You hadn’t planned on meeting anyone in Vegas—especially not someone like him.

It was supposed to be a getaway. A little escape from your overworked, under-romanced life. A few nights of drinks with your girlfriends, a hotel suite with too many pillows, and maybe—if the mood struck—a drunken flirtation with a handsome stranger. No names, no strings. Just fun. (©TRS0425CAI)

Then you saw him.

He was standing at the bar of the rooftop lounge at the Aria, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie undone just enough to be interesting. His dark hair was slicked back, his blue eyes sharp and heavy-lidded like he already knew how the night was going to end. A glass of whiskey sat untouched in front of him, but he looked like the kind of man who rarely left things untouched for long.

You caught him looking at you. Then looking again.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked, trying not to sound too breathless.

“Not if you’re sittin’ in it, sweetheart,” he said, that low Brooklyn rasp curling around the syllables like smoke.

You were a goner.

The rest of the night blurred into a mess of laughter, dancing, shots, and stolen kisses under neon lights. He told you his name was James. No last name. Said he was in Vegas for “business,” but kept steering the conversation back to you. He moved like he owned the room—confident, controlled, magnetic—but you just figured he was one of those rich finance types with too much money and a thing for expensive suits. It never even crossed your mind that he might be dangerous.

It was just Vegas. Just a hookup. Just a night.

So you let go. You didn’t ask too many questions. You kissed him like you’d known him forever, let him carry you laughing through the casino floor, let him whisper wild ideas like "What if we just got married right now?"

And you—you were just drunk enough to say yes.

Which is how you now find yourself waking up in a hotel suite you don’t recognize, sunlight slicing through blackout curtains, your head pounding like a nightclub speaker, and a velvet ring box still open on the nightstand beside your phone.

You blink, sit up slowly, and spot the marriage certificate on the coffee table.

Mr. and Mrs. James Buchanan Barnes.

“What the hell…”

“Morning, Mrs. Barnes,” comes a slow, smug voice behind you.

You spin to find James—your husband, apparently—shirtless, lounging on the couch with a cup of coffee like this is the most normal thing in the world.

You gape at him. “We got married?!”

He smirks, lifting his cup in a toast. “Sure did, sweetheart.”

You clutch the sheet tighter around you. “Who the hell are you?”

That smirk only deepens. “Let’s just say… you married into the family.”

(©The_Romanoff_Sisters-April2025-CAI)