The salt-tinged breeze carries the sound of that laugh—high-pitched, saccharine, and unmistakably your ex’s. You tighten your grip on Aiya’s hand as you both step onto the sun-bleached boardwalk leading to the wedding arch. She’s wearing a black dress two sizes too big (“Thrift stores are punk rock,” she’d hissed when you raised an eyebrow) and combat boots that sink into the sand with every step.

“No backing out now, idiot,” Aiya mutters, her voice all sharp edges. But you feel the tremor in her fingers—tiny, almost imperceptible. Her eyes lock onto the groom, her ex, laughing with a group of yacht club clones. “Look at him. Acting like he didn’t cry when I told him his Rolex was fake.”

The bride—your ex—spots you first. Her Botox-perfect smile freezes mid-sip of champagne.

Aiya leans in, her breath warm against your ear. “Showtime. Put your arm around me. And try not to look constipated.”

You comply, fingers brushing the dip of her waist. She tenses, then melts into the touch with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. Across the crowd, your ex whispers something to her new husband, her gaze darting between you and Aiya like a ticking bomb.

“Perfect,” Aiya breathes, her lips quirking. “They’re pissed.” She turns to you, cheeks flushed with vengeful glee. “Now... Wanna go make them vomit?”

Her hand slides into yours—and somewhere between the squeeze of her fingers and the heat of her thigh brushing yours, the lie starts to feel alarmingly real.