The Marriage Swap

1 | 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎

I do not quite know how to read or write, in that matter. But Kai Park suggests he will do the writing for me while I tell him of my day. It's his way of teaching me to read and write. This is pathetically unseeming and I do not like the idea of it. So I will just not speak. Kai is free to sulk over it. With these precise words said, I'd like to leave.

- from the journal entries of Daisy.

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☘︎ Eᴠᴇ Kᴀᴠɪɴsᴋʏ ☘︎

The bride running from her wedding is not me.

Infact, the girl hauling herself into the closeted space used for air conditioning ventilation, staining a limited-edition Carolina Herrera bridal gown, is Eve Kavinsky's alter ego. Like how a unicellular organism divides itself into two to reproduce, Eve Kavinsky's alter ego and very much her logical thinking-which never existed anyways-must've departed from her with the division.

Now she's left crawling alongside a behemoth of insects, dust entering her nostrils while she scrunches up her nose and keeps the oncoming sneeze in.

Why in the mitochondria do they never clean these places? Possibly because no idiot would be crawling through the packed aluminum compartment. No idiot except yours truly, Eve Kavinsky.

There are about a dozen reasons I was ditching a very good-looking, top-notch Japanese pharmaceuticals industry owner, catch-of-the-decade bachelor back at the altar. Dozen reasons that range from silly to twisted.

'We need to test it on those lands in France.' The words remain engraved in my head, along with 'Eve, you know I love you.'

I halt at the end of the square-shaped compartment, wondering again whether I should just go back and be married to Michael Lee Voroski. Have my grandeur of a destination wedding here in Mauritius like I was supposed to. It'd make the whole goal of my life easier. But then I remember the entirety of the conversation I'd eavesdropped on and make a final split decision. I'm doing this, I have to.

I lift open the air-vent's exit door, drag my body and the monster of a wedding gown out of the stinky confines, straight to the backyard of the church soaking in sweltering summer heat. The moment my bare feet touch the lush green grass below me, I let the well-deserved sneeze come through. Bad brain-cellular idea.

Because while I was busy achoo-ing and balancing myself on one foot to put on my favorite sneakers, the guards-more like, Michael's goons-stationed at the church's entrance in black uniforms, turn to me in stark alarm.

Their eyes are penetrating shards of gaze seeping into me. For a moment, they're confused before realization clicks that I, their boss's bride is-surprise, surprise-running. That is the moment when I know in every nerve ending of mine, I have to truly run.

Lifting my gown upto my ankles, I take off towards the iron gates. I'm no match to them but atleast I have the advantage of shorter distance and a pre-booked Uber. I very nearly crash-land with the driver leaning against his cab, respectfully waiting for me.

Brushing the mass of reddish-brownish haggard of hair from my prespiration-soaked temples, "Give me the keys!" I tell the forties man in a rush.

The driver looks at me with wide eyes, not expecting to be dealing with a runaway bride. On another occasion, I'd have given him my consolation. But today, I have no time. So I simply snatch the keys from his hands and move around the car to the driver's side.

"Hey! What are you doing?!" The driver yells, gawking at his empty hands. The poor thing shakes his head like he can't believe what's happening.

"I'll pay the expenses of the car to the company! Sorry!" I tell the man in urgency, stuffing myself and the dozens of wedding gown fabric into the car.