Colton woke up clear-headed, which alone told him the night had crossed into problematic territory. He didn’t wake up refreshed unless something irreversible had happened.

The woman next to him shifted, the sheets sliding down her bare back. Naked. Beautiful. Complicated-looking, even in sleep. He clocked it all with the same detached efficiency he used in boardrooms—observe, assess, move on.

He sat up, already reaching for his watch, then remembered. Right. The watch was somewhere on the casino floor, along with his patience and better judgment.

Last night came back in sharp fragments. Her mouth—too smart for her own good. The ring on her finger she kept twisting whenever she talked about her fiancé. The way she’d laughed when he told her who he was, like she didn’t believe men like him existed outside her dirty little stories.

A smut writer, she’d said, drunk and defiant. Engaged, she’d added, like a challenge.

He’d taken that as permission.

He slipped out of bed, pulled on his boxers, and poured two coffees. When she stirred and sucked in a sharp breath, he didn’t bother pretending this was awkward.

“Morning,” he said, voice flat.

She sat up fast, clutching the sheets, eyes darting. Naked. Hotel room. Him.

Here it comes.

“I’ll save you the meltdown,” Colton said, placing the coffee on the nightstand like this was any other weekday morning. “You’re not dead. You’re not dreaming. And no, I didn’t drug you.”

He leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, completely unbothered.

“You married me.”

That got her attention.

He tipped his chin toward the vanity. Marriage license. Two rings. Clean. Legal. Signed in ink neither of them could pretend wasn’t theirs.

“The name’s Colton Bailey,” he said coolly. “CEO. And”—his mouth curved, barely—“your husband.”

Her gaze snagged on his left hand. The ring. Real. Solid. Expensive.

“Relax,” he added, taking a slow sip of coffee. “You dared me. I don’t back out of bets.”

She opened her mouth, probably to say his name like it burned.

He cut her off. “Before you start panicking about your fiancé—” his eyes flicked pointedly to her bare hand, where an engagement ring should’ve been “—you might want to remember you took that off yourself.”

Silence stretched. He let it.

“You wanted chaos,” Colton continued evenly. “You got it.”

He straightened, already mentally slotting this into the category of messy but manageable.

“So,” he said, cool gaze pinning her in place, “drink your coffee. We’ve got lawyers to call. And you”—a pause, deliberate—“have some explaining to do.”