Kai led his mom into Sia’s room, like a tour guide showcasing a quirky exhibit. The bed—usually Sia’s sanctuary—now hosted an intruder: Kai’s mom. Her eyes widened, scanning the room like a detective at a crime scene.

“Why are Sia’s things here?” she demanded, her tone sharper than a freshly sharpened pencil.

Kai, the diplomat-in-disguise, stepped forward. “My wardrobe is smaller for her stuff,” he explained, as if wardrobes were sentient beings with feelings. “So she put her things here.”

As Kai’s mom settled into bed, Sia wondered about the mattress. It had seen secrets—midnight musings, dreams of escape, and the occasional sock that vanished into the abyss. Now it bore the weight of two souls: one grumpy and sleep-deprived (Sia), the other blissfully unaware (Kai’s mom).

“Sleep well, Mom,” Kai said, his voice a lullaby. “Good night.”

And with that, the room settled into uneasy silence. The wardrobe sighed, the curtains rustled, and Sia contemplated floor-sleeping strategies.

Sia, wrapped in her makeshift blanket cocoon, lay on the cold floor of Kai’s room. The moon peeked through the window, casting shadows like a nosy neighbor. Kai, the gentleman—or so he pretended—offered her the bed. But Sia, stubborn as a mule, insisted on her floor-bound rebellion.

“It’s cold,” Kai said, his voice a gentle breeze. “We can stick to the corners.”

Sia’s inner monologue: What’s he thinking? That I’ll just snuggle up and share bedtime secrets? Not happening.

The floor was cozy for precisely three minutes. Then it became a rocky beach, and Sia was a shipwrecked sailor. She tossed, turned, and contemplated life’s mysteries: Why did she agree to this fake marriage? Why did Kai’s mom pack so many scarves? And why did the universe insist on conspiring against her sleep?

In the wee hours, Sia surrendered. She crawled into bed, opposite Kai, like two wary cats sharing a windowsill. The mattress was wide, but the chasm between them felt wider.

Dawn tiptoed in, and Kai had already vanished to work—probably off to discuss spreadsheets and avoid eye contact. It left Sia alone with the real challenge: Kai’s mom.

“Sia,” she began, her voice as delicate as porcelain teacups, “our family has a tradition. Every year, we gather at Kai's grandparents’ house. It’s like a family reunion, minus the awkward hugs.”

Sia nodded, wondering if she could feign sudden amnesia. “And this time,” Kai’s mom continued, “there’s another wedding. You and Kai—the newlyweds—are the stars. You must come.” Her eyes sparkled with determination.

Sia’s mental response: That jerk, making promises on my behalf. I’m not attending a family reunion where everyone will dissect our fake marriage like gossip-hungry vultures.

But aloud, she said, “Sure, Mom.” Because sometimes survival required diplomacy. And maybe—just maybe—she’d find a way to escape this wedding circus.