Familiar Strangers

It's Wedding Day

It’s Wedding Day!!!

For the second morning in a row, Marissa woke up to someone trying to beat her door down.

And who else would it be?

Of course—Mrs. Joel: The Human Alarm Clock.

Marissa dragged herself out of bed and swung the door open.

“It’s your wedding day, Marissa! Get ready. It starts at 9 a.m., and you have barely three hours. We are not going late.”

Her mother didn’t wait for a reply—just spun around and marched off like a general.

Door shut.

Deep inhale.

Slow exhale.

Marissa hunted for her phone, found it under a pillow, checked the time—7:05 a.m.—and dialed a familiar number.

The call picked up after one ring.

“Hello, sunshine! It’s your wedding day!” the voice chimed, way too excited for that hour.

“Cut it out,” Marissa muttered. “Call the designer. I’ll be there in an hour to fix the dress. And don’t forget the appointment with Mr. Tumble. Make sure everything’s set.”

“Yes, yes… Should I come with—”

“If I wanted you there, I’d have said so already.”

“Ouch. My feelings. Anyway, see you at the designer’s. Byeee, Mrs.~”

Call over.

Marissa headed to the bathroom, washed up, pulled on casual clothes, grabbed all the shopping bags from yesterday… and slipped out of the house like a thief.

Forty-five minutes later, she was standing in the designer’s studio, explaining exactly how she wanted the dress altered—translation: “Please save me from my mother’s fashion sense”—when her phone rang.

Caller ID: Of course.

She sighed and answered.

“Marissa, where the hell are you?!” her mother snapped.

“You and Dad go ahead. I’ll meet you there. I still need my makeup done. And besides…” Marissa smirked, “is the bride not allowed to be fashionably late?”

Mr. Joel’s voice chimed in quickly, trying to prevent a war.

“Marissa, please don’t be late. And don’t get your mother angry today.”

“Yes, Dad. See you soon. Bye.”

Call ended.

9 a.m. on the dot.

In front of the court registrar stood:

Mr. and Mrs. Joel: anxious, twitchy, on edge—especially Mrs. Joel.

Grandpa Johnson: grinning ear to ear like he personally planned the universe.

Antonio: checking his watch every twenty seconds, jaw clenched, looking like punctuality personally owed him money.

And the bride?

Still on her way.

Naturally.

Marissa on the other hand is putting the final touches on her look, casually ignoring her phone like it’s a bill she refuses to pay. Her makeup is set, her hair is behaving, and the altered dress fits like it actually chose her. She feels the pressure, sure—just not enough to rush.

Just as she picks up her purse to leave, her phone rings again. She rolls her eyes so hard they almost fall out — but this time, the caller ID shows Antonio.

Yeah, that catches her attention.

She sighs, taps “accept.”

“Hello, husband-to-be,” she says, playful, knowing very well she’s late.

His voice shoots back like a bullet.

“Where the heck are you? I told you to be on time. Are you always this irresponsible? I’m giving you ten minutes — tops.”

And he hangs up.

No space for a reply. No breathing. Nothing.

Marissa just stands there at the open car door, frozen.

Then she laughs — not the cute kind. The “is this man okay?” kind.

She lets out a sharp scoff, shuts the car door with a soft but pointed thud, spins on her heels, and marches right back into the makeup studio.

The designer blinks at her. “Uh… why are you back? Aren’t you supposed to be getting married right now?”

“Oh please,” Marissa says, dropping her bag on the table. “Someone—who shockingly wasn’t my mother—decided to yell at me like he owns the air I breathe. So? I’m going to annoy him a little more. If he calls off the wedding? Even better.” She adds a wink.

They burst into giggles.

For thirty whole minutes, her phone went off like a possessed blender, and she oh-so-gracefully ignored every single call. Eventually she stood, thanked them, waved goodbye, and headed out again—this time for real.

Meanwhile, Antonio was absolutely fuming. He toggled between calling Marissa and snapping orders to his business partners, using his anger to multitask.

A few minutes later, the roar of an engine filled the air—yep, Marissa arrived with full drama, tires screeching as she parked right in front of the registry.

The door opened, and the first thing visible was her Louboutins hitting the pavement. She stepped out looking like a luxury ad come alive—elegant, high-profile, and far too glamorous for a simple paperwork wedding.

Everyone stood the moment she began walking. She didn’t walk, though. She glided—like the hallway was her personal runway.

Her parents exhaled in pure relief. Her dad grinned from ear to ear. Grandpa Johnson looked absolutely delighted.

“Now that’s my granddaughter-in-law,” he whispered proudly.

Antonio? Yeah… unimpressed, annoyed, and clearly regretting his life choices.

Marissa reached them, kissed Grandpa on each cheek.

“You look gorgeous,” he said.

“I always do,” she replied with a smirk.

Not once did she even glance at Antonio.

“Well, you’re late,” Antonio snapped. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Not without pictures,” Grandpa cut in.

“We don’t have time for that.”

“Oh, we do,” Marissa shot back. “Who gets married without pictures?”

The stare-down that followed could have burned the registry down.

Grandpa summoned someone to take photos. Marissa smiled like she was shooting a magazine cover; Antonio looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. Even after being told to smile, his frown somehow deepened.

When the photographer asked them to hold hands, Marissa took his arm and squeezed—hard. Hard enough to make a point. Hard enough that he couldn’t pull away.

Right after the camera clicked, she leaned in, voice low but sharp as glass.

“As we go through with this little performance today, hear me clearly: this is the last time—the last—you speak to me like you’re my commander. People don’t even talk to their employees like that. I’m not your subordinate, and I’m not tolerating that tone again.”