decide to donate my heart to science again, or if you finally let that cute barista take you out, we pull the plug."
"Good," Lingling exhaled, reaching for the door handle. She needed to get out. The air in the car was too thin.
"Wait," Orm said.
Lingling paused. "What?"
Orm leaned across the center console. For a heart-stopping second, Lingling thought she was going to kiss her cheek. Instead, Orm reached into the back seat and grabbed Lingling’s bag, handing it to her.
Then, Orm flashed a grin—not the manic one, but a softer, genuine one.
"Goodnight... Teerak," Orm tested the word. It rolled off her tongue easily. Too easily.
Lingling felt the crack in her heart widen into a fissure. She gritted her teeth, forcing her face to remain neutral.
"Goodnight, Orm," Lingling whispered.
She opened the door and stepped out into the humid night air. She didn't look back as she walked to her building’s entrance. She couldn't. If she looked back, she might run back to the car and confess everything, or she might just collapse on the pavement.
Inside the car, Orm watched Lingling disappear into the lobby. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel again, frowning slightly.
"Teerak," Orm whispered to the empty car. "It sounds... nice."
She shook her head, put the car in drive, and sped away, leaving Lingling to nurse a heart that was now officially under contract to break.
The Public Debut
Saturday Night. The Kornnaphat Estate.
The "Casual Networking Mixer" Orm’s parents were throwing was about as casual as a coronation. The garden was strung with fairy lights, a jazz quartet was playing in the gazebo, and waiters circulated with champagne flutes that cost more than Lingling’s rent.
Lingling stood by the dessert table, nursing a glass of sparkling water. She wore a simple, elegant navy dress that she’d bought specifically for this role. She felt like an impostor in her own skin.
Across the lawn, Orm was trapped.
She was cornered near the fountain by Lada—a striking woman in a red silk dress that screamed "hostile takeover." Lada wasn't just talking; she was encroaching. Her hand rested on Orm’s forearm, her fingers trailing up towards her elbow. She was whispering something that made Orm stiffen, her smile fixed and brittle.
"She looks like a vampire trying to find a vein," Junji muttered, appearing at Lingling’s elbow with a plate of canapés. "Why hasn't Orm bitten her head off yet?"
"Because Lada’s father is the biggest investor in the new skincare line," Lingling said, her eyes locked on Orm’s hand, which was clenched into a fist at her side.
"Right. Capitalism," Junji grunted, shoving a tart into her mouth. She looked at Lingling sideways. "You know, you don't have to watch. You can go hide in the library."
"I can't," Lingling whispered. "I'm on duty."
At that moment, Orm’s eyes found Lingling’s across the crowded garden. It was the same look from the dinner table—panic, desperation, and a silent plea: Save me.
Lada laughed at something, leaning in close enough that her nose brushed Orm’s ear. Orm flinched visibly.
"Showtime," Lingling murmured.
She set her glass down. She smoothed her dress. She took a breath, locked her heart in a steel box, and walked across the lawn.
As she approached, she heard Lada’s voice, sugary and presumptive.
"...and Daddy says the Maldives in July is perfect. You really need a vacation, Orm. You’re so tense. I could help you relax."
Lada’s hand moved from Orm’s arm to her waist.
"Sorry to interrupt," Lingling’s voice was clear, calm, and carried just enough volume to turn heads.
Lada turned, annoyed. Orm looked like she’d seen an angel.
"Lingling!" Orm exhaled, stepping away from Lada’s touch immediately.
"I think you promised me a dance, Teerak," Lingling said, the pet name feeling heavy and strange on her tongue. She forced a warm, intimate smile. "Or did you forget about your girlfriend already?"
The word girlfriend dropped like a stone in a pond.
Lada’s hand froze in mid-air. "Girlfriend?"
Nearby, Fluke, who had been trying to charm a waiter, choked on his drink. Gina and Prigkhing, who were arguing about the cheese selection, stopped mid-sentence. The entire friend group, scattered around the periphery, turned to look.
"I..." Orm blinked, then her marketing brain kicked into gear. She grabbed Lingling’s hand, interlacing their fingers tight. "I didn't forget, Baobao. I was just telling Lada here how much I’ve been looking forward to dancing with you."
Orm turned to Lada, her smile now sharp and triumphant.
"Lada, have you met Lingling? My partner."
"Partner?" Lada looked Lingling up and down, her expression souring. "I thought you were single, Orm. Your father said—"
"My father is a little behind on the updates," Orm lied smoothly, pulling Lingling flush against her side. She rested her head on Lingling’s shoulder—a gesture of ownership that made Lingling’s knees weak. "We’ve been keeping it quiet. But honestly, I can't keep my hands off her, so the secret was bound to come out."
The friend group descended.
"Wait, what?!" Fluke shrieked, abandoning the waiter. "Since when?! Orm! You told me you were dead inside last week!"
"Oh my god!" Bam squealed, grabbing Oom’s arm. "I knew it! The way you look at her! I knew it!"
"Finally!" Lena shouted, raising her glass. "The tension was killing us!"
Lada looked around at the circle of excited friends, then back at Orm, who was looking at Lingling with a terrifyingly convincing gaze of adoration.
"I see," Lada said coldly. She stepped back, smoothing her red dress. "Well. Enjoy the dance."
She turned and stalked off toward the bar.
Orm let out a breath that shook her entire body. "Oh, thank god. She was asking about my blood type. I think she wanted to harvest my organs."
She looked at Lingling, her eyes crinkling. "You were amazing. Baobao."
Lingling didn't smile back. She couldn't. Her heart was beating so fast it hurt. "The music is starting. We have to sell it, Orm."
Orm nodded. She took Lingling’s other hand, placing it on her waist. "Right. Sell it."
Later, inside the house.
The "dance" had turned into a full interrogation by the group. Orm had spun a tale of a slow-burn romance that finally ignited, using bits of truth to flavor the lie. Lingling had mostly nodded and smiled, letting Orm handle the fiction.
Now, Lingling was hiding in the kitchen, pretending to look for water.
The door swung open. It wasn't Orm.
It was Junji.
Junji closed the door and leaned against it, crossing her arms. Her face was grim.
"You’re good," Junji said. "Scary good. If I didn't know better, I’d have believed you myself."
Lingling turned to the sink, gripping the marble counter. "It worked. Lada left early."
"And what about you?" Junji walked over, lowering her voice. "I saw your face when she called you Baobao. You looked like you were going to be sick or cry. Or both."
"I'm fine, Junji."
"You are not fine!" Junji hissed. "Ling, this is torture. You are voluntarily signing up to act out your dream relationship with the person you love, knowing it means nothing to her. It’s masochism."
Lingling spun around, her eyes flashing.
"It’s not nothing," Lingling said fiercely. "It’s safety."
"Safety?" Junji scoffed. "It’s walking into a fire!"
"No," Lingling shook her head. "Listen to me. If I don't do this, she goes on dates with Lada. Or someone else. And eventually, she might actually fall for one of them. And I have to watch from the sidelines again."
Lingling took a shaky breath.
"This way... I’m the one holding her hand. I’m the one she calls Teerak. Even if it’s a lie... it’s me. I get to be the one beside her. I get to protect her from people like Lada who just want her money or her status."
"And who protects you?" Junji asked softly.
"I protect myself," Lingling said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "By knowing the rules. By knowing when the scene ends. It’s a job, Junji. I’m just... filling a vacancy."
Junji looked at her friend—at the stubborn set of her jaw and the sadness in her eyes. She realized there was no stopping her. Lingling had been yearning for so long that she would take the crumbs of affection and call it a feast.
"You’re an idiot," Junji said, her voice breaking. "But you’re my best friend. So if she hurts you... if she takes this too far... I break the promise. I tell her everything."
"You won't," Lingling said confidently. "Because that would hurt her. And you love her too."
Junji groaned, throwing her hands up. "We are all idiots! This whole group is a disaster!"
The kitchen door opened again. Orm poked her head in, looking flushed and happy.
"There you are! Teerak, come on. Fluke is trying to do the lift from Dirty Dancing with Oom and we need to supervise before someone breaks a hip."
Lingling’s face transformed instantly. The pain vanished, replaced by a soft, indulgent smile.
