Ciry couldn't stop smiling as she glanced at herself in the mirror. The reflection staring back at her wasn't a bride, at least not in the traditional sense.
She was wearing white pajamas covered in bunny faces. Her hair, a radioactive shade of neon green, looked as though someone had dunked her head in highlighter ink.
She let out a soft laugh, a low sound that was equal parts satisfaction and amusement. This is going to be good.
The wedding had been planned to perfection, or at least, that was what her father, had thought.
George had envisioned a classic ceremony, with every detail in place: a perfectly pressed gown, a delicate walk down the aisle, a serene groom waiting at the altar.
But Ciry wasn't interested in perfection. Ciry was interested in sending a message. And if Ryu didn't get it, well, that was his problem.
"Okay, Ciry," she muttered to herself, adjusting the bunny face on her sleeve. "Time to make an entrance."
This wasn't just any wedding. It was her wedding, and she would be damned if it went according to anyone else's script.
Her heart was racing—not because she was nervous, but because this was exactly what she wanted. She hadn't wanted to marry Ryu. She never had. Her father had pushed her into it.
And maybe Ryu would have been good for her, but Luka was the one she had loved. Luka was the one she had thought would be waiting for her at the altar.
As if the neon green hair wasn't bold enough, Ciry had made sure every aspect of today's ceremony screamed rebellion. She wasn't going to play by the rules. And the best part? No one—no one—saw it coming.
The announcement came, just as she expected.
"Miss Ciry, your groom has arrived at the wedding avenue."
Her lips curled into a smile as she adjusted her pajamas—no way was she letting this moment pass without a touch of irony.
Ciry stepped into the hallway, pausing just long enough to enjoy the silence before she walked outside.
The distant murmur of guests reached her ears, their voices hushed with anticipation. She could already feel the buzz of their gossip, speculating what *this* wedding would look like. Their whispers made her grin even wider.
Time for my first bit of fun.
She turned to her mother's assistant, who was In her mid-thirties, she wore a simple cream blouse and black trousers, her shoes low-heeled for comfort.
Her hair was neatly tied back, and a subtle, confident expression rested on her face. Standing by the door holding the reins to a horse that looked more out of place than she did.
"I'm ready," she said, her voice full of mischief.
"Are you sure, Ciry? The horse—"
"Just let me ride," she interrupted, swinging her leg over the saddle with all the confidence of someone who knew exactly how ridiculous this was. "I've got this."
She urged the horse forward, ignoring the frantic looks from the staff. She wasn't here to ease anyone's nerves. She was here to make a statement.
The wind hit her face as she rode out toward the garden. Her bunny pajamas billowed behind her, and the sound of hooves pounding the earth was like a countdown to chaos.
The horse was a little skittish, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the table. The wine glasses. The delicate crystal flutes. Everything perfectly arranged, ready to be destroyed.
As she approached, she could see the shock on the guests' faces. Their eyes widened, mouths agape, unsure whether they were witnessing a disaster or a performance.
Without a second thought, Ciry gave the horse a nudge, urging it into a full gallop.
"Oops," she called out, almost laughing at how perfect it was. The horse crashed into the table with a screeching neigh. Glasses flew into the air, wine splashed across the lawn, and chaos reigned as the table buckled under the impact.
She couldn't help it—she burst into laughter. The glass shards glittered in the sunlight, the guests froze, and her laughter rang out like a battle cry as the horse made a final, triumphant turn and galloped off into the distance.
And there it was. The wedding's first official disaster, perfectly orchestrated by none other than the bride.
Ciry didn't bother to look back as she dismounted, her movements casual as if she had just dropped by for a picnic. She didn't even flinch at the sounds of confusion and shock around her.
Let them stare. Let them talk.
She straightened her pajamas, dusted off her knees, and walked toward the aisle—taking her sweet time. No rush.
She had planned every detail of this wedding to be the spectacle, to shatter the expectations, to make it the event she wanted it to be.
"Oh my god," came a voice from behind her. It was Flora, the one person who had been hoping for something pristine and traditional.
Ciry didn't even need to turn around to know that Flora was looking at her with a mixture of disbelief and anger.
Marla caught up to her, chuckling in disbelief. "What on earth are you wearing?"
Ciry smiled sweetly. "It's a statement, Mom."
Her mother's face twisted into a mix of bewilderment and concern. "A statement? Ciry, this is—this is a wedding, not a circus!"
"Well," Ciry shrugged, "it is my wedding, isn't it?"
Before Marla could respond, the noise of clattering footsteps made her pause. A clown—a hired clown, to be specific—came running toward them, a bouquet of fake flowers in hand. He was tall, dressed in garish colors, his shoes ridiculously oversized.
"Time for the flower toss!" the clown announced with an exaggerated flourish.
Ciry didn't miss a beat. "Perfect timing," she said dryly, nodding in approval.
The guests were now fully aware that this was no ordinary wedding. One woman whispered loudly, "Is she seriously walking down the aisle like that?"
"I don't think she knows she's in pajamas," someone else remarked.
Ciry turned to face the crowd as she began to walk—no, saunter—down the aisle. The aisle that was supposed to be sacred, the one that should have been lined with beautiful floral arrangements, now felt more like a red carpet to absurdity.
And that's when the music started.
The contrast was jarring, the sudden shift in energy almost comical. The speakers blasted out a rap song, the beat heavy and rebellious. "I'm independent, I'm strong, I'm free!" the lyrics proclaimed.