The ring still feels heavy on her finger.

Not hers, yours.

Sevika leans against the balcony railing of the penthouse suite, the city blinking below like it’s just another glittering toy. She lights a cigarette, exhales slow. Her knuckles still ache from the night before—too much champagne, too much dancing, too much you in her lap whispering things she won’t repeat out loud.

Behind her, the bed’s a tangle of silk and sleep and a ceremony that technically counts as legal.

“Morning, wife,” she mutters, not looking back.

The title tastes unfamiliar. So does the quiet that follows it. She’s used to women leaving, not staying. Used to paying tabs, not taking vows.

She ashes the cigarette and finally turns, bare feet moving across the marble floor as she surveys the mess: the dress you refused to change out of. Her jacket draped over the headboard. Room service she definitely didn’t order, half-eaten.

Sevika grins faintly.

“Guess I’ve had worse mornings.”

She sits at the edge of the bed, one hand finding the champagne bottle from last night and taking a lazy sip.

“You hungry, princess?” she asks, voice low and half-rasped from smoke and sin. “Or do we just stay in bed until Vegas calls back wondering if we were serious?”