A Ring and a Headache

The headache hits me first. A dull, rhythmic pounding at the base of my skull pulses with every beat of my heart. I drag a harsh breath into my lungs, and my senses are instantly flooded with an unfamiliar scent. Coconut. Passionfruit. Sweet and potent. I shift my weight, intending to roll onto my side and sleep off whatever excess alcohol is poisoning my blood, but a heavy, warm weight pins my chest to the mattress.

I force my heavy eyelids open. Blinding, unforgiving sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, searing my retinas. I wince, turning my head away from the glare, and my chin brushes against a mess of silky brown hair. The coconut scent intensifies. A woman. She lies sprawled face-down across my torso, dead to the world. Her lips, soft and pink, are slightly parted against my skin. Long, dark lashes rest against her flushed cheeks. Perfectly shaped eyebrows pull together in a tiny frown as she breathes.

Who the hell is this? I rack my brain, digging through the fog of last night, but I hit a solid brick wall. Nothing. Just a pitch-black void. I carefully slide my hand under her bare arm and lift it away from my chest. I detangle my legs from hers. She lets out a soft, sleepy moan as I roll her off me. She flops onto the mattress, snuggling deep into the plush pillow with a contented sigh. I sit on the edge of the bed and look at her. She lays naked on her stomach, the white sheets tangled around her waist, exposing the smooth curve of her bare back and the swell of her bare ass. Long dark hair fans out across the white pillowcases.

I stand up. Cold marble chills the soles of my feet. The bedroom is a disaster zone. My black button-down shirt lies in a crumpled heap near the door. A woman's dress hangs off a chair. Empty champagne bottles litter the nightstand. I grab my black Dior boxers off the floor and pull them up over my hips. I walk toward the massive window. I expect to see the gloomy, overcast skyline of London. Instead, a sprawling desert landscape cuts through a skyline dominated by bizarre, towering casinos. Replicas of the Eiffel Tower. Giant observation wheels. Neon signs fighting the daylight. Vegas.

I pivot away from the glass. I need answers. I spot my jeans discarded in a heap near the foot of the bed. I pick them up. The heavy denim feels damp to the touch. I shove my hands into the front pockets. Empty. I dig into the back pockets, and my fingers brush against stiff paper. I pull out my passport and a crumpled, damp document. I unfold the paper, smoothing out the creases.

Black ink stares back at me. 'Marriage Certificate.' The words make no sense. My brain refuses to process them. I stare at the bold font for a long, agonizing minute. No. I did not fly across the world and marry a random woman. I force my eyes to trace the rest of the text. 'Marriage of Declan Vance Voss and Maya Vane.'

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I drop my left hand and stare at my fingers. A solid gold wedding band encircles my ring finger. It gleams under the Nevada sun, mocking me. I turn my head slowly, locking my gaze on the sleeping girl—Maya. I step closer to the bed and peer down at her left hand resting on the mattress. A massive, emerald-cut diamond ring sits on her finger.

We got married. We actually flew from London to Las Vegas and tied the knot. Panic, sharp and metallic, claws at my throat. "Fuck," I mutter under my breath.

I scan the nightstand, locate my phone, and snatch it up. I stride out of the bedroom, needing space, needing a solution. I step into the sprawling living area of the penthouse. I spot a sleek espresso machine on the kitchen island. I slam a pod into the machine, hit the button, and dial my lawyer, Hugo. The time difference means he is likely asleep in London, but I do not care. I need to fix this.

"Mr. Voss?" Hugo's voice is thick with sleep. "Everything okay?"

"Hugo, apologies for waking you," I say, my voice clipped and tight. "Is a marriage in Vegas legally binding?"

Silence stretches on the line. "Do you have a marriage certificate?" he finally asks.

I hold the damp paper flat against the marble counter, snap a clear photo of it, and hit send. "I have something that looks exactly like a marriage certificate. I just sent you a photo. Take a look."

I hear rustling through the speaker, the sound of him fumbling with his phone in the dark. "Well, yes," Hugo says, his tone sobering up instantly. "That is a formal document. It is legal, Mr. Voss."

My stomach plummets. It drops right out of my body. I lean heavily against the counter, staring at the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. "Jesus Christ. I cannot remember a damn thing after we left the club. My memory is a blank slate. Surely there is a legal loophole to get me out of this mess? Please tell me you can find it."

