Marry me, Mr. Mayor

CHAPTER 7

Althea's POV

Morning came too fast.

The house woke up in layers—first the kitchen, then the hallway, then the living room—until every corner was full of footsteps and voices and hurried hands. Someone knocked on my door before the sun fully climbed, calling my name as if time itself was chasing us.

“Althea! Wake up, hija! ” Daniel’s mother sang through the wood. “It’s your day! ”

Your day.

I sat up slowly, my body heavy as if I hadn’t slept at all. My eyes felt swollen, my throat tight, but my face—my face was calm. Calm the way a storm cloud looks calm from far away.

“Coming,” I answered, voice steady enough to fool anyone listening.

They flooded my room soon after—women carrying a dress, pins, combs, and a curling iron someone borrowed from a neighbor. The air filled with perfume and powder, the scent of fresh fabric and hairspray.

"You're so beautiful," someone said from behind.

“Smile, Althea,” another said. “You’re a bride! ”

I wanted to laugh.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I let them dress me like a doll while my mind replayed the night before in sharp flashes I couldn’t erase—the gap in the door, Gia’s smile, Daniel’s voice. My ring sat on my finger like a joke.

“Are you excited? ” Daniel’s mother asked, standing behind me as she adjusted the veil.

I met my own eyes in the mirror. “Yes,” I lied.

Outside, the town was already awake. Motorbikes passed. Music played from a speaker being tested again and again. Chairs scraped on the ground as people arranged the small venue—simple, just like Daniel wanted. A civil wedding. A neat setup. A quick stamp of forever.

By late morning, they told me it was time.

“Remember,” one of the older women reminded me, “don’t cry before the vows, ha? It means bad luck.”

Bad luck.

I almost smiled at the irony.

They led me out. The sunlight hit my face, bright and warm, and for a second everything looked beautiful—flowers tied to posts, ribbons fluttering, and people dressed in their best clothes. A crowd gathered, excited, whispering, smiling.

Daniel stood near the front, wearing a suit that made him look like the man I thought I knew. His hair was combed, and his posture is confident. When he saw me, his face lit up.

“There,” he mouthed silently, like I was proof of something.

I walked toward him slowly. Each step felt measured and controlled, like I was walking on glass without letting it cut me.

Then I noticed the man beside the table.

The officiant.

The mayor.

He wasn’t talking much. He wasn’t smiling much either. He stood still, hands folded in front of him, watching everything with calm eyes that looked like they had seen too many lies to be impressed by pretty ceremonies.

Mayor Alexander, the youngest mayor in the Philippines.

I didn’t know his name yet, but I felt his presence before anyone said it aloud. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and composed in a way that made the noise around him seem smaller. His face was striking—sharp jaw, straight nose, clean lines—and his gaze was cold, not cruel, but controlled. The kind of cold that didn’t come from arrogance, but from discipline.

He wore a crisp long-sleeved polo, simple but expensive in the way good things often are. No jewelry, no unnecessary show. Just quiet authority.

When his eyes lifted and met mine, it felt like stepping into shade after too much sun.

There was no flirtation in his stare. No eager warmth. Just a steady, unreadable look, like he was seeing more than my dress, more than my veil, more than the role everyone had assigned me today.

My breath caught.

Then he nodded once—formal, polite, distant.

Daniel squeezed my hand. “That’s the mayor,” he whispered, pleased. “He agreed to wed us.”

I forced my lips into a small smile. “He looks…”

“Serious? ” Daniel chuckled. “He’s always like that. People say he’s strict.”

Strict. Calm. Cold.

For a reason I couldn’t explain, I felt safer with that kind of man standing in front of me than the man holding my hand.

The ceremony began. Guests settled. Phones came out. Someone’s child ran past and got shushed quickly. The mayor spoke in a clear, even voice, reading the formal words that turned two people into a legal union.

His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t soften. He didn’t perform.

And somehow, that made it feel more real.

Daniel kept glancing at me, smiling as if nothing in the world could touch him. As if last night didn’t exist. As if the secret he shared with Gia didn’t stain his hands.

I stood beside him, still, quiet, listening.

The mayor asked the usual questions. The crowd stayed attentive. The air felt warm and heavy, the kind of heat that made everything shimmer.

Then came the part that mattered.

The vows.

The mayor turned to Daniel first. “Do you, Daniel—” he said, voice steady, “take this woman to be your lawful wife, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live? ”

Daniel didn’t hesitate. His smile widened like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.

“I do,” he said loudly.

The crowd murmured approval. Someone clapped softly.

My stomach stayed strangely calm.

The mayor’s eyes shifted to me.

“Do you, Althea—” he began, and for half a second, hearing that name made my skin prickle. It didn’t feel like mine today. Not fully. Not honestly. “—take this man to be your lawful husband, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live? ”

Silence wrapped around the venue. Everyone leaned in, expecting my “I do.” Expecting the perfect ending.

Daniel squeezed my hand gently, encouragingly.

I looked at him.

Then I saw it again, as if the gap in the door had opened inside my mind: Gia’s smile. Daniel’s breath. His careless pride.

My fingers loosened from Daniel’s.

Slowly, I turned my head.

My gaze found the mayor.

He was watching me closely now, the calm on his face unchanged, but his eyes sharper—as if he sensed a shift in the air before anyone else did.

My heart beat once, heavy.

Twice.

The crowd waited. Someone cleared their throat.

Daniel whispered through his smile, “Althea? ”

I didn’t answer him.

I lifted my chin, the veil brushing my shoulders like a blade of silk.

And instead of speaking vows, instead of giving Daniel the words he didn’t deserve, I asked the question that split the room in half:

“Will you marry me, Mayor? ”