Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

If Cinderella had been a Filipino president's daughter with crippling sarcasm and a stalker problem, this would've been her moment.

The wedding of the century.

I told myself that phrase so many times in the days leading up to this, it had become background noise. A hashtag. A headline. A circus.

But standing there, looking out at Travis's estate transformed into something between Versailles and Olympus, I finally understood it.

This wasn't just a wedding. This was history dressed in white.

The gardens had been remade into cathedrals of flowers. Orchids arched over golden aisles. Fountains sparkled under the sun like liquid diamonds. Chandeliers dangled from temporary glass ceilings, glittering as though they'd been stolen from heaven.

And beyond it all, guests—so many guests. World leaders. Billionaires. Celebrities flown in from every continent. Flashing jewels. Tailored suits. Power balanced on stilettos.

I adjusted the veil pinned into my hair, forcing a smile at Marcella, who was buzzing around me like a hummingbird on too much espresso.

"Darling, breathe!" she shrieked.

"I am breathing," I hissed. "Unfortunately."

Lila snorted from the corner, perched in a dress she'd sworn was "too classy for me." "You look like you're about to stab someone at your own altar."

"Maybe I am."

But my stomach was twisting. Not because of the gown—which weighed approximately as much as a Toyota—and not because of the orchids or the chandeliers.

Because of who was here.

My parents.

Invited, yes. But not as the proud bride's family walking her down the aisle, oh no.

As guests.

And judging by the pinched look on my mother's face, pearls practically strangling her neck, and the tight smile plastered on my father's lips, it was killing them.

A small, evil part of me—the part that had been called ungrateful, traitor, shame—wanted to relish it.

But another part, smaller and sadder, remembered that three years ago I had still been naïve enough to want their approval.

"Darling, stop glaring at them," Marcella whispered frantically. "The cameras will catch it."

"Good," I muttered. "Let them catch me glaring. Authenticity sells."

Before she could reply, the doors opened, and the hum shifted.

Travis's parents entered first—Thaddeus and Mavis, elegant as ever. His father, dignified, his Nobel Prize aura practically glowing. His mother, radiant and composed, smiling as though she'd planned this entire thing herself.

And then the twins—Raelina and Zaelina—identical, fourteen, shimmering in pale dresses, eyes wide with wonder. They looked like they'd stepped out of a fairytale book, whispering to each other as though this was the best day of their young lives.

The contrast was brutal.

My parents: stiff, scowling, humiliated.

Travis's family: warm, proud, alive.

It was enough to make my throat ache.

And then... it was time.

The music swelled. Guests rose.