"Coming, Baobao," she said.
She walked past Junji, brushing her arm gently, and followed Orm back out into the party, stepping back onto the stage.
The Glitch in the Algorithm
The "fake dates" were becoming a problem. A serious, logistical, emotional problem.
It had been two weeks. They had gone to dinner three times (to be "seen" by Lada’s friends), a gallery opening (where Orm held Lingling’s hand for two hours straight), and a movie night at Orm’s condo that was supposed to be strictly for "social media evidence" but ended with them falling asleep on the couch, Lingling’s head on Orm’s chest.
That was the terrifying part. Orm had woken up, smelled Lingling’s shampoo—something soft and floral, like jasmine—and felt a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in three years. For a split second, her heart had swelled, pushing against the "No Entry" sign she’d bolted to her chest.
Then, the memory flashed. Popor’s laugh. The red velvet cake on the floor. The betrayal.
It’s a trick, Orm’s brain screamed. Endorphins are liars. Love is just a biological bribe to get you to reproduce and then suffer.
She had practically shoved Lingling out the door that morning, claiming she had an early conference call, just to get the safety of her solitude back.
Tuesday Afternoon. Petal & Stem.
Orm needed a reset. She needed to see Lingling in her natural habitat—surrounded by plants, wearing her apron, being safe, predictable, platonic Lingling.
She pushed open the glass door of the flower shop, the familiar bell chiming above her head.
"Ling, I need you to tell me if hydrangeas are—"
The sentence died in her throat.
Lingling wasn't behind the counter arranging bouquets. She was standing by the display of succulents, and she wasn't alone.
Leaning against the counter, looking entirely too comfortable, was Sonya. The barista from The Roasted Bean next door. The one with the dimples and the "I listen to indie records" vibe that Orm found pretentious but everyone else found charming.
Sonya was holding two coffee cups. She handed one to Lingling.
"I made you the honey-lavender latte," Sonya said, her voice dropping an octave. "On the house. I know you had a rush of orders this morning."
Lingling smiled. It was that soft, genuine smile—the one that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. The one Orm thought was reserved for her when she was ranting about work.
"Thank you, Sonya," Lingling said, taking the cup. Their fingers brushed.
They didn't just brush. Sonya’s hand lingered. Her thumb grazed the back of Lingling’s knuckles. It was a small, intimate gesture. A test.
"You have some pollen," Sonya murmured, reaching up with her other hand to gently brush a speck of yellow dust from Lingling’s cheek. "Right there."
Lingling didn't pull away. She blushed. A faint, pink flush creeping up her neck. She laughed, a sweet, tinkling sound.
"I'm a mess today," Lingling giggled.
A mess? Orm thought, her grip tightening on her designer handbag. You're not a mess. You're my fake girlfriend.
Something sharp and hot pricked Orm’s heart. It wasn't the dull ache of the old wound from Popor. This was new. It was acidic. It was ugly.
It felt like... ownership.
Why is she touching her? Orm’s mind raced. That is my florist. That is my best friend. That is the person who punched my ex-girlfriend in the face. You don't get to touch her cheek, Barista Girl.
The image of Popor and Nam flashed in her mind again—the secrecy, the intimacy she hadn't been part of.
Is Lingling doing it too? Is she going to leave me for this... latte artist?
The "Rule Number Three" Lingling had set echoed in Orm’s ears: If either of us starts dating someone for real... the charade ends.
Panic mixed with the jealousy. If Lingling dated Sonya, Orm would lose her shield against Lada. She would lose the hand-holding. She would lose the movie nights. She would be alone again.
"Excuse me," Orm announced, her voice cutting through the cozy atmosphere like a guillotine.
She marched forward, her heels clicking aggressively on the hardwood floor. She didn't stop until she was standing directly between Sonya and the succulents, invading the personal space bubble.
Sonya jumped, pulling her hand back. "Oh! Hi, Orm. I didn't see you come in."
"Clearly," Orm said, her tone icy. She turned her back on Sonya, effectively blocking her from Lingling’s view, and faced Lingling.
She reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Lingling’s ear. Her touch was possessive, deliberate.
"You didn't answer my text, Teerak," Orm said. She made sure the pet name was loud enough for Sonya to hear.
Lingling blinked, looking confused. "You didn't text me, Orm."
"I did mentally," Orm improvised smoothly. She stepped closer, invading Lingling’s space, forcing Lingling to look up at her. "I was worried. I thought maybe you’d been kidnapped."
"I was just... working," Lingling stammered, glancing over Orm’s shoulder at Sonya.
Orm followed her gaze. She turned her head slightly, giving Sonya a withering look—the kind she usually reserved for underperforming ad agencies.
"Sonya," Orm acknowledged, her voice flat. "Sales down next door? Or do you just prefer bothering my girlfriend while she’s trying to run a business?"
Sonya’s eyes widened. She looked from Orm to Lingling. "Oh. I didn't... I was just bringing coffee. I didn't realize you guys were... busy."
"We are," Orm said, linking her arm through Lingling’s. "Very busy. Relationship maintenance. Urgent girlfriend matters."
"Right," Sonya mumbled, looking awkward. "I’ll... see you later, Ling."
"Thanks for the coffee!" Lingling called out as Sonya retreated, the bell chiming her escape.
As soon as the door closed, the silence in the shop was heavy.
Lingling gently extricated her arm from Orm’s grip. She set the coffee down on the counter and looked at Orm, her expression unreadable.
"You were rude," Lingling said quietly.
"I was protective," Orm countered, crossing her arms. "She was flirting with you, Ling. It was disgusting. She touched your face."
"She was wiping off pollen."
"She was marking her territory!" Orm snapped. "I know that move. It’s the 'I’m helpful and sweet and want to date you' move."
Lingling sighed, picking up a pair of shears. She started trimming a rose, focusing on the thorns.
"So what if she was?" Lingling asked, her voice low. "I’m single, Orm. Remember? The rules? If I meet someone..."
Orm felt cold. The threat was real.
"You can't date her," Orm blurted out.
Lingling paused, the shears freezing on a stem. She looked up, her heart pounding. "Why not?"
Because you’re mine, Orm wanted to scream. Because when we hold hands, I don't feel like drowning. Because I can't handle losing you too.
But she couldn't say that. That was feelings. That was weakness. That was a scam.
"Because..." Orm scrambled for a lie. "Because her coffee is mediocre! And she has a weird vibe! And... and we have the gala next week! You can't start dating a barista right before the Kornnaphat Annual Gala. It would confuse the narrative! My dad would have questions!"
Orm took a breath, playing the "Executive" card.
"It’s bad for the brand, Lingling. We have a contract. Informal, but binding. You can't breach the contract for a latte."
Lingling stared at her. For a moment, Orm thought she saw disappointment in Lingling’s eyes. A flicker of sadness that Orm hadn't said 'Because I want you.'
But then Lingling nodded slowly. She went back to trimming the roses, the snip-snip sound filling the room.
"Okay, Orm," Lingling said softly. "I won't date Sonya. I’ll stick to the contract."
"Good," Orm exhaled, feeling the panic recede but the prickle in her heart remaining. She grabbed a random flower from a bucket—a red tulip—and twirled it nervously. "Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Synergy."
"Synergy," Lingling echoed, cutting a thorn off with a little more force than necessary.
Orm watched her, feeling a strange mix of victory and guilt. She had won. She had kept Lingling. But as she watched Lingling work, refusing to make eye contact, Orm realized she hadn't just been protecting the lie. She had been protecting the only thing in her life that felt real, even if she was too terrified to name it.
The Glass Slipper Breaks
The Kornnaphat Annual Gala. Grand Ballroom.
The theme was "Midnight Garden," but Lingling Kwong was the only thing anyone was looking at.
She wore a floor-length black velvet gown that hugged every curve, the fabric shimmering under the chandeliers like the night sky itself. It was modest yet devastatingly alluring, with a slit that offered just a glimpse of leg when she walked.
Beside her, Orm Kornnaphat was a study in sharp, breathtaking contrast. She had forgone a dress for a tailored white tuxedo suit, the lapels satin, her hair slicked back to reveal the sharp line of her jaw and the diamond studs in her ears.
