MONDAY

Weekdays always had this... cursed energy to them.

It was like clockwork.

As soon as Monday reared its ugly little head, the entire world collectively remembered that they had responsibilities.

Students, workers, mothers, fathers, even that one neighbor who always seemed to water their plants in suspiciously formal business attire—everyone snapped into motion.

The students who had somehow, miraculously, finished their assignments over the weekend now paraded their work like battle trophies, ready to hand them over to their teachers and professors, smug and sleep-deprived in equal measure.

Workers gritted their teeth and went back to their corporate trenches, performing tasks that half of them didn't even pretend to care about anymore.

The baristas barely survived the onslaught of desperate caffeine addicts who lined up like zombies, mumbling orders in a language that suspiciously resembled English but also somehow didn't.

At the end of the day, everyone was busy.

Everyone was tired.

Everyone was just trying not to lose what little sanity they had left.

And in the middle of all this Monday madness stood Maggie—our sweet, determined little cinnamon roll of a heroine—blessed by the gods of scheduling.

Because unlike her fellow college students who were barely dragging themselves to 7 AM lectures like extras from a horror movie, Maggie?

Maggie didn't have a single morning class.

She was living the dream.

While half the campus was already deep into caffeine-fueled panic attacks, Maggie was comfortably holed up in her dorm room, armed with nothing but her laptop, her textbooks, and a very suspicious-looking cup of instant coffee.

She wasn't lounging around, though.

No, Maggie was not the type to waste precious hours scrolling on her phone while drooling on her pillow.

(Okay, maybe she had done that once or twice... but not today!)

Today was serious.

Because Maggie had a mission: "to finish all her tasks, including her Special Project," before the clock struck noon.

This Special Project wasn't just any assignment.

It was a big deal.

Her professor had personally chosen her—Maggie, freshman, occasional crier over bad lab results—to lead a project that would actually be presented to a real company.

A real, breathing, money-holding company.

It was so serious that Maggie had almost fainted when she got the news.

Twice.

But she managed to pull herself together, fueled by the twin powers of ambition and sheer existential dread.

You see, Maggie didn't just love perfumes.

She lived perfumes.

While other girls in her class dreamed of becoming doctors or engineers or ViralTok influencers, Maggie dreamed of becoming a perfumer—someone who created beautiful scents, bottled emotions into tiny glass vials, and hopefully made enough money to never have to attend another 8 AM chemistry lab ever again.

That's why she was taking up "Bachelor of Science in Chemistry"

Not because she wanted to cure cancer or invent a new polymer.

No.

She just wanted to make perfumes that didn't smell like sadness and tax returns.

(And maybe open a little boutique called "DreamScents" on the side. A girl could dream.)

Her Special Project was her first real step toward that goal.

She was tasked with preparing a full-blown investment proposal—essentially convincing scary, rich businessmen to give her money so she could create eco-friendly, hypoallergenic perfumes that wouldn't make people sneeze their eyebrows off.

No pressure, right?

Maggie was in the zone.

Papers scattered around her bed, highlighters bleeding neon yellow over her notes, her laptop humming softly like an overworked cat.

She was halfway through drafting the final portion of her proposal—something about "revolutionizing olfactory consumer experiences" (whatever that meant)—when her phone began to vibrate violently against the desk.

Maggie jumped.

Her heart did a weird cartwheel in her chest.

She grabbed the phone, half expecting to see her professor's name, maybe a friend complaining about lab reports, maybe even Zia sending a meme about how capitalism was a scam.

Instead, she saw: Mama Bear (3 missed calls)

Uh-oh.

Three missed calls was the Laurel Family Emergency Code for:

- Someone died.

- Someone was about to die.

- Or worse...

- Someone was about to be forced into something 'for your own good.'

Maggie answered the call with the enthusiasm of a cow walking into a slaughterhouse.

"Hello, Mom?"

"Baby! Finally! I've been calling you! Are you busy tomorrow night?"

No "Hello."

No "Maggie?"

Just straight to the suspicious questioning.

Maggie's brain scrambled for a response.

"Uhh... not really? Zia invited me over to the Zobel mansion tomorrow. She said it's just... you know, a casual dinner party thing."

There was a pause.

And then—

The Giggle.

If you have ever heard a mother giggle like that, you know it means nothing casual is about to happen.

"Perfect! Perfect, baby! I'll prepare your dress!"

Maggie froze.

Dress.

Prepare.

Two words that should never be in the same sentence unless you were attending your own wedding or funeral.

"Wait, Mom... it's just a normal dinner, right?"

Another giggle.

This time louder.

More sinister.

"Of course, of course! Just a simple, elegant party... with friends and family... and other *very important* people... nothing to worry about, hija!"

The call ended with a chirpy "See you soon!" and a click.

Maggie stared at the phone like it had just personally betrayed her.

What in the fresh hell was happening?

Maggie tried to convince herself that she was overthinking.

Sure, her mother was being weird.

Sure, she was preparing a dress like Maggie was going to meet the Pope or a rich bachelor prince from some oil country.

But maybe—maybe—it really was just a simple party.

Right?

Right?

Her phone buzzed again.

A text from Mama Bear: Don't forget baby, smile sweetly and laugh at their jokes! Must look wife-material!

Maggie felt her soul leave her body.

By the time night fell, Maggie had fully transitioned through all five stages of grief.

Denial: "It's just a party. Chill. You're being dramatic."

Anger: "WHY WOULD SHE TALK ABOUT LOOKING 'WIFE-MATERIAL'?!"

Bargaining: "Maybe if I trip and fall tomorrow, they'll cancel the dinner?"

Depression: (Maggie laying face-down on her bed whispering, "I don't want to marry a stranger.")

Acceptance: "Well. If this is how I die, at least let the buffet be good."

She stared at the ceiling, hands folded over her stomach like a corpse.

Her roommate, Celine, walked in, took one look at Maggie, and immediately backed out like she'd walked into a crime scene.

"Uh... you good?"

Maggie lifted a thumb limply.

"I'm about to be sacrificed to the marriage gods," she croaked.

Celine nodded solemnly.

"Good luck, girl."

And just like that, Maggie was left alone with her thoughts, her terrifyingly suspicious mother, and the faint scent of lavender candles trying—and failing—to soothe her rising panic.