The CEO's 25th Hour Bride

Lyra’s Have you ever wondered what it’s like to see what’s coming before it happens? Not the vague sense of déjà vu or a lucky guess, but the kind that wraps around your chest and whispers in your ear, showing you exact moments before they break loose into disaster. That’s my life. Every day, every hour, every breath comes with a price I didn’t ask for. I was six the day it all started. My mother died when I was just fifteen months old. Too young to fully understand what death meant, but not young enough to erase the memory that remained. I could recall flashes of her labored breathing, the tremor in her hands, the soft smile she forced as she whispered, “It’s okay, baby.” Even as a toddler, I knew she didn’t believe her own reassurance. Something in her eyes said goodbye long before her body surrendered that morning. My father never spoke about her. By the time I could form the right questions, he had already trained himself to shut down at the sound of her name. Most of what I learned came from muffled adult conversations floating through hallways, cut off the moment anyone realized I was listening. I was raised by a rotation of nannies—silent women with tired hands, none of whom stayed long enough to matter. My father rarely looked at me, and on the days he did, he made it painfully clear I reminded him of everything he wished he could forget. Once, when I was barely four, he told me he wished I had died with her. That I was a burden he never wanted. Those words settled inside me like a bruise that never healed. So by the time Angela appeared, I had already learned how to live quietly—how to hold my emotions in my chest and exist like someone no one had to bother remembering. The day she arrived, the house changed. It felt heavier, as if the walls themselves recognized a stranger. She didn’t even pretend when she met me. “Is this her?” she asked, staring at me like I’d been left on the porch by mistake. My father nodded, and turned to me with a smile, “Lyra, this is Angela, your new mom. And Odette…” He pointed at a tiny girl with a stuffed white swan clutched to her chest, her little hand wrapped around Angela’s pinky. She looked my age. “…your little sister. Say hello.” He was practically smiling like he had won the lottery. I knew then that he had been with the new family longer than now, or even before my Mom died. That explains his lack of involvement in my life, the late nights, and the days he was never home. I remember trying to ignore the sting in my chest, forcing myself to smile because maybe—just maybe—this could be a family. For a few days, things with Odette were easy. She laughed at my jokes and whispered about silly things that happened at school, insisted on sharing crayons, and liked to braid my hair even though her tiny fingers always tangled the strands. For the first time in my life, I felt something that resembled companionship. But it didn’t last. One afternoon we sat at the living room table, hands sticky from puzzles and snacks. I asked if she wanted to see my room, and she nodded eagerly—but only after checking Angela’s face. Angela gave her a saccharine smile. “Go on. Play nicely.” We were walking toward the staircase when something in the air changed. My vision blurred, a pressure like being yanked into a moment that didn’t belong to the present. The world tilted and suddenly I saw Odette tumbling down the staircase, her swan flying from her hands, her scream sharp enough to shatter glass. The vision slammed into me and vanished, leaving my chest burning. “Odette, wait—don’t go there!” I grabbed her wrist. But she jerked away, tiny and impatient, and before I could steady her, her feet slipped exactly as I had seen. She slid down the first two steps and burst into shrill sobs. She wasn’t badly hurt, but her scream was loud enough to summon Angela like lightning. Angela rushed to her, scooping her up as if she’d broken in half. She gave me no chance to explain what happened when her hands came sliding across my cheeks. “You pushed her!” The slap came out of nowhere—sharp, stinging, the kind of pain that freezes you before the tears even come. “What? No!” My voice cracked, tears welled up in my eyes as I held my cheek trying to relieve the pain. “I saw-I saw her fall and I tried to stop it.” “Don’t you dare lie to me,” she snapped, her eyes narrow. “I’m not lying,” I whispered, hating how small I sounded. “Stay away from my daughter.” She warned, her voice final as she walked away with Odette in her arms. I curled myself on the stairs and bawled my eyes out. I looked around for my father, but he wasn’t home. He was never home. And even when he returned later that night, I had wished he'd ask what had happened. He just walked past, as if I were a piece of furniture someone had moved without consulting him. From that day on, Odette grew distant. And losing her hurt more than the slap, more than Angela’s hatred—because she was the first person I ever thought might stay. The vision had not only hurt her—it had carved a quiet wedge between us and Angela nurtured that wedge into a full grown poisonous tree. More visions followed over the years, each one wrapped in the same ache— not only the pain of seeing what was coming, but the pain of knowing no one would ever believe me. The only thing worse than seeing the future was being blamed for it. Years passed, but the visions never stopped. And neither did the loneliness that came with them. --- The day was already fading when I glanced up from the counter. Evening poured through the front windows in a soft, orange sweep—warm, quiet, almost too gentle for the way my chest felt. BrightMart Convenience hummed around me, the flicker of the old lights and the low buzz of the refrigerators forming the backdrop of yet another long shift. Time didn’t just slow here—it lagged, dragging its feet across the sticky tiles, taking me with it. I leaned against the counter, kneading the stiffness at the back of my neck. The store was nearly empty now, just rows of tired shelves and half-lit signs blinking like they were counting down to closing. This was the part of the day I liked best. The world outside moved on without me, but here, in this little box of fluorescent light, I could breathe for a moment—pretend everything was steady and predictable. Then my phone buzzed. I didn’t even have to check the name, only one person texted me anyway. Lisa. “LYRAAAAA!” I smirked faintly, not even surprised. Lisa was a dramatic texter and “extraletterholic” “Lisa… what…” I was still typing when the phone buzzed again. “I DID IT!!!” “After months of emailing and calling and nearly selling my soul—Lyra, we have an appointment with the Oracle! And it's in three days!” For a moment the world stopped. Heat climbed my chest; I let out a sharp squeal, but before the sound even finished leaving my throat, I pushed away from the counter so fast the stool scraped loudly against the floor. The appointment I’d quietly wished for over years was suddenly real and within reach. “Lisa, I can’t believe this. You're a miracle!!!” I replied back. “I know. Now please worship me later.” “Ly, this could change everything.” It almost felt like she was happier than I was. I could finally meet the Oracle. The Oracle of Vespera wasn’t some street psychic or temple volunteer. She was the last living descendant of Vespera’s seers. Women who once served at the ancient goddess’s temple, interpreting visions, dreams, warnings from whatever thread connected the mortal world to the unseen. The Oracle was said to be able to read not just what a vision meant, but why it came, who sent it, and what it demanded. People spent years on waitlists. Some never got an appointment at all. And somehow, Lisa had gotten us one in three days. “Gosh! Gurl, I can't wait to see you.” she added. I smiled at my phone and replied “me too” with a flood of kiss-emoji. Emotion bubbled up in me—hope, fear, relief—so tangled I could barely identify them individually. Lisa had been with me since high school, the only person who believed me without needing proof. She researched, documented every vision, cross-checked myths, archived symbols… even when I was tired of searching for answers. There was a moment last year, after a vision left me vomiting and sleepless for days when I told her I wanted to stop. To forget the whole thing. To pretend the visions weren’t real. But Lisa had looked me dead in the eye and said, “If the universe keeps talking to you, then we’re going to figure out why. I’m not letting you quit on something that’s literally choosing you.” She had kept me steady when I wanted to break. She had saved me more times than she knew. I pocketed my phone, packed up my bag, and prepared to lock the store when a cold ripple crawled across the back of my neck—sharp enough to stop me mid-step. The lights above flickered, and the air thinned.