They moved through the crowd like royalty.
"You’re staring," Lingling whispered, leaning in as they paused for a photo on the red carpet.
"I’m inspecting the merchandise," Orm murmured back, her hand resting possessively on the small of Lingling’s back. But her voice lacked its usual sarcastic edge. It was thick, warm. "You look... expensive, Ling. Like, 'hostile takeover of my entire portfolio' expensive."
Lingling laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound that made the photographer snap three extra pictures. "Is that a compliment in marketing speak?"
"It’s the highest compliment I have," Orm said softly, looking at Lingling’s lips.
For hours, the line between performance and reality didn't just blur; it vanished.
They circulated the room, arms linked. When Orm laughed at a client’s joke, she didn't look for an exit strategy; she looked for Lingling. When Lingling’s feet started to hurt in her heels, Orm noticed without being told and guided her to a velvet settee, fetching her sparkling water and rubbing her calf discreetly under the long tablecloth.
It felt... easy. It felt right.
"So," Por Oct’s voice boomed as he approached them, a glass of scotch in hand. Mae Koy and Mae Kwong were trailing behind him, beaming. "Everyone is asking about the date."
Orm looked up from where she was sitting next to Lingling. "The date for what, Pa? The product launch?"
"The wedding!" Mae Koy exclaimed, clasping her hands. "Mr. Viroj was just asking if he should expect an invitation this year. He said you two look like you were carved from the same piece of jade."
Usually, this was the part where Orm would panic. Where she would make a joke about fiscal quarters or change the subject to global warming.
But tonight, Orm didn't panic. She looked at Lingling. She looked at the way the soft ballroom light hit Lingling’s cheekbones, the way Lingling’s hand was resting on her knee—anchoring her, safe and warm.
For a terrifying, beautiful moment, Orm didn't want to run.
"We’re not rushing, Mae," Orm said, her voice surprisingly steady. She squeezed Lingling’s hand. "We’re just... enjoying being happy."
Lingling’s breath hitched. She looked at Orm, searching for the lie, but found only a soft, confusing depth in Orm’s dark eyes.
"Well, don't wait too long," Mae Kwong teased, winking at her daughter. "Good flowers don't last forever."
"This one does," Orm said quietly, bringing Lingling’s hand to her lips for a kiss that lingered a second too long to be just for show.
The Valet Stand. 11:45 PM.
The magic held all the way to the exit. They stood outside in the cool night air, waiting for Orm’s car. The adrenaline of the night was fading into a comfortable, buzzy silence.
"You were good tonight," Lingling said, shivering slightly in the breeze.
Orm immediately took off her white tuxedo jacket and draped it over Lingling’s shoulders. The silk lining was warm from Orm’s body heat.
"I wasn't acting, Ling," Orm blurted out.
Lingling froze, clutching the lapels of the jacket. She turned to face Orm. "What?"
Orm looked panic-stricken but determined. The champagne had loosened the bolts on her iron heart. "I mean... I wasn't just acting. Tonight... it was nice. Being with you. It didn't feel like a scam."
Orm took a step closer. The air between them crackled.
"Lingling," Orm whispered, reaching out to cup Lingling’s face. Her thumb brushed over Lingling’s cheekbone, erasing the memory of the barista’s touch from days ago. "I think... I think I’m scared."
"Why?" Lingling breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Because I want to kiss you," Orm confessed, her eyes dropping to Lingling’s mouth. "And not for the cameras."
Lingling felt the world tilt. This was it. The twenty-minute deficit was finally being paid.
"Then kiss me," Lingling whispered.
Orm leaned in. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Their lips were millimeters apart—
"Orm?"
The voice was a bucket of ice water.
Orm flinched violently, pulling back as if she’d been burned. Lingling stumbled slightly, the loss of contact physical and jarring.
They both turned.
Standing near the pillars, illuminated by the harsh valet lights, was Popor.
She looked older, tired, but unmistakably her. She was wearing a grey suit that looked cheap compared to the gala’s standards, clutching a clutch bag nervously. She wasn't a guest; she was waiting.
"Popor," Orm breathed. The name was a curse.
The softness in Orm’s face vanished instantly. The vulnerability that had been there seconds ago—the desire, the fear, the hope—slam-shut behind a steel door. Her posture straightened. Her eyes went dead.
"I saw on Instagram you were here," Popor said, taking a hesitant step forward. "I... I needed to see you, Orm."
"Get away from me," Orm said. Her voice wasn't loud. It was terrifyingly flat.
"Please," Popor pleaded. "I heard you’re doing well. I heard you’re... happy. With her." Popor’s eyes flicked to Lingling, filled with a mix of jealousy and regret. "I just wanted to say... I made a mistake, Orm. A huge mistake. Nam... she was nothing. I miss you. I miss us."
It was the apology Orm had dreamed of three years ago. But now, it sounded like garbage.
"You miss my money," Orm said coldly. "Or maybe you miss having someone to cheat on."
"No!" Popor stepped closer, reaching out. "Orm, look at me. Remember what we had? The red velvet cake? The plans? We were soulmates!"
The red velvet cake.
Orm flinched. The memory of the blood on the floor, the smashed cake, the absolute humiliation crashed over her.
She looked at Popor. Then she looked at Lingling.
Lingling was standing there, wearing Orm’s jacket, looking beautiful and terrified. Lingling, who had just offered her a kiss. Lingling, who was safe.
But the fear was back. The monster was back.
It’s a trick, the voice in Orm’s head screamed. Look at Popor. She said she loved you too. She said you were soulmates. And she destroyed you. Lingling will do the same. Everyone does.
Orm’s face hardened into stone. She stepped back, putting distance between herself and Lingling.
"Car for Ms. Kornnaphat!" the valet called out.
Orm didn't look at Lingling. She didn't look at Popor. She stared straight ahead at the black car.
"Orm?" Lingling whispered, reaching for Orm’s hand.
Orm pulled her hand away.
"Don't," Orm said. Her voice was unrecognizable. It was the voice of the Marketing Executive. The voice of the Ice Queen. "Get in the car, Lingling. The show is over."
"Orm, wait—"
"I said get in the car!" Orm snapped, the cruelty in her tone making Lingling recoil.
Popor watched them, confused.
Orm walked past Popor as if she were a ghost, got into the back seat, and slammed the door.
Lingling stood on the curb for a second, the white jacket slipping from her shoulders. She looked at Popor, then at the tinted window where Orm was hiding.
Slowly, painfully, Lingling picked up the jacket. She got into the car.
As the car pulled away, leaving Popor standing in the exhaust fumes, the silence in the back seat was deafening. Orm sat on the far side, staring out the window, her arms crossed tight over her chest, protecting a heart that had just slammed its gates shut for good.
The Invoice for Love
Monday Morning. Kornnaphat Enterprises.
Orm didn't disappear physically; she disappeared into the glass tower of her father's company. She built a fortress of paperwork and icy stares.
When Lingling arrived at Orm's office—worried sick because Orm hadn't answered a single text since the Gala—she found a stranger sitting in the executive chair.
Orm didn't look up from her tablet. "You’re late."
"Late?" Lingling blinked, stepping into the cold room. "Orm, I’ve been calling you for two days. Are you okay? What happened Saturday night?"
Orm finally looked up. Her eyes were devoid of light. The "Baobao" warmth was gone. The "Teerak" softness was incinerated.
"Saturday night was a successful marketing activation," Orm said, her voice crisp and professional. "We achieved the desired engagement metrics. My parents are off my back. Lada has retreated."
She opened a drawer and pulled out a checkbook.
Lingling felt a cold dread pool in her stomach. "Orm... what are you doing?"
"Closing the account," Orm said. She scribbled a number—a very large number—signed it with a flourish, and ripped the check out. She slid it across the mahogany desk toward Lingling.
"For your time," Orm said flatly. "And for the flower arrangements. And the acting services. It’s a generous fee. Consider it a bonus for the overtime at the Gala."
Lingling stared at the check. Then she looked at Orm. The cruelty of it took her breath away. It wasn't just a rejection; it was a transaction. It was Orm telling her that her love, her patience, her hand-holding, her heart—it was all just a service to be paid for.
