The Switch

Ava's right eye had been twitching uncontrollably from the very moment she opened her eyes — a clear sign from the universe that chaos was about to ensue. And right on cue, the first person to barge into her room, which, mind you, was not even technically her room anymore — was none other than the devil's favorite spawn: Eva Summers.

Correction — she wasn't even in her own room. She had involuntarily agreed to sleep in Eva's room as what Eva proposed, just in case their parents decided to finally visit Eva in the morning because she's finally going to get married, but of course, it's never gonna happen.

Eva had completely forgotten one crucial detail: she could be lying there, lifeless, possibly deceased from exhaustion or suffocation by stress, and their parents wouldn't even blink. They'd probably step over her, straighten the rug, and carry on with their day.

"Ugh, ouch!" Eva groaned theatrically, clutching her chest like she'd just been shot with an arrow of injustice. She staggered forward two steps — pure Broadway material — before dramatically collapsing on the bed beside Ava with the elegance of a Victorian heroine fainting in a corset commercial.

"If you were the one getting married," Eva gasped, staring at the ceiling, "I swear on my entire skincare collection that Mom and Dad would be sobbing at your feet, wailing about how the universe robbed them of their most precious, perfect Ava. They'd probably build a statue. A golden one."

She turned her head toward Ava for dramatic effect — only to realize Ava was still blinking at the ceiling, her brain buffering like an ancient computer trying to open seventeen tabs at once. Not even a twitch in response.

"Hello?" Eva waved a hand in front of her face. "Earth to future Mrs. Ford? Are you processing or have I finally broken you?"

Ava inhaled sharply. "I think," she muttered, "I'm having a stroke."

"Well," Eva chirped, patting her on the head. "At least you'll go down as iconic."

"Don't talk to me, you son of a—" Ava stopped herself mid-sentence, physically choking on her own fury like she'd swallowed a cactus. She clutched her chest, inhaling through her nose and exhaling to calm herself before she could commit murder before the actual main event.

Then, with the grace of someone desperately clinging to sanity, she turned toward the door. "Adelle! What time will the makeup artist team arrive?"

There was a moment of silence — eerie, unsettling silence — before the door suddenly exploded open with a thunderous BANG! as if someone had kicked it like their life depended on it.

And there she was. Adelle. Standing heroically in the doorway, clutching her iPad like a sacred scroll. She was still in her polka-dotted nightgown, hair sticking up in six different directions like she'd been electrocuted, eyes wide with panic and dark circles deep enough to qualify as swimming pools.

The best part? She absolutely just woke up.

In fact, she looked so disoriented, it was almost spiritual — like her soul had just reconnected to her body mid-flight. Yet the second her subconscious registered the terrifying word "time," something ancient inside her stirred.

Perhaps the spirit of her overly punctual great-grandmother. Perhaps the collective panic of every assistant in history. Either way, her body moved before her brain could catch up — full possession mode.

"It would be... it would be... 7 AM sharp, my lady," Adelle mumbled, staring into the void, her voice hoarse and shaky, as though she'd just recited a prophecy foretold by ancient scrolls.

Then, as if remembering she was on Earth, she blinked twice. "I-I also set five alarms and threatened the catering team with emotional damage if they're late," she added, voice still croaky.

Ava's eyes flicked up to the digital wall clock mounted just above the doorframe. 6:32. Her heart skipped a beat — not from romance, but from the sheer panic of impending chaos. Today's the day.

"Six-thirty-two," she mumbled under her breath, then suddenly sprang off the bed. "Adelle! Go prepare my bubble bath. I need to be pretty — flawless — ethereal."

Before she could make it two steps, Eva slapped her arm with the force of a rugby player hyped up on energy drinks. "Oooh! That's the spirit, sister!"

Ava stumbled, arms flailing, nearly kissing the floor. She spun around, death glare loading at 90%, but managed to rein it in.

She wanted to smack Eva's overly enthusiastic head off her shoulders and use it as a decorative vase, but… no time for murder today. She had a plan to execute. A very delicate, borderline-illegal plan that required precision, grace, and… lots of bubble bath.

