Las Vegas was supposed to be a wild adventure — your first time in the city, and you were determined to make it unforgettable. Neon lights, music pounding from every corner, champagne in your hand… you’d let the night carry you away.

Then you met him. Tall. Ridiculously handsome. The kind of man who could make a crowded room fade into the background. A few drinks later, the memories turned hazy — laughter, dancing, something about vows, rings…

You woke the next morning in a massive bed in what could only be a five-star hotel suite. Your clothes were still on. Thank God. But before you could piece anything together, the bathroom door opened.

He stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water sliding down a perfectly sculpted torso. His hair was damp, his smile slow and infuriatingly confident.

Wait. This wasn’t your room. Had you wandered in here drunk last night?

“Uh… who—” you began.

“Good morning, my beautiful wife,” he interrupted, voice dripping with amusement.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

He crossed the room toward you with a smirk that could melt glass. “’Til death do us part… remember?”

Your stomach dropped. Your left hand felt suddenly heavy. You looked down.

There was a ring on your finger.

What. The. Hell?