"You think..." Lingling’s voice shook. "You think I did this for money?"
"Everyone does everything for something, Lingling," Orm said, turning back to her screen. "Popor did it for status. You did it for... I don't know, pity? Or maybe you just needed the cash for the shop. Take it and go."
Lingling didn't scream. She didn't cry. She reached into her bag and pulled out the white tuxedo jacket Orm had lent her—the one that still smelled like Orm’s perfume.
She folded it neatly. She placed it on the desk, right on top of the check.
"I don't want your money, Orm," Lingling whispered. "I just wanted you."
She turned and walked out.
By Tuesday morning, Petal & Stem was closed. A sign on the door read: Indefinite Leave. For inquiries, please contact Junji.
Lingling Kwong had vanished.
The Intervention
Wednesday Afternoon. A Quiet Cafe.
Popor sat nervously at a corner table, checking her watch. She had been trying to reach Orm for days, sending flowers (which were returned) and texts (which were blocked).
When the chair opposite her was pulled out, it wasn't Orm. It was Junji.
Junji didn't order coffee. She sat down, folded her arms, and stared at Popor with a look that could curdle milk.
"Where is she?" Popor asked, confused. "I’m supposed to meet Orm."
"Orm isn't coming. And if you go near her office again, security will escort you out. I made sure of it," Junji said coldly.
"Who are you to—"
"I’m the person who knows where the bodies are buried, Popor," Junji leaned in. "And I’m the person who knows where Lingling is."
Popor paused. "Lingling? The florist? Why do I care?"
"Because you broke her," Junji hissed. "You broke her in high school. You broke her in university. And now, you’re trying to break her again by dragging Orm back into your mess."
"I love Orm!" Popor defended herself. "We had something special! Lingling is just... a friend. A stand-in."
Junji laughed. It was a harsh, bitter sound.
"You think you’re the main character, don't you?" Junji shook her head. "Popor, do you really think you passed Advanced Consumer Behavior because you’re smart? Do you think Orm survived finals week because you brought her soy milk?"
Popor frowned. "I... I took care of her."
"You took the credit!" Junji slammed her hand on the table. "Lingling wrote those notes. Lingling bought the soy milk and gave it to you to give to Orm because she knew Orm would be happier receiving it from her 'girlfriend.' Lingling stayed up all night helping you write your thesis just so you wouldn't fail and stress Orm out."
Popor’s face went pale. "What?"
"And High School," Junji continued, relentless. "Graduation day. The day you 'confessed'?"
"I asked her out on the bleachers," Popor said, her voice wavering.
"Lingling was there, Popor. She was twenty minutes late because she was helping a junior find a key. She had a sunflower. She was going to tell Orm she loved her. But she saw you. And she stepped back. She let you have her because she thought you would make her happy."
Junji’s eyes filled with tears of anger.
"You stole seven years of their lives. You stole the credit for Lingling’s love. And now? Now Orm has driven Lingling away because she thinks love is a lie. Because of you."
Junji stood up, looking down at the stunned woman.
"If you ever actually loved Orm—even for a second—you will go to her office. And you will tell her the truth. You will tell her who actually took care of her. You will be the bigger person, Popor. For once in your selfish life, give the credit to the person who earned it."
The Ledger of Truth
Thursday Evening. Orm’s Office.
Orm was staring at the city skyline. It was raining. The gray matched her soul perfectly.
She was miserable. She had fired her assistant twice today. She had yelled at the marketing team. And every time she looked at the empty chair in the corner of her office, she saw Lingling folding that white jacket.
I just wanted you.
The intercom buzzed. "Ms. Kornnaphat? Ms. Popor is here. She says... she says she has a confession. She won't leave."
Orm squeezed her eyes shut. "Send her in. Five minutes. Then I call the police."
The door opened. Popor walked in. She looked different. Humbled. Smaller.
"I don't want you back," Orm said without turning around. "If that’s why you’re here, get out."
"I know," Popor said softly. "I’m not here to get back together. I’m here to return something I stole."
Orm turned around, frowning. "My time?"
"No," Popor shook her head. She took a deep breath. "The credit."
Popor walked to the desk, keeping her distance. She looked at Orm—really looked at her—and realized Junji was right. Orm looked broken.
"Do you remember the summary notes for Chapter 14 in our junior year?" Popor asked.
Orm blinked, confused by the specific reference. "The ones you wrote for me? Yes. They saved my GPA."
"I didn't write them," Popor said. "I was partying. Lingling wrote them. She stayed up all night. She gave them to me and told me to say I did it because she didn't want you to worry about me failing."
Orm went still.
"And the soy milk?" Popor continued, her voice gaining strength. "The specific brand you like? I never bought it. Lingling bought it. Every morning. She put it in my bag and told me to give it to you."
"Why..." Orm’s voice cracked. "Why would she do that?"
"Because she loved you," Popor said. "More than I ever did. More than I knew how to."
Popor took a step closer, tears welling in her eyes.
"Graduation day. High School. The day I asked you out."
Orm nodded slowly. "The best day of my life. Until it wasn't."
"Lingling was there," Popor said. "She was running to the bleachers to confess to you. She had a sunflower. Your favorite. She saw us kissing... and she threw the flower away. She stepped back into the shadows so you could have your moment with me."
Orm felt the room spin.
The memories rushed back, recontextualized. Lingling always being there. Lingling’s quiet support. The way Lingling looked at her when she thought no one was watching.
The check. I don't want your money, Orm. I just wanted you.
"She’s been loving you since we were kids, Orm," Popor whispered. "She protected you from everything. Even from knowing how much it hurt her to see us together."
Popor wiped her eyes. "I took credit for her love for years. I’m sorry. I really am. But you need to know... the person who broke your heart was me. But the person who healed it? The person who kept you going? That was always Lingling."
Orm sank into her chair. Her hand went to her mouth to stifle a sob.
The "Marketing Executive" mask didn't just crack; it shattered into dust.
"Where is she?" Orm gasped, panic rising in her throat. "I need to... I need to tell her."
"She’s gone, Orm," Popor said sadly. "Junji says she left. She disappeared."
Orm stood up so fast her chair toppled over. She grabbed her keys. She didn't care about the rain. She didn't care about the meeting in ten minutes.
She had a twenty-minute deficit to make up for. No, a ten-year deficit. And she wasn't going to be late this time.
The Penance
Junji’s Apartment. Thursday Night.
Orm looked like a ruin of her former self. Her hair was frizzy from the rain, her designer blouse was rumpled, and her eyes were swollen shut. She pounded on Junji’s door until the neighbors started peeking out.
When Junji opened the door, she didn't look surprised. She looked tired.
"Where is she?" Orm gasped, pushing past Junji into the living room. She spun around, looking for a suitcase, a jacket, anything that signaled Lingling was there. "Junji, please. I know you know. Popor told me everything. I need to find her. I need to fix it."
Junji leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. "You can't fix this with a marketing strategy, Orm. You can't just 'rebrand' ten years of neglect."
"I know!" Orm screamed, her voice cracking. She fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands. "I know I’m the villain! I know I missed the window! But I love her, Junji. I realized it too late, but I love her. I need to tell her."
Junji looked down at the sobbing executive. Her expression softened, but her resolve didn't break.
"She’s safe, Orm," Junji said quietly. "That’s all I can tell you."
"Is she... is she eating? Is she crying?" Orm looked up, desperate for crumbs.
"She’s trying to breathe," Junji said. "She felt like she was suffocating for a long time. You need to stop, Orm. Give her time."
"I don't have time!" Orm choked out. "I was twenty minutes late seven years ago. I can't be late again."
"Then wait," Junji said, opening the door. "If you really love her, you’ll learn how to wait. Just like she did for you."
Friday Morning. Mae Kwong’s House.
The hardest performance of Orm’s life wasn't the Gala; it was sitting in Lingling’s childhood kitchen, drinking tea with Lingling’s mother.
"Lingling said she was going on a sourcing trip for rare orchids," Mae Kwong said, cutting a slice of papaya. She smiled at Orm, completely oblivious. "She said she might be gone for a few weeks. In the mountains somewhere. No signal."
