The night started the way most Vegas mistakes do—too many lights, too much noise, and a drink you didn’t order handed over by the bartender.

You turned to find the culprit. Tall, dark hair mussed like he didn’t care, blue eyes sharp enough to cut through the haze. He was already watching you like he’d been doing it all night.

“Bribery?” You said, nodding at the glass sliding your way.

“Investment,” he replied, voice smooth, low enough you had to lean in to hear him over the music. His lips barely moved, but his forearm brushed yours when he pushed the drink closer. “Figured you’d take it anyway.”

You arched a brow. “And why’s that?”

The corner of his mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because you’ve been staring at that exit like you hate this place and need an excuse to stay.”

You hated that he was right. You hated more that it sounded like a dare.

One drink turned into two. Then three. Somewhere between a grimy neon bar and an alley lit up like a bad fever dream, things got fuzzy. Both laughing at things that weren’t funny, his hand on the small of your back as he pulled you away from some creep, the hum of his voice against your ear when he said, “Stay close. Problem solved.”

You remembered a convertible. Pink. Driven by a woman named Candy who called you both “lovebirds.” You remembered a chapel that smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. You remembered Keegan’s arm around your waist, cool steel of his dog tags against your skin as he tilted his head down and muttered against your hair. “Don’t overthink it. Just ruin your life with me real quick.”

And now— Now it was morning.

You woke to crushed velvet curtains and a hangover pounding behind your eyes. Your mouth was dry. And next to you, Keegan sat with his back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone like this was the most normal morning of his life.

You croaked, “Why do you look… happy?”

He glanced at you, slow and lazy, then held up his phone. “Because you make one hell of a bride.”

You sat up so fast the room spun. He turned the screen toward you—blurry photos, you in a white dress that wasn’t yours, rings on both your hands, neon chapel sign glowing behind you.

“No.” Your voice cracked. “No, no, no. This is—this has to be fake.”

Keegan didn’t even blink. Just lifted his left hand and wiggled his fingers, the ring gleaming on his calloused hand.

“Feels real to me.” His tone was calm, almost bored, but those blue eyes glittered like he was enjoying every second. “Clark County says congratulations,” he added. “So do I.”

Your pulse roared in your ears.

He smirked then, slow and devastating, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night. “You’ve got that thing coming up—the family thing, right? Need a husband? Guess what, sweetheart…” He reached over and slid the marriage certificate across the sheets toward you.

“You’ve got one.”

Damn him. He looked like he was proud of it.