She clenched her fists and exhaled through her nose. Focus.

Only two people on earth knew about this plan — aside from herself, of course. The first was, Adelle, of course, who had sworn to secrecy like she was guarding the nuclear codes.

The second… was Ryu Inoue.

Yes, that Ryu Inoue. One of her admirers who, due to his inability to say no to her and his tragic habit of blushing whenever she so much as breathed near him, had ended up printing the forged marriage contract at the civil registry with trembling hands.

Honestly, it had been nearly impossible not to get a few people tangled in this web. There were only so many forged documents, secret signatures, and suspicious bubble bath orders one woman could handle without at least mild cooperation from others.

Since their parents did not show up in Eva's room that morning — likely too busy rearranging their flower vases or debating over what exotic tea to drink — Ava finally had the luxury of retreating to her own room.

There, she could take a long, luxurious bubble bath before the makeup team and the wedding organizer stormed in like a pack of over-caffeinated stylists.

Meanwhile, back in the war zone that was Eva's room, reality hit Eva like a decorative throw pillow to the face.

She would be pretending to be Ava at this borderline soap-opera-level wedding. Which meant one thing:

She would be the one wearing the dress that was originally meant for Ava. And this was not just any dress. No, no, no.

It was a gown straight out of a fairy tale — ethereal, flowing, shimmering with soft purple hues and delicate embroidery that looked like it had been hand-stitched by celestial beings on their day off. It practically sang in angelic harmonies when the light hit it.

And then there was the actual wedding gown, the one that was supposed to be for Eva. It sat in the corner like a sad, over-frosted cake — heavy, stiff, and covered in so many pearls it looked like someone had bedazzled it during a sugar rush.

"Ouch," Eva muttered, squinting at the breathtaking gown that was supposed to belong to her perfect, golden child of a sister. 

"Of course Ava's dress is prettier," Eva whispered bitterly to herself, glaring at the ethereal gown like it had personally wronged her. "Of course it floats like moonlight and smells like lavender and success." She crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I was just forced into marriage to become successful anyway. As if some womanizing, walking sin of a man could magically fix me. And am I even broken—"

"Are you still dreaming, my lady?"

Eva nearly jumped out of her skin as Helen strolled into the room, completely unfazed by whatever existential crisis Eva was having.

Eva opened her mouth to retort, but before she could even formulate a comeback, Helen had already turned her back to her. She strode straight to the corner where the heavily beaded, borderline medieval wedding gown sat, scooped it up with an alarming amount of efficiency, and walked right back out.

That was it. No small talk. No "Are you feeling okay?" No "Are you prepared to ruin your life today?"

Eva barely had time to blink.

It took a second for her brain to process what had just happened. Then it clicked. Oh. She's moving the wedding gown to Ava's room.

Since Mr. and Mrs. Summers had gone with the wedding organizers, the dress had been kept in Eva's room first convenience. And maybe—just maybe—Eva had been hopeful that her parents would stop by first.

That they'd knock on her door, sit her down, and have that heartfelt, emotional talk that parents are supposed to have with their daughter before she gets shoved into a life-altering commitment.

You know, something along the lines of:"Sweetheart, are you really okay with this?""Darling, we're so proud of you.""Pumpkin, blink twice if you need us to set the venue on fire and stage a rescue mission."

But no. No heart-to-heart. No check-in. Because they are the ones who coordinated the wedding to begin with.

They had marched straight to Ava's room instead as she's the one getting married. Well, technically, she is.

Eva stood there, unmoving, as the door closed behind Helen, leaving behind an unsettling silence.

The switch was complete.

Eva stared at the scene unfolding before her, then slowly turned to glare at the ceiling like she was about to start a heated conversation with the gods themselves.

Honestly? The favoritism should have hurt. Should have made her feel something deep, something soul-crushing.

But instead, Eva just sighed, defeated. Maybe I really am too stupid to acknowledge it wow.