Orm gripped her teacup so hard she thought the porcelain might snap.
Lingling hadn't come home. She hadn't come crying to her mother. She hadn't exposed Orm as a heartless monster who tried to pay her off with a check. Even in her disappearance, Lingling was protecting Orm. She was protecting Orm’s relationship with her family.
"Yeah," Orm lied, her voice trembling. "Orchids. She... she really wanted to find the perfect ones."
"She works too hard," Mae Kwong sighed. "But I’m glad she has you, Orm. You take such good care of her."
The guilt hit Orm like a physical blow to the stomach. She almost threw up.
I don't take care of her, Orm thought, staring at the papaya. I use her. I break her. And she still covers for me.
"I miss her, Mae," Orm whispered, tears leaking out before she could stop them.
Mae Kwong reached over and patted Orm’s hand. "Oh, honey. It’s only been a few days. She’ll be back. True love waits, right?"
Orm nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Right. True love waits."
Saturday Afternoon. The Roasted Bean.
The bell chimed, and Sonya looked up from the espresso machine. Her face hardened when she saw Orm.
Orm didn't have the energy to be jealous anymore. She walked to the counter, looking small and defeated.
"I’m not here to fight," Orm said hoarsely. "I just... did she tell you where she was going?"
Sonya wiped the steam wand slowly. She looked at Orm—really looked at her—and saw the devastation. The arrogance was gone.
"No," Sonya said, her voice devoid of its usual warmth but not unkind. "She came in on Monday. She gave me her spare key to the shop. She asked me to water the plants."
"Did she say anything?" Orm begged.
"She said she was tired," Sonya said. "She looked... hollow, Orm. Like someone had scooped everything inside her out."
Sonya leaned over the counter. "You know, I asked her out. Three times. I told her I’d treat her like a queen."
Orm flinched.
"She turned me down every time," Sonya said. "She said her heart was occupied. Even when you were hurting her, she wouldn't look at anyone else."
Orm closed her eyes. "I know."
"If you find her," Sonya said, turning back to the machine. "Don't break her again. Because next time, I won't just stand here and make coffee."
Monday Morning. Kornnaphat Enterprises.
"You can't be serious, Orm." Por Oct stared at his daughter, his brow furrowed in confusion. "We have the board meeting on Thursday. The quarterly review. You are presenting the Q3 projections."
Orm stood in front of his massive mahogany desk. She looked nothing like the sharp, impeccably dressed executive who usually commanded this room. She was wearing faded jeans and an oversized grey hoodie—Lingling’s hoodie, stolen from her apartment during a desperate search. It swallowed her frame, making her look smaller, younger, and infinitely more tired.
"I can't do it, Pa," Orm said, her voice hollow. "I’m not presenting anything on Thursday."
"Is this about the stress?" Por Oct sighed, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "I told you that you were taking on too many campaigns. You look... well, frankly, you look terrible, Orm. When was the last time you slept?"
"I don't know," Orm admitted honestly. She stared at the city skyline behind him, the view she used to think was a prize, which now just looked like a cage. "I’ve hit a wall, Pa. A hard one."
"So take a long weekend," Por Oct waved his hand dismissively. "Go to the spa. Go to Paris. Buy a bag. Reset. You’ll be back on Monday."
"A weekend won't fix this," Orm said, her voice quiet but possessing a frightening finality. "It’s not just stress. I’ve lost the... the vision. I look at the ad copy, I look at the product lines, and I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing."
She took a breath, the scent of Lingling’s detergent on the hoodie filling her lungs, grounding her in her secret misery.
"I can't sell happiness right now," Orm said, looking her father in the eye. "I can't sell a dream to customers when I don't have one myself. If I go into that boardroom, I’m going to crash the stock."
She reached for the lanyard around her neck. With slow, deliberate movements, she unclipped her ID badge.
"Orm, don't be dramatic," Por Oct warned, standing up. "You are the face of this company."
"Not right now," Orm said. She placed the ID badge on the polished desk. It made a final click against the wood. "I’m taking indefinite leave. Effective immediately."
"Indefinite? And what exactly am I supposed to tell the board?" Por Oct demanded, his face reddening. "That my VP of Marketing just decided she was 'bored'?"
Orm turned toward the door, shoving her hands into the pockets of the hoodie to hide their trembling.
"Tell them I’m dealing with a personal health matter," Orm said flatly, not looking back. "Tell them I’m restructuring my internal assets. Tell them whatever you want, Pa. Just don't expect me on Thursday."
She walked out before he could argue, leaving the badge on the desk and carrying her secret heartbreak out the door, safely hidden beneath a professional excuse.
Every Day for Two Weeks. Outside Petal & Stem.
Orm became a fixture on the sidewalk.
Every morning at 8:00 AM, she arrived. She sat on the bench outside the closed flower shop. She didn't look at her phone. She didn't bring work.
She just sat.
She watched the people walk by. She watched the leaves fall. She watched the "Closed" sign, praying it would flip to "Open."
It rained on the third day. Orm didn't move. She sat in the drizzle, letting the water soak her clothes, feeling like she deserved every cold drop.
On the seventh day, Junji came by. She didn't say anything. She just handed Orm a hot coffee and an umbrella.
Orm looked up, eyes red-rimmed. "Is she okay?"
Junji looked at the shop, then at Orm. "She’s healing. Slowly."
"I’m waiting," Orm whispered, clutching the coffee cup. "I’ll wait forever if I have to. I’m not twenty minutes late anymore, Junji. I’m right on time. I’m just... waiting for her to arrive."
Junji sighed. She reached out and squeezed Orm’s shoulder. It was the first sign of forgiveness.
"Don't catch a cold, Orm," Junji said softly. "Lingling would hate it if you got sick."
Orm nodded, watching the rain slide down the glass of the shop window, blurring the world into a watercolor of gray and hope. She would stay right here. She would be the statue in the garden until the sun came back.
The Fever Break
St. Louis Hospital. Private Room. 3:00 AM.
The first thing Orm noticed was the smell. Sterile. Sharp. Not the rain or the exhaust fumes of her car, but the distinct scent of rubbing alcohol and bleached sheets.
The second thing was the sound. The rhythmic beep-beep-beep of a monitor that seemed to be counting the seconds she had wasted.
Orm tried to move, but her limbs felt like they were filled with lead. Her throat was sandpaper dry. She blinked, her vision blurry, trying to piece together how she got from the cold leather seat of her Mercedes to this white room.
Then, she saw her.
Curled up in the uncomfortable vinyl guest chair, her legs tucked under her, was Lingling.
Orm’s breath hitched, setting off a rapid staccato on the heart monitor. Beepbeepbeep.
She was sleeping, her head resting on her arms on the side of Orm’s bed. Her dark hair was messy, spilling over the white sheets like ink.
Orm stared, terrified that if she blinked, Lingling would vanish like a fever dream.
But the longer she looked, the more her heart fractured.
Lingling looked... diminished.
In the soft glow of the medical equipment, Orm could see the sharp angle of Lingling’s cheekbones, more pronounced than she had ever seen them. There were dark, bruised shadows under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. Her wrist, resting just inches from Orm’s hand, looked fragile, the watch strap hanging loose.
I did this, Orm thought, the realization crashing down on her harder than the fever. I starved her heart, and it ate away at the rest of her.
Lingling looked beautiful—painfully, ethereally beautiful—but it was the kind of beauty that hurt to look at. It was the beauty of a wilting flower that was still trying to bloom in the dark.
Orm reached out. Her hand trembled uncontrollably. She wanted to touch Lingling’s hair, to smooth away the worry lines on her forehead, but she stopped herself. She felt unworthy. Her hands were the ones that had written the check. Her hands were the ones that had pushed Lingling away.
A tear escaped Orm’s eye, sliding hot and fast down her temple.
"I'm sorry," Orm whispered, her voice a broken rasp.
The sound, quiet as it was, made Lingling stir.
Lingling shifted, groaning softly. Her lashes fluttered. She lifted her head, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand—a gesture so familiar it made Orm’s chest ache.
Then, Lingling froze. She saw Orm watching her.
