Chapter 2: The Brunch of No Return

The silence in my apartment was thick enough to choke on. Renzo Scott sat on my vintage velvet sofa—which I’d bought specifically because it was "single-person sized"—looking like a man awaiting a firing squad. He was holding a lukewarm cup of coffee I’d shoved into his hands, his eyes fixed on the giant diamond ring still perched precariously on my ring finger.

"We could just tell them," I whispered, pacing the small strip of hardwood between the kitchen and the living room. "We could say it was a social experiment. A performance art piece about the toxicity of influencer culture."

Renzo looked up, a dry, hysterical laugh escaping his throat. "Juliel, my mother has already called the florist. My father, who hasn’t hugged me since I won a middle-school track meet, texted me a thumbs-up emoji. A thumbs-up. Do you know what happens to a Scott who humiliates the family on a national scale? I’ll be designing backyard koi ponds in Siberia by Tuesday."

I stopped pacing. "And Gray is currently downstairs with a gimbal, telling his followers that he’s 'processing the trauma' of seeing his soulmate move on. If I admit it was a fake proposal, he’ll flip the narrative. He’ll make me the villain who played with his heart for clout. I’ll lose my job at the library for 'unprofessional conduct' if this turns into a messy scandal."

We stared at each other. The gravity of the situation was no joke, pulling us straight into a pit of our own making.

"Three weeks," I said, my voice cracking. "My Aunt Maria already booked the church. My mother is currently Pinateresta-boarding 'Librarian-Chic Weddings.'"

"My ex, Roxy, sent me a formal 'Request for Admission' email this morning," Renzo added, rubbing his face. "She wants to know the exact timeline of our courtship to see if I was 'infringing on her emotional exclusivity' during our relationship. If I tell her it was fake, she’ll sue me for intentional infliction of emotional distress. If I stay engaged to you... she has no case. I’m just a guy who moved on."

The doorbell rang. It wasn't a gentle ring. It was the aggressive, rhythmic pounding of the Cortez Family Matriarchs.

"Hide," I hissed.

"Where? It’s a studio apartment, Juliel!"

"The bathroom! No, the closet!"

Before I could shove him behind my winter coats, the door swung open. My mother, Elena, and Aunt Maria burst in like a two-woman SWAT team, followed by my father, who was carrying a box of pastries and looking deeply confused.

"There she is!" my mother cried, lunging for my hand. She grabbed my wrist and hoisted it into the air like I’d just won a boxing match. "The ring! Maria, look at the clarity! It’s like a glacier!"

"Wait, wait," I stammered. "Mom, this is—"

"And where is he?" Aunt Maria demanded, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk. She spotted Renzo standing awkwardly by the sofa. "The Romantic! The Man of the Hour! The Landscape Architect!"

Renzo stood up, his "charming but unlucky" instincts kicking in. He plastered on a smile that didn't quite reach his panicked eyes. "Good morning. I'm Renzo. It’s... it’s an honor."

My mother shrieked with delight and pulled him into a hug that likely cracked a rib. "He’s handsome! Juliel, why did you hide this man? A Scott! Your father’s boss used a Scott for his vineyard! You have excellent taste, mija."

Thirty minutes later, we were squeezed into a corner booth at The Golden Egg, the neighborhood’s premier brunch spot. The table was a battlefield of mimosas, eggs benedict, and wedding planners.

To make matters worse, Renzo’s parents—William and Beatrice Scott—had joined us. Apparently, the Scotts and the Cortezs had "found each other" on Feisbook within four hours of the video going viral. It was a merger of two very different worlds: my loud, Filipino-Catholic family and Renzo’s reserved, old-money-landscape-dynasty parents.

"So," Beatrice Scott said, peering at me through designer glasses. Her voice was like chilled silk. "Renzo tells us you’re a librarian. How... quiet. And how long did you say you two have been seeing each other? He’s been so tight-lipped."

I looked at Renzo. His foot kicked mine under the table. Hard.

"Six months!" we said in unison.

"Eight months!" I corrected at the same time he said, "Four!"

The table went silent.

"We met eight months ago," Renzo recovered, smoothing his hair. "But we didn't start dating dating until four months ago. It was a slow burn. Like a... like a perennial garden. You have to let the roots take hold before the bloom."

My father nodded solemnly. "I like that. Roots. Very important."

"And the proposal?" my mother leaned in, her eyes sparkling. "The video was so dramatic! Why a bar? Why then?"

I felt a bead of sweat roll down my spine. "It was the moment," I said, trying to channel the romance novels I filed away at work. "We looked at each other, and with everything going on in our lives—the ghosts of the past—we just realized that we didn't want to waste another second. Renzo is... he’s my North Star."

Renzo choked slightly on his mimosa. "And Juliel is my... tectonic plate. She keeps me grounded. I couldn't imagine my landscape without her."

"Oh, he’s a poet!" Aunt Maria squealed, clapping her hands.

"Now, about the date," Beatrice Scott interrupted, her tone turning business-like. "Three weeks is tight, but the Scott Estate is available. We can do a tented reception. I’ve already contacted the caterer we use for the Botanical Society gala."

