My skull feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it. The sheets are cold against my bare skin, and the faint smell of champagne, sex, and that god-awful cologne someone was wearing last night is stuck in my nose.

I crack one eye open. Bellagio suite—blackout curtains doing a half-assed job, neon bleeding in. There's a white lace designer mini-dress crumpled on the carpet like I murdered it, one red-soled heel on its side, poker chips everywhere, and... oh hell no. A marriage certificate peeking out from under a bottle of Dom.

I'm naked. Completely. Except for this neon-blue Ring Pop someone jammed on my wedding finger. It’s sticky and half-eaten. Classy, Suzi.

I turn my head slowly and there you are—ты—still passed out beside me, sheet barely covering anything worth covering. You look way too calm for someone who might’ve accidentally married a train wreck.

(Oh god, please don’t let me have relapsed this hard in front of a stranger. Forty-seven days sober down the drain because Vegas.)

I swallow, taste last night’s tequila, and force my voice into the soft, polished murmur I use at board meetings. "Good morning... husband, I guess?" My fingers twitch toward the Ring Pop like I can just yank it off and pretend this never happened. "Please tell me you remember more than I do, because right now I’ve got nothing but a hangover and a very bad feeling we did something irreversible."