FOUR

Melody’s POV

I don’t remember making the decision to walk to the chapel. One minute I’m at the hotel bar with a stranger who stares at me like I'm his next meal and the next I’m stumbling down the Strip, wedding dress snagging on the sidewalk, my champagne bottle now replaced with whiskey still clutched in my hand.

Vegas is a ball of neon colors and poor decisions, and tonight I fit right in.

The stranger who's name is Alexander Kincaid walks beside me like this is the most reasonable thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, suit immaculate and gaze sharp. He was the kind of man that looked like nothing fazed him. I was sure he could probably order a heist before breakfast and still make it to his 8 a.m. board meeting.

I should be terrified but I’m not.

Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the fury still crackling under my skin. Or maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in years, I’m not worried about being the responsible one. The planner or the perfect fiancée.

That woman died tonight. I left her in a hotel suite with a ruined wedding and a worthless ring.

This new version of me was reckless as hell and has zero fucks left to give.

“Still time to back out, you know,” I mutter, glancing sideways at him.

He smirks. “I’m not the one who needs convincing.”

God, the arrogance. How was he so certain about this? Not that he was drunk and out of his mind too. I should be pissed off. His arrogance should make me roll my eyes and stumble back to my hotel room and face what was now my life but instead, it makes something hot and dangerous form low in my stomach and between my legs.

I have become so shameless.

I laugh again at the situation “You realize this is insane, right?”

“Well depends on how you look at it cause I am counting on it.”

We continue to walk in silence until the 24-hour chapel comes into view, an old little building sandwiched between a souvenir shop and a place advertising ‘live nudes’ in blinking red letters. There’s a glowing plastic sign that says Chapel of God.

A homeless man leans against the door, smoking a cigarette and scrolling through his phone.

Perfect.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” I say, stopping a few feet from the entrance.

Alexander turns to face me, and for a second, the noise from the street fades and it’s just us. Me in a ruined wedding dress, him looking like every dangerous decision I’ve never made.

He steps closer. “Last chance, Melody.”

I should run. I should laugh this off and blame it on the champagne, the humiliation, the heartbreak. I should crawl back to my suite, cry into a pillow, and book the earliest flight out of this godforsaken city.

But I don’t.

Because right now, this man is looking at me like I matter. Not as a possession. Not as a trophy. Not as a bank account in heels but as a person.

I was standing on a cliff and maybe I want to see what happens if I jump.

I lift the bottle, take one last swig, and grin. “Let’s fucking do this.”

His answering smile is dark and satisfied, like he was hoping I’d say that"

He takes my hand in his without asking and his palm feels warm with a firm grip and just like that, I let him pull me through the chapel doors.

The inside is worse than I expected. Tacky heart-shaped lights. Plastic roses in dusty vases. A faded red carpet that’s probably seen more regrets than a confession booth. The man who I thought was homeless follows us in, tucking his phone away and grabbing a sequined microphone.

“You kids ready to make some bad decisions?” he asks in a bored tone and I realized that he worked in the chapel.

Alexander pulls out a black card, tosses it on the counter without looking. “Give us the fastest package you’ve got.”

The woman behind the desk—a bleach-blonde with a name tag that says Trudy—snaps her gum and nods. “Right this way, lovebirds.”

I should be panicking and even running for the door but instead I'm floating. Drink on both champagne, whiskey and above all, on rage and pain.

We stand before a plastic arch strung with christmas lights. A neon sign above it blinks Forever Yours in pink cursive.

Trudy shoves a fake bouquet into my hands. The silk flowers smell like dust and sweat

“Rings?” she asks and I shrug. She sighs before going back to her desk and returning back with two rings. Cheap, gaudy things that were probably gotten from ring sweet that the children in the slums love to take

I choke on a laugh. “Of course you have rings.” I tell Trudy and she gives me a forced smile,

“We are always prepared for folks like you”

The pastor clears his throat. “Alright, folks, let’s make this quick. Got another couple waiting.”

