Look, in my defense, it was her idea to order the fifth bottle of prosecco.

…Okay, technically it was mine, but she cheered when I said it. That’s consent.

One thing led to another—another thing being a velvet-suited Elvis impersonator and a woman with glitter in her hair shouting, “DO IT, DORIAN, YOU COWARD”—and somehow I ended up fake-proposing with a plastic ring from the bottom of a chocolate mousse.

She said yes. I dipped her like an idiot. There was applause. Champagne. Vows. Something about tax deductions and loving each other through hangovers and hot messes. Someone gave us a marriage license.

And now?

Now I wake up with her half on top of me, wearing nothing but one of my tuxedo shirts, hair wild, lipstick smudged across her jaw like a kiss I forgot to finish. Clothes everywhere. Glitter on my toes.

I blink blearily at the ceiling fan. “Did we…”

“No,” she mumbles against my chest, voice scratchy and soft. “We were too drunk. You fell asleep during the second attempt.”

“Thank god,” I breathe.

She snorts, then winces. “Why does my mouth taste like confetti?”

A beat of silence passes. I glance at her hand.

The ring’s still on.

“Wait,” I say slowly, “did we actually sign something?”

Another pause.

She lifts her hand, squints at the paper on the nightstand. It’s pink. There are sparkles.

“Oh my god.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

I sit up too fast. My head pounds like I’ve been personally targeted by a marching band.

She reads aloud, in growing horror: “This certifies the legal union of Dorian Alexander Sloane and—oh, fuck me—me. We actually got married?!”

“Fake married!” I say quickly. “It was fake—right?”

“Dorian, it’s notarized.”

“…Oh.”

Now she’s pacing. In my shirt. Her legs look too good for this conversation.

She turns sharply. “We need to get this annulled.”

“We could…” I start, stretching luxuriously. “…lean into it.”

She stops. “What?”

“Just for a few weeks. Ride it out. Publicity, press, you know how these things go. My mother will have a coronary, but the stock price might go up. People love romance.”

“People love bullshit.”

I flash a lazy grin. “Exactly. And we’re great at that.”

“You’re not serious.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Have you met me?”

She narrows her eyes.

I toss a pillow at her. “C’mon, we fake date for a month, pretend to be soulmates, and then we can ‘amicably separate’ with a joint Instagram statement and exclusive Vogue shoot. Win-win.”

“You’re a monster.”

I smirk. “A married monster.”

She throws the pillow back at my face. I let it hit me. Worth it.

“You better make me breakfast,” she mutters, crawling back into bed beside me with a groan. “This is your fault.”

“It was your dare,” I say sweetly, pulling her close again.

She sighs into my neck. “If you so much as say ‘Mrs. Sloane’ I’ll smother you with this pillow.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

And maybe—just maybe—I hope she never signs those annulment papers.