"Orm?" Lingling’s voice was thick with sleep and instant panic. She sat up straight, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You're awake. Do you need a doctor? Is it your chest? Can you breathe?"
She reached for the call button.
"Don't," Orm croaked, finding the strength to grab Lingling’s wrist. Her grip was weak, barely a ghost of a hold. "Don't call them. Just... stay."
Lingling looked at Orm’s hand on her wrist, then up at Orm’s face. The panic in her eyes slowly receded, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. She didn't pull away, but she didn't lean in either.
"You're an idiot," Lingling whispered, her voice wavering. "Sleeping in a car for three days? In the rain? The doctors said you had acute exhaustion and the beginning of pneumonia. Your fever was 40 degrees."
"I was waiting," Orm said, not breaking eye contact.
"For what?" Lingling asked, a flash of the old hurt crossing her face. "For me to come back so you could fire me again?"
"No," Orm squeezed her eyes shut, the shame burning her. "I was waiting to tell you I know."
The room went silent. The beep-beep of the monitor was the only sound.
Lingling went still. "Know what?"
"I know about the notes," Orm opened her eyes, tears spilling over freely now. "I know about the soy milk. I know about the thesis. I know about the sunflower."
Lingling sucked in a sharp breath. She pulled her hand back as if burned, clutching it to her chest.
"Popor told me," Orm continued, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She told me everything. How you loved me. How you took care of me when I was too blind to see it. How you stepped back so I could be happy with her, even though it killed you."
Orm tried to sit up, wincing as the IV line tugged.
"Lingling, look at me. Please."
Lingling looked away, staring at the floor. Her shoulders were shaking.
"I thought love was a scam," Orm sobbed. "I thought everyone wanted something from me. But you... you gave me everything and asked for nothing. You let me use you as a shield against Lada. You let me break your heart over and over again, and you still... you’re still sitting in this chair."
"Because I can't help it," Lingling whispered, her voice breaking. She looked up, and her face was wet with tears. "I tried to leave, Orm. I went to the mountains. I turned off my phone. I tried to hate you. I really tried."
She stood up, pacing the small space between the bed and the window, hugging herself.
"But then Junji called and said they found you unconscious in your car outside my apartment... and I just... I couldn't breathe."
Lingling turned to face Orm, her expression raw.
"Why, Orm? Why did you wait there?"
"Because I was twenty minutes late seven years ago," Orm said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And I promised myself I wouldn't be late again. I wanted to be there when you came home. I wanted to be the one waiting for you this time."
Orm reached for the bedside table, her fingers fumbling with something. She picked up a small, crumpled object that had been in her pocket when they brought her in.
It was a dried, flattened sunflower head. She had kept it from the display at the shop.
"I don't have a checkbook anymore," Orm said, holding out the dead flower. "I quit my job. I don't care about the company. I don't care about the gala. I just care that you look like you haven't eaten in weeks because of me."
Orm looked at Lingling’s thin frame, and fresh tears fell.
"I ruined you," Orm whispered. "I took the brightest, warmest person in the world and I turned her into... this."
Lingling walked back to the bed. She looked at the dried sunflower in Orm’s hand. Then she looked at Orm—messy, sick, desperate Orm. The walls were gone. The executive was gone.
Lingling slowly sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight.
"You didn't ruin me," Lingling said softy. She reached out and took the flower, placing it on the table. Then she took Orm’s hand—the one with the IV—and held it between both of hers. Her hands were cold, but her grip was firm.
"But you broke me, Orm. You really broke me."
"I know," Orm cried. "I’ll fix it. I swear. I’ll spend the rest of my life fixing it. I’ll be the one buying the soy milk. I’ll be the one writing the notes. I’ll be the florist. I’ll do whatever you want."
Lingling looked at her for a long moment. Then, she let out a small, watery laugh. It wasn't a happy laugh, but it was a start.
"You’d be a terrible florist," Lingling sniffled. "You’d try to market the thorns."
Orm laughed through her sobs, a jagged, relieved sound. "Probably."
Lingling leaned forward. She hesitated for a second, then rested her forehead against Orm’s fever-warm forehead.
"You don't have to be the florist," Lingling whispered, closing her eyes. "You just have to be here. You just have to see me. Really see me."
"I see you," Orm breathed, closing her eyes too, drinking in Lingling’s presence. "I see you, Lingling. I see you everywhere. You’re the only thing I see."
They stayed like that for a long time, foreheads touching, breathing in the sterile air that suddenly felt a little less cold. The monitor beeped a steady rhythm, no longer counting down lost time, but marking the start of a new timeline—one where they were finally, finally on the same page.
The Sanctuary of Second Chances
Lingling’s Apartment. One Week Later.
The apartment was small—a shoebox compared to Orm’s penthouse—but it was alive. Every corner was filled with green: hanging pothos vines, pots of basil on the windowsill, and a constant, gentle humidity that made the air feel soft.
Orm sat on the beige sofa, wrapped in a knitted blanket that smelled like jasmine and fabric softener. She watched Lingling move around the kitchenette.
It was a quiet, domestic ballet. Lingling chopping ginger. Lingling checking the rice cooker. Lingling humming a song Orm recognized as one of the Mandarin pop tracks she used to play in the car.
"You're staring again," Lingling said without turning around, the knife rhythmically hitting the cutting board.
"I’m analyzing the workflow," Orm lied, her voice still a little raspy but stronger than before. "You need a sous-chef."
"I have a patient," Lingling countered, pouring water into a teapot. She walked over and placed a mug on the coffee table in front of Orm. "Ginger and honey. Drink it. All of it."
Orm picked up the mug. The warmth seeped into her cold hands. "Yes, Doctor Kwong."
For the past week, this had been their world. No boardrooms. No galas. No Lada. Just the four walls of Lingling’s sanctuary and the slow, terrifyingly vulnerable process of healing.
Lingling sat on the floor, leaning back against the sofa near Orm’s legs. It was a tentative intimacy. They weren't touching, but the distance between them had shrunk from miles to millimeters.
"Junji texted," Lingling said, blowing on her own tea. "She said Fluke is convinced you’ve joined a silent monastery in Chiang Mai. He’s asking if he can send you a care package of contraband snacks."
Orm chuckled, the sound vibrating in her chest. "Let him believe it. If he finds out I’m just eating rice porridge on your couch, he’ll be disappointed. It lacks drama."
"Drama is overrated," Lingling murmured, closing her eyes.
"Agreed," Orm whispered. She hesitated, then reached out. Her hand hovered for a second before landing gently on Lingling’s head. She stroked Lingling’s hair, her fingers tangling in the soft strands.
Lingling didn't flinch. She leaned into the touch, letting out a long, ragged sigh.
"Is this okay?" Orm asked softly.
"Yeah," Lingling breathed. "It’s okay."
The Gatekeeper.
A sharp knock on the door broke the peace.
Junji breezed in, carrying two bags of groceries and wearing sunglasses indoors. She looked like a secret agent on a budget.
"Status report," Junji announced, dumping the bags on the counter. "Oranges. Vitamin C. Essential for recovery. And chocolate. Essential for sanity."
She turned to inspect them. Orm on the couch, Lingling on the floor.
"Good," Junji nodded. "No tears today. Progress."
"You're enjoying this too much," Orm said, peeling an orange. "You like being the puppet master."
"Someone has to be," Junji said, hopping onto a bar stool. "Your dad called me, by the way. He wanted to know if the 'liquidity crisis' was resolving."
Orm stiffened. "What did you say?"
"I told him the market is volatile but showing signs of stabilization," Junji smirked. "He bought it. He told me to tell you to take another week. 'Health is wealth,' he said. Apparently, he read a wellness blog."
"He doesn't know?" Lingling asked, looking up. "About... us? About the fight?"
"Nope," Junji popped a piece of chocolate into her mouth. "And neither do your parents, Ling. As far as the older generation is concerned, Orm is overworked, Lingling is on a sourcing trip, and the world is spinning perfectly. What they don't know won't give them high blood pressure."
"And the others?" Orm asked. "Gina? Bam?"
