Love was Never in the Contract

June "Lovely Day" by Bill Withers floats through my apartment at exactly 7 a.m., and for one sleep-drugged moment, I believe it. I smile. No—I grin like an i***t because today, I'm marrying the man I've silently loved since I was twelve years old. Caleb West. Yes, that Caleb West. The Formula 1 champion with three world titles, the tabloid darling, the man with a smile that could melt asphalt at a hundred paces. I swing my legs over the bed with a silly little dance. It is going to be a lovely day. I caught my reflection in the floor-length mirror I splurged on last month. My hair is a tangled mess, my oversized Berkeley Law t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. Not exactly bridal magazine material. When the song fades on my alarm, I immediately cue it up again on my phone, cranking the volume just shy of what would make Mrs. Smith next door pound her broom handle against the ceiling or call the building security. Is this how you're supposed to feel when you're getting married to your first love—knowing it's all a business arrangement with an expiration date? My phone buzzes, yanking me from my thoughts. Elena, my best friend since high school and self-appointed maid of honor (though she won't actually be at the ceremony), calls right on cue. "JUUUUNE! It's your wedding day, b***h! Tell me you're not still in bed!" Her voice is raspy with excitement and what's probably last night's tequila. "I'm vertical," I defend, padding toward the kitchen. "Sort of. Haven't even showered yet." "Well get glowing, and don't forget the serum I gave you." I laugh, glancing at the tiny bottle on my vanity. "I’m on it." "So you're seriously not letting me come?" The hurt in her voice is thinly veiled. "Not even to watch from the back like some creepy stranger?" I sigh, filling my coffee maker. "You know the rules. No family, no friends. Just me, him, City Hall." "It's so lowkey it's borderline depressing." "That's one way to look at it," I say, watching the coffee drip. "Though I'm pretty sure most Filipina girls dream of something a little more... cathedral-sized. Mom would have wanted—" I catch myself, swallowing the rest. "June Torres, when have you ever been 'most girls'?" Elena snorts. "Besides, this is practically an Ocean's Eleven heist. Secret marriage to America's racing golden boy? The tabloids would sacrifice their firstborns for this scoop." I wince. "Don't even joke about that. The whole point is damage control, not creating more scandal." "I know, I know. PR marriage to save his reputation, blah blah." Her voice softens. "Just... guard that heart of yours, okay? This might be business for him, but I've seen you keep that yearbook with his picture for fifteen years." "I'm a big girl, Elena.” "A big girl with a twelve-year crush." “I'll be fine," I say, more to convince myself than her. "It's just paper." "Paper still gives cuts, Junie." A pause. "Does Rhett know yet?" My stomach tightens. "God no. And don't you dare tell my brother. He'd show up with his entire garage crew to 'talk sense' into me." "Fine. But take pictures or I'll tell him myself. And June?" "Yeah?" "You deserve better than just paper." I hang up, her words clinging to me as I enter the bathroom. On my counter sits the santo statue of Our Lady that belonged to my mother—one of the few things I kept after she died. I touch the cool ceramic face, whispering, "Nanay, what am I doing?" But I already know what she'd say. That I'm throwing myself away on a boy who never even saw me. ⸻ Whatever I lacked in the looks department growing up, I've paid and invested heavily to correct. Four years of braces that cost more than my first car. Regular Botox since twenty-five. A carefully curated wardrobe that screams "successful attorney" without trying too hard. A makeup collection that could stock its own Sephora. I apply everything—primer, foundation, concealer. My phone chimes with a text from Caleb. "Still on for 10:30?" My stomach drops like I've crested the first hill of a roller coaster. How romantic. I type back: "Wouldn't miss it." Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Finally: "Wear something nice. Victor's sending a photographer." Of course. Victor Lang, the billionaire team owner who orchestrated this whole charade. The photos will "leak" to the press next week—carefully staged evidence of our whirlwind romance, part of Caleb's redemption arc after the scandal that nearly ended his career. I stare at myself in the mirror, suddenly feeling like an imposter, like I'm twelve again. The invisible girl with crooked teeth and hand-me-down clothes, standing in the shadow of her beautiful sister. Who am I kidding? I'm still her just with better packaging. But then I straighten my shoulders. No. Today, I'm June Torres, defense attorney extraordinaire. The woman Caleb West is—technically—marrying. Even if it's just for show. By the time I slip into my ivory slip dress (Stella McCartney, bought last week in a moment of wedding fantasy), I look like the woman I've worked so hard to become. My hair falls in glossy waves, my makeup emphasizes my best features while minimizing my insecurities. I may not be my sister Leah—I never will be—but I'm a version of June Torres that turns heads.