"Three weeks is perfect," my mother added. "The Lenten season starts soon, and we must have the ceremony before then. Father Mike is already putting it in the bulletin."

"Wait," I said, my voice rising. "Don't you think three weeks is a little... fast? We haven't even had an engagement party. We haven't discussed... anything."

"Nonsense!" Beatrice waved a hand. "The public is watching, dear. That video has three million views. If you wait a year, the 'magic' fades. We have to strike while the iron is hot. It’s better for the family brand."

Renzo leaned toward me, his shoulder brushing mine. "We're trapped," he whispered under the cover of the table noise.

"We have to break up," I whispered back. "Quietly. In a few days."

"We can't," he muttered. "My dad just told your dad he’d help him renovate your backyard for free as a wedding gift. If I call this off now, I’m a dead man."

Just as I thought the tension couldn't get any higher, a shadow fell over our table.

"Is this the 'Happy Couple'?"

The voice was cold, sharp, and sounded like it belonged in a courtroom. I looked up to see Roxy Fernandez. She was wearing a power suit that probably cost more than my car, and she was holding a legal pad. Behind her, standing by the hostess stand, was Gray Flores. He was holding his phone up, clearly "livestreaming the encounter."

"Oh, look," Gray’s voice echoed through the restaurant. "The 'Tequila Lovers' are having brunch. Let’s see if they’re as 'authentic' in the daylight."

My mother stood up, her hand on her hip. "Who are you? And why are you filming?"

"I’m Gray Flores," he said, flashing a toothy, whitened smile at the camera. "Juliel’s... well, I guess I’m the 'Ex-Factor.' Just here to congratulate my former flame on her 'lightning-fast' engagement. Seems a bit suspicious, doesn't it, guys? Drop a comment if you think this is a PR stunt!"

Roxy stepped closer to Renzo, ignoring the vlogger. "Renzo, a word. Privately."

Renzo stood up, his jaw set. "No, Roxy. I’m with my fiancée and our families. If you have something to say, say it here."

Roxy smirked, flicking her hair. "Fine. I’ve reviewed the 'proposal' footage. Frame by frame. You were holding the ring box upside down for the first three seconds. And Juliel, your reaction time was 1.4 seconds slower than the average 'genuine surprise' response. I’m here to offer a settlement. Admit this is a sham to spite me, and I won't file the defamation suit regarding the 'hollow relationship' comment you made in front of two hundred witnesses."

The table went dead quiet. My mother looked at me. Beatrice Scott looked at Renzo.

The pressure was mounting. I could feel the eyes of the entire restaurant on us. I looked at Gray, who was grinning, waiting for me to crumble so he could get his "Gotcha" moment. I looked at Roxy, who was treating our lives like a deposition.

I looked at Renzo. He looked terrified, but there was a spark of defiance in his eyes. He was tired of being the "unlucky" one. And I? I was tired of being the "humble librarian" who let people like Gray write her story.

I stood up. I didn't think. I just acted.

I grabbed Renzo by the lapels of his linen jacket, pulled him down, and kissed him.

It wasn't a "fake" kiss. It wasn't a polite peck. It was a "we are in deep trouble and this is the only way out" kiss. It was desperate, frantic, and surprisingly... not terrible. Renzo’s hands found my waist, and for a second, the sound of the restaurant faded away.

When I pulled back, I was breathless. Renzo looked dazed.

"Does that look like a sham to you, Roxy?" I snapped, turning to the lawyer. Then I looked at Gray’s camera. "And you! If you don't stop filming my family while they’re eating eggs, I will sue you for every 'like' you’ve ever received. Get out!"

The restaurant cheered. Gray, startled by my sudden aggression, actually lowered his phone. Roxy narrowed her eyes, scribbled something on her legal pad, and spun around, marching out with her heels clicking like gunfire.

After the families finally departed—convinced more than ever that we were "star-crossed lovers"—Renzo and I stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.

"You kissed me," he said.

"I had to! They were closing in!"

"You're a really good actress, Juliel."

"I read a lot of romance novels," I muttered, looking at my shoes. "So... three weeks. We have twenty-one days to figure out how to 'break up' without destroying our families or our reputations."

Renzo looked at the ring on my finger, then at the street where Gray was likely lurking. "Or," he said slowly, "we play the game. We go through with the 'engagement' events. We let the buzz die down. And then, after the 'wedding'—which we will obviously cancel at the last minute due to 'irreconcilable differences'—we go our separate ways."

"A three-week fake engagement?" I asked. "In the age of social media?"

"It’s the only way to keep the exes at bay and the parents happy for now," Renzo said. He held out his hand. "Partner?"

I looked at his hand. He was charming, unlucky, and currently the only person in the world who understood the mess I was in. I took his hand and shook it.

"Partner. But if you try to pick out lilies for the fake wedding, I’m out. I’m allergic."

"Noted," he smiled. "No lilies. Just chaos."

As we walked away, I didn't notice the notification on my phone. A new post from Gray Flores: “THE KISS: Real Love or Real Lies? Stay tuned for the Wedding Countdown!”

The clock was ticking. And I had a feeling that by the end of these three weeks, a "fake" wedding was going to be the least of my problems.