"They think you two are just... busy," Junji shrugged. "They know something is up, but I told them it’s 'classified business strategy.' If they knew the truth—that you two idiots have been pining and hurting each other for a decade—they’d never shut up about it. They’d try to 'fix' it with a group trip to a karaoke bar."
Orm shuddered. "Please, no."
"Exactly," Junji hopped off the stool. "So, keep it quiet. Fix this. Fix yourselves. I’ll handle the PR."
She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. She looked back at them—two broken pieces finally fitting back together.
"Don't mess this up," Junji said, her voice dropping the sarcasm. "I’m not doing another intervention. Next time, I leave you both in the rain."
"We won't," Orm said solemnly.
The Right Track.
That night, the rain returned. It battered against the windowpane, turning the city lights into smears of neon.
Orm was lying on the sofa, listening to the rain. Lingling was sitting in the armchair, reading a book, but she hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.
"Lingling," Orm said into the quiet.
"Hmm?"
"I cancelled the contract," Orm said.
Lingling lowered the book. "I know. You ripped the check up."
"No," Orm sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. "I mean... the verbal one. The rules. No 'Babe'. No dating others. The fake dating."
Lingling went very still. "Oh."
"It’s void," Orm said, her heart hammering a nervous rhythm. "Because the premise was false. It wasn't a business arrangement. It never was."
She stood up. Her legs were shaky, but she walked across the small rug until she was standing in front of Lingling’s chair.
"I don't want to fake it anymore," Orm whispered. "I don't want to pretend to be your girlfriend for Lada or my parents. I want to be your girlfriend for you."
Lingling looked up at her. Her eyes were wide, dark, and filled with a cautious hope that broke Orm’s heart all over again.
"Are you sure?" Lingling asked, her voice trembling. "Because I can't go back, Orm. I can't be the friend who watches from the sidelines anymore. If we do this... it has to be real. It has to be messy and scary and real."
"I know," Orm nodded. She reached out and took Lingling’s hands, pulling her up from the chair.
"I’m terrified," Orm admitted, laughing breathlessly. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be the person who buys the soy milk. But I want to learn. I want to catch up."
She looked at the clock on the wall.
9:20 PM.
"I’m not late this time," Orm whispered, stepping closer. "I’m right here."
Lingling let out a sob—a sound of pure relief—and buried her face in Orm’s neck. Orm wrapped her arms around her, holding her tight, feeling the solid, warm reality of her.
"You're not late," Lingling muffled against Orm’s shoulder. "You're just in time."
Orm pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt Lingling’s chin up. She looked at the face she had known since diapers, the face that had smiled through the pain of a thousand cuts, the face that was finally, truly hers.
"Can I kiss you?" Orm asked. "For real? No cameras. No audience."
Lingling didn't answer with words. she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to Orm’s.
It wasn't a movie kiss. It tasted like ginger tea and tears. It was soft, hesitant, and then deeply, overwhelmingly desperate. It was ten years of silence finally finding a voice.
When they pulled apart, breathless, Orm rested her forehead against Lingling’s.
"Okay," Orm whispered. "We're on the right track."
"Yeah," Lingling smiled, a real, radiant smile that reached her eyes. "We are."
Outside, the rain kept falling, washing away the dust of the last seven years, leaving the world clean and ready for whatever came next. They didn't know what the future held—marketing campaigns, flower orders, nosy friends—but in this small, green apartment, they knew one thing for sure:
They weren't acting anymore.
The KPI of Love
Six Months Later. Petal & Stem.
The afternoon sun streamed through the shop window, bathing the vintage velvet sofa in golden light. Lying across it, occupying 80% of the available space, was the Head of Marketing for Kornnaphat Enterprises.
Orm was "working remotely." This mostly involved holding her iPad loosely in one hand while her eyes were completely shut, her breathing deep and rhythmic.
Lingling moved quietly around the counter, trimming the stems of a fresh delivery of peonies. She wiped her hands on her apron and tiptoed over to the sofa. Orm looked peaceful, the sharp edges of the "Ice Queen" completely melted away in the safety of Lingling’s shop.
Lingling leaned down. She brushed a stray hair from Orm’s forehead and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Orm’s lips.
Orm didn't open her eyes, but a slow, lazy smile spread across her face.
"That was unauthorized," Orm murmured, her voice husky with sleep. "I’m going to have to report you to HR for workplace harassment."
"I’m the owner," Lingling whispered back, stealing another quick peck. "I am HR."
Orm finally opened one eye, peering up at Lingling with mock sternness that quickly dissolved into adoration. She reached up, grabbing Lingling’s apron strings to pull her down for a proper, deep kiss—one that made Lingling’s toes curl in her sneakers.
The bell above the door chimed.
"Delivery!" a courier shouted.
Lingling pulled away, breathless and blushing. Orm just groaned, pulling a cushion over her face. "Tell him we’re closed. Tell him the marketing department is in a very important meeting about... synergy."
Lingling laughed, patting Orm’s leg before going to sign for the package. It was routine. It was mundane. It was perfect.
The Service Wars
If Lingling thought the "fake dating" phase was intense, she was unprepared for the "Real Girlfriend Orm" phase.
Orm Kornnaphat did not do things by halves. She had spent seven years in a deficit, and she was determined to balance the ledger with aggressive interest.
It started small. Lingling would reach for a heavy bucket of water, and Orm would be there instantly, snatching it away.
"I got it," Orm would say, her eyes intense. "You save your hands for the art. I am the muscle."
Then, it escalated.
At lunch, Lingling opened her bento box to find that Orm had not only packed it but had peeled every single grape.
"Orm," Lingling said, staring at the naked grapes. "You peeled the grapes?"
"Skin has tannins," Orm said dismissively, typing on her phone. "Tannins are bitter. You deserve sweetness. Eat."
It became a competition. If Lingling tried to open the car door for Orm, Orm would practically parkour over the hood to get to the passenger side first and open it for Lingling.
"I can open a door, Orm!" Lingling laughed one day as Orm shoved a startled doorman aside to hold the door open for her.
"Not on my watch," Orm declared, straightening her blazer. "You spent a decade doing everything for me while I was busy being an idiot. I have calculated the metrics, Ling. I need to open approximately 4,500 doors to catch up. Get in the car, Teerak."
Lingling shook her head, hiding her smile. She knew she couldn't win. Orm approached love like a hostile takeover: overwhelmed the target with resources until they surrendered to happiness.
The Third Wheel is now a Unicycle
The monthly hotpot dinner at The Boiling Point had become a hazard zone for single people.
Junji sat at the head of the table, looking like a war survivor.
To her left: Lena was currently cooling a piece of tofu with a mini-fan before feeding it to Miu. To her right: Oom was trying to clean sauce off Bam’s chin, and Bam was looking at her like she hung the moon.
And directly across from her: The New Nightmares.
Orm was meticulously constructing a dipping sauce for Lingling. She had four different bowls. She was taste-testing them with the focus of a Michelin-star chef.
"Too spicy," Orm muttered, rejecting bowl #2. "Lingling’s throat is sensitive today. She talked too much to the suppliers."
She mixed bowl #3. Perfect. She dipped a piece of beef, blew on it three times (Junji counted), and held it up to Lingling’s mouth.
"Say 'ah', Baobao," Orm commanded softly.
Lingling, who used to be the shy one, just opened her mouth and accepted the offering, looking at Orm with heart-eyes that were visible from space.
"Mmm," Lingling hummed. "Perfect. You’re so good to me."
"I know," Orm preened, wiping the corner of Lingling’s mouth with her own thumb. "I’m the best. Eat more. You’re too thin."
Junji slammed her chopsticks down.
"Okay! That’s it!" Junji announced. "I am officially disgusted. Is there a table for one? In the kitchen? Maybe inside the freezer?"
"You’re just jealous of our efficiency," Orm shot back, not looking away from Lingling. "Gina, pass the napkins. Lingling might sneeze later and I want to be prepared."
"You guys are gross," Fluke complained, though he was smiling. "Remember when Orm was the 'Ice Queen'? I miss her. She was quieter."
"She’s dead," Orm said cheerfully, loading Lingling’s plate with more beef. "Long live the Simp."
The Wedding Bell Tease
Sunday dinner at the Kornnaphat estate was no longer a minefield; it was a planning committee.