"I will look into it immediately," Hugo replies, all business now. "We will get the marriage annulled on the grounds of you both being severely intoxicated."

"Great. Keep me updated." I kill the call and toss my phone onto the island. I pick up the black coffee and take a scorching sip.

I start pacing the length of the hardwood floor in the living area. What the hell was I thinking? Marrying a woman I don't even know. This is not me. My life is built on discipline, control, and structure. I work. I acquire companies. I expand the Voss empire. I do not drink to the point of blacking out. I rarely even go out to clubs. On the rare occasions I do blow off steam, I nurse a couple of scotches, pick a woman who catches my eye, and leave before morning. No strings. No mess.

This situation is reckless. It is irresponsible. I have never lost control of my own mind like this. The sheer magnitude of this mistake threatens to suffocate me.

The faint sound of bare feet padding across the floor interrupts my spiraling thoughts. I stop pacing. I turn toward the dining area. Maya wanders into view. She has ripped a white sheet from somewhere and wrapped it tight around her chest, securing it like a makeshift shield. A look of utter horror masks her face as she surveys the opulent penthouse and the strange city outside.

I take a moment to study her while she is awake. The first thing that strikes me is her eyes. They are a striking shade of olive green, darker than my own, lined with long, natural dark lashes. Her hair is a shiny, messy cascade of loose beach waves tumbling down her back, heavily tousled from a night of wild sex. She looks fragile standing there, clutching the fabric, but undeniable beauty radiates from her tense frame.

I walk quietly up behind her and lean my shoulder against the doorframe, watching her stare out the floor-to-ceiling window at the desert landscape.

"Good morning," I say.

She shrieks. A high-pitched squeal tears from her throat as she jumps, startled out of her mind. She spins around, flattening her spine against the hot glass of the window. Her wide, confused eyes dart frantically over my bare chest, tracing the cuts of my abdomen before snapping back up to meet my gaze.

"You're finally awake," I say, keeping my voice even.

"Who are you?" she asks, her voice trembling as she presses harder against the window.

I take a slow sip of my coffee. The pounding in my head pulses unpleasantly, and judging by the way she rubs her own temples, she feels just as terrible as I do.

"I'm Vance," I say, stepping into the dining area.

She blinks up at me. She quickly averts her gaze, wrapping her arms tighter around her body, her fingers gripping the edge of the sheet until her knuckles turn white. She looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.

"Um, where are we?" she questions, glancing nervously around the massive room.

"Vegas, I believe."

Her olive-green eyes blow wide open. She stares at me, unblinking, for a solid minute. She shakes her head, a deep frown carving into her forehead. "Vegas?" she repeats, her tone laced with incredulity.

I nod.

"What the hell are we doing in Vegas?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Beats me. I don't remember a damn thing about last night. The only thing I recall is leaving the club in London with a girl. After that, it is a blank. Do you remember anything?"

She shakes her head quickly. "No, I... I don't. I don't remember a thing. I was ludicrously drunk. I don't even recall meeting you," she explains, chewing nervously on her bottom lip. She drops her gaze to the floor and brushes her slender fingers through her tangled hair.

As she moves her hand, her eyes snag on the massive diamond catching the light. She freezes. "Um, why am I wearing a ring?"

I rub the back of my neck. I raise my left hand and hold it up, showing her the thick gold wedding band resting on my finger.

Her face falls. Devastation wipes away her confusion. She looks down at the diamond on her hand, then back up at me. "No, tell me we didn't. Did we get married?"

I nod once.

All the color drains from her face. "How the hell did this happen? How did we go from a club in London to getting married in Las Vegas?!"

Her rising panic sends a sharp, unbearable ache shooting straight through my skull. I groan, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing my throbbing temples with my free hand. "Fuck, dial down the volume, sweetheart. My brain is about to fall out of my head." I exhale a harsh breath. "Honestly, I don't know how this happened or how we wound up here, okay? I didn't exactly plan to get in a drunken stupor and marry some stranger I met in a club."

Maya scowls at me, her fear transforming instantly into defensive anger. "Oh, well, it is a good thing you didn't. Imagine what would have happened if you did! Also, you're not exactly my type."

My jaw clenches. I glare right back at her. Is this woman serious? She has no idea who I am. I have never met a woman whose type I was not.

"Oh, is that right?" I challenge, stepping closer. "I sure as hell seemed like your type last night."

Her olive-green eyes narrow to angry slits, and she takes a defiant step toward me.