Chapter 7 Charlotte's POV

Charlotte'S POV

Pain. That’s my first conscious thought. Searing, throbbing, all-consuming pain centered squarely behind my eyeballs. My mouth feels like someone stuffed it with cotton balls soaked in tequila.

Good morning, sunshine. Welcome to death.

I keep my eyes firmly closed, afraid that any light might actually split my skull in two. The sheets beneath me feel impossibly soft. They’re definitely not the mid-range hotel linens from the room I’m sharing with my friends.

Where exactly am I?

I cautiously extend my hand, patting the space beside me. My fingers connect with warm skin and firm muscle.

Oh no.

No no no.

I crack one eye open, immediately regretting it as sunlight stabs through floor-to-ceiling windows. A penthouse suite of some kind.

Turning my head requires herculean effort, but I finally do it. The naked torso beside me belongs to...

Alexander Moretti??

Alexander freaking Moretti.

Then the panic finally hits me.

You had sex with Alexander Moretti. Your boss’s billionaire friend. Shit shit shit.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

What have I gotten myself into now? And why don’t I remember anything?

We met at the pool, went to a private cabana, I think, and then... nothing.

As I try to piece together how we got from the cabana to... wherever we are now, something catches the light. A band of gold on my left hand.

That’s weird. I don’t wear gold jewelry.

I lift my hand closer to my face, and the room starts spinning.

Holy shit. That’s a wedding ring. A WEDDING RING.

A deeper panic slams into me like a freight train. I bolt upright, ignoring the violent protest from my head, and stare at my hand in horror.

“What the actual fuck?” I hissed.

Alex stirs beside me, groaning.

“Keep it down,” he mumbles sleepily.

“Alex,” I say. “Alex, wake up.”

He rolls over, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes.

“Five more minutes.”

“Alexander!” I smack his chest with my left hand.

The gold band makes contact with his skin, and something about the sound must cut through his hangover because his eyes fly open.

“What the—” He grabs my hand, staring at the ring. Then, with dawning horror, he raises his own left hand.

An identical gold band gleams mockingly in the morning light.

“No,” he says. “No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way,” I reply, yanking my hand back. “We’re... we’re...” I can’t even say it. Saying it makes it real.

Alex sits up now, sheets pooling around his waist. Under different circumstances, I’d appreciate the view. Right now, I’m too busy having a coronary.

He rubs his temple.

“This has to be a joke. Logan probably—”

“It’s not a joke.” I point to the nightstand where a crumpled paper sits.

Even from here, I can make out the official seal of Clark County, Nevada.

Alex grabs it, scanning the document with increasingly frantic eyes.

“Marriage Certificate... Alexander Matteo Moretti... Charlotte Elise Carter... what the FUCK?”

“That’s what I’d like to know!” I scramble out of bed, suddenly aware of my complete nakedness. I grab the nearest piece of clothing, one of his dress shirts, and pull it on.

Two years ago I was left at the altar. Now I’ve jumped three spaces and advanced directly to GO, skipping the altar entirely. What the hell is wrong with me?

“This is your fault,” I say, pacing the luxurious suite.

“MY fault?” Alex looks incredulous. “How exactly is this my fault?”

“Because I’d never marry...” I pause, remembering something that happened in the cabana.

“I was drugged! We both were!” I stop pacing to glare at him. “Whose friend brought the GHB? Logan. And who’s friends with Logan? YOU.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault, right? If I recall, you’re the one that took it first!”

“That’s because you dared me!” My voice rises to a pitch that makes us both wince.

“No I didn’t!” he retorts.

“Yes you did!” I insist.

Alex falls back against the pillows.

“Jesus Christ. I’m married. I’m actually married.”

The way he says it stings more than it should. Like it’s the apocalypse or something. Which I suppose it is.

What did you expect, Charlotte? That he’d be thrilled to wake up accidentally hitched to his friend’s secretary?

“Well, don’t worry,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We can get this annulled. Today. Right now.” I search for my phone, finding it on the floor beside what I assume are my clothes from last night.

“Annulment. Right.” Alex sits up again. “That’s the logical step.”

“Exactly.” I start gathering my scattered belongings. My shorts, my red tank top, one shoe... “We need to fix this before anyone finds out.”

Alex reaches for his own phone.

“Too late for that.”

He turns the screen toward me. It’s a tabloid website. The headline screams: “Moretti’S VEGAS WEDDING: BILLIONAIRE DEVELOPER TIES KNOT IN SURPRISE CEREMONY.”

Beneath it is a blurry photo of us stumbling out of what must be the wedding chapel, my arm around his waist, his lips pressed to my temple. We look hammered but ecstatically happy.

“Oh god.” My legs give out, and I sink onto the edge of the bed. “This can’t be happening.”

My phone buzzes in my hand. Then again. And again. A cascade of notifications already floods the screen. Texts from Hannah, Jess, Amara. Missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize. And most terrifying of all, an email from Christopher Blackwell with the subject line: “Contact me immediately.”

“I’m going to be fired,” I whisper. “Christopher is going to fire me.”