"So," Mae Koy started, casually pouring tea. "I saw a lovely venue in Khao Yai. Very private. Lots of sunflowers."
She looked pointedly at Orm.
"Sunflowers are in season in November," Mae Kwong added, sipping her tea. "Just saying. The weather is cool then."
Por Oct grunted from behind his newspaper. "I already spoke to the jeweler. He has a stone. Very rare. Yellow diamond."
Usually, this would be the part where Orm kicked Lingling under the table or changed the subject to the stock market.
Instead, Orm didn't even look up from peeling a prawn for Lingling.
"November is bad for the fiscal year close," Orm said calmly. "January is better. And no yellow diamonds, Pa. Lingling likes classic cuts. Oval. Solitaire. Platinum band."
The table went silent.
Lingling choked on her water. She looked at Orm, eyes wide.
"Orm?" she squeaked.
Orm finally looked up, realizing she had said that out loud. She froze for a split second, the "Marketing Executive" processing the slip-up.
Then, she shrugged. She placed the peeled prawn in Lingling’s bowl.
"What?" Orm said, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. "I’m just... forecasting. Future-proofing the partnership. It’s just good business."
Mae Koy and Mae Kwong exchanged a high-five across the table.
Lingling stared at Orm. The woman who once thought love was a scam was now arguing about diamond cuts.
Under the table, Lingling reached out and took Orm’s hand. Orm squeezed back instantly, her grip tight and sure.
"Oval is nice," Lingling whispered, leaning close to Orm’s ear.
Orm turned to her, that chaotic, happy, childish grin breaking through.
"I know," Orm whispered back. "I already put a deposit on it."
Lingling laughed, the sound bright and free, and Orm knew, with absolute certainty, that she had finally cleared the deficit. She wasn't late anymore. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.
The Merger of Hearts
The Correction of Errors
Orm Kornnaphat did not do things halfway. If she was going to propose, she wasn't just going to ask a question; she was going to rewrite history.
It was a Tuesday evening when Orm drove Lingling blindfolded to a location that smelled faintly of cut grass and old nostalgia.
"Orm, if you're taking me to a haunted house, I’m breaking up with you," Lingling warned, clutching Orm’s hand as she was guided out of the car.
"Trust the process," Orm whispered, her voice tight with nerves. "Step up."
Lingling felt metal under her feet. Stairs. She counted them. One, two, three...
"Okay," Orm’s voice came from in front of her. "Open your eyes."
Lingling untied the silk blindfold.
She gasped.
They were at their high school football stadium. The same bleachers where Lingling had stood twenty minutes late, holding a crushed sunflower, watching Orm kiss Popor seven years ago.
But tonight, the memory was being overwritten.
The entire football field—every inch of green turf—was covered in sunflowers. Thousands of them. Orm had somehow arranged for an ocean of yellow blooms to flood the stadium, turning the dark memory into a sea of gold.
Standing in the center of the bleachers, illuminated by a spotlight that Orm had definitely bribed the janitor to rig up, was Orm.
She wasn't wearing a casual outfit. She was wearing a white suit, crisp and perfect. She held a microphone.
"Lingling Kwong!" Orm’s voice echoed through the empty stadium, amplified by the speakers.
Lingling laughed, tears already springing to her eyes. "Orm! You’re shouting!"
"I have to!" Orm shouted back, walking down the steps toward her. "I have to be loud enough to drown out the past!"
Orm stopped one step above Lingling, so they were eye-to-eye. She put the microphone down and took Lingling’s hands. Her palms were sweating.
"Seven years ago, you were twenty minutes late," Orm said, her voice trembling. "And because of that, we lost time. We lost years. I lost myself."
Orm took a deep breath.
"So, I did the math. To make up for that deficit, I decided to be early. I’ve been here since noon, Ling. I’ve been waiting for you for six hours just to make sure I wouldn't miss you this time."
Lingling choked back a sob. "You’re crazy."
"I’m efficient," Orm corrected, a tear sliding down her cheek. She dropped to one knee. The movement was smooth, practiced.
She pulled out a velvet box. Inside sat the ring she had promised—an oval-cut solitaire diamond on a thin platinum band, elegant and timeless, catching the stadium light like a star.
"Lingling, will you let me spend the rest of my life peeling your grapes, carrying your bags, and making sure you never have to be lonely again? Will you marry me?"
Lingling didn't hesitate. "Yes. A thousand times, yes."
Orm let out a shout of victory that echoed off the metal stands, sliding the ring onto Lingling’s finger. It fit perfectly.
But before Orm could stand up, Lingling stopped her.
"Wait," Lingling said, wiping her eyes. "I have a rebuttal."
Orm blinked. "A what?"
"You think you’re the only one who prepares?" Lingling laughed through her tears. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small, sleek black box.
Orm’s jaw dropped. "You..."
"I knew you," Lingling whispered. "I knew you’d do something big. And I knew you’d try to make it all about serving me. But marriage is a partnership, Orm. You protect me, but I protect you too."
Lingling opened the box.
Inside sat a ring designed perfectly for Orm. It was a band of brushed black gold—cool, modern, and sharp. But running through the center of the band was a thin, recessed line of yellow gold, like a vein of sunlight hidden in the dark.
"For the Ice Queen," Lingling explained softly, sliding it onto Orm’s shaking finger. "Who keeps the sun on the inside."
Orm looked at the ring—sleek, strong, and secretly warm. It was her. It was them.
She tackled Lingling into a hug, burying her face in Lingling’s neck, crying happy, uncool tears into her fiancée's shoulder.
The Wedding of the Century
Six Months Later. Khao Yai.
The wedding was, in true Kornnaphat fashion, a "strategic alliance of joy."
The garden was lush, the weather was cool (thanks to Orm’s obsessive checking of meteorological data), and the guest list was a who’s who of their chaotic lives.
The ceremony had just ended. They had exchanged vows that made half the audience cry and the other half laugh. (Orm’s vows included a pie chart of their future happiness; Lingling’s vows included a promise to always tell Orm when she had lipstick on her teeth).
Now, the reception was in full swing.
"I still don't believe it," Fluke whispered, staring at the entrance. "I thought he was a CGI creation. A deepfake."
Walking into the reception, arm-in-arm with Junji, was Mario.
He was real. He was devastatingly handsome. And he was currently holding Junji’s purse while she fixed her dress.
"Sorry we’re late," Mario said, his voice smooth as velvet. "Production ran over. But Junji said if I missed this, she’d write me out of her life."
"Damn right," Junji beamed, looking smug as the entire friend group picked their jaws up off the floor. "Everyone, meet the myth. Mario, this is the circus I told you about."
"Nice to meet you," Mario smiled, shaking Fluke’s trembling hand. "Junji says you’re the dramatic one."
"I— I—" Fluke stammered.
"He is," Gina confirmed, slapping Fluke on the back. "So, he is real. Junji wins. We all owe her money."
At the head table, Orm and Lingling watched the scene unfold.
Orm was holding a glass of champagne, but she wasn't drinking it. She was too busy feeding Lingling a piece of wedding cake.
"Is it moist enough?" Orm asked anxiously. "I told the baker if it was dry I’d sue."
"It’s perfect, Teerak," Lingling mumbled around the fork, her eyes crinkling with happiness. She swallowed and looked at her wife. "You can relax now, Orm. We’re married. The project is launched."
"Maintenance phase is just as critical," Orm said seriously, wiping a crumb from Lingling’s chin. "I have to ensure customer satisfaction remains high."
Lingling rolled her eyes affectionately. She grabbed Orm’s tie—silk, matching the sunflowers in the centerpieces—and pulled her close.
"My satisfaction is at 100%," Lingling whispered against Orm’s lips. "Just shut up and kiss me."
"Yes, ma'am," Orm smirked.
She kissed her wife, ignoring the cheers of their friends, the teasing of their parents about grandchildren, and the chaos of the party around them.
For the first time in her life, Orm Kornnaphat wasn't looking at the clock. She wasn't calculating the deficit. She was exactly where she was meant to be—holding the love of her life, with a ring on her finger that held the sun inside, and a future that looked brighter than any marketing campaign she could ever dream of.