The ceremony’s a blur.

Some half-mumbled speech about love and honor and burning desire for each other. Alexander never looks away from me, his gaze fixed at me like I'm some sort of prize. It makes my skin prickle and makes me hyper-aware of the way my pulse flutters at the base of my throat and the puddle that was forming in my panties too.

When it’s time for the vows, the pastor nods at him. “Your turn.”

Alexander doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”

Two simple words and something shifts in my chest. A sudden, unwanted ache.

I don’t know this man but in this moment, with his dark eyes locked on mine and those words hanging between us, I feel like I've known him all my life. Not the put-together version of myself I show to the world, but the messy, reckless, furious thing underneath.

And I realize I don’t want this to be a joke.

Not entirely. It was just the alcohol talking.

The pastor gestures at me. “Your move, bride.”

I swallow hard. My throat feels tight.

“I do,” I say.

It comes out steadier than I expected.

The plastic rings go on. The words are said. A pen scratches across a legal document with both our names and just like that, I’m married.

Holy shit.

Alexander grins. “See? Not so bad.”

I blink up at him, not knowing how he was so calm in the middle of all this. I was breathing hard

“I just married a complete stranger.”

“Correction,” he says smoothly. “You married a man you have a connection with and I'm not a stranger. We both are"

I laugh, can’t help it. “God, you’re an asshole.”

“And yet, here you are.”

He signs the last form, pockets the receipt like it’s a business transaction, then offers his hand.

“Ready to go, Mrs. Kincaid?”

The name makes something flutter in my stomach. I tell myself it’s the alcohol. This whole thing was the alcohol.

“Sure,” I say, grabbing the champagne bottle from the podium. “Let’s go husband.”

We leave the chapel, hand in hand and outside is still loud and full of people who looked liked they had places to be in the middle of the night. People who looked like they make terrible choices for a living and now I’ve officially joined them.

Alexander hails a black car with a wave of his hand like he owns the entire goddamn city and the car glides to a stop in front of us.

He opens the door, gestures for me to get in. “After you.” I slide inside, silk dress rustling, and he follows, shutting the door behind him.

The driver doesn’t ask questions. Just pulls into traffic like this happens every night.

We don’t speak. I don't know what to say.

The air between us is thick with whatever the hell this is. The high of recklessness. The sharp, heady buzz of mutual courage to make bad decisions. My head leans back against the seat and I lose my eyes.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” I murmur.

“Probably.”

I crack an eye open. He’s watching me again. That same intense, calculated stare. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly what kind of damage I can do.

“Why did you do it?” I ask.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Because I wanted to.”

I don't know why his reply made me sad. He didn't say he loved me or even had pity on me. He said he wanted to.

"You know you would have slept with me without this whole thing" I say and he only continues to look at me as if he was calculating his next move.

The car slows to a stop in front of the hotel and he offers me his hand again

“Come on,”

I take it. Everything is a blur to me. The lobby is just a ball of blinding lights.The elevator ride is silent and the doors open to a suite that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. Floor-to-ceiling windows. City lights stretched out like a sea of diamonds. A bar stocked with expensive bottles.

He leads me inside, shuts the door and I feel my back to the wall, warm lips on mine.

He kisses me like he’s claiming something. Like this night, this moment, belongs to us alone and I kiss him back. It's desperate and rough and exactly what I need.

My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. His grip tightens on my waist. The taste of whiskey and champagne fill my taste buds.

I don’t remember stumbling toward the bedroom. Don’t remember the dress hitting the floor.

I just remember the way his mouth felt on my skin, the rough scrape of stubble against my neck, the way he made me forget every single thing that came before this.

Rick and his betrayal. The fucking wedding. All of it burned away. I feel wanted. I feel alive and somewhere between the second and third time I come, I realize I don't want this night to end for two reasons.

What have I gotten myself into?