Chapter 4 – Returns Home, Guilt-Ridden

LENA

Home didn’t feel like home anymore.

I thought stepping back into my small apartment would ground me, that I’d close the door on Vegas and everything would stay there—like some blurry dream I could shove into a box and forget about.

But the problem with dreams is they don’t come with a six-carat diamond still clinging to your finger.

I tossed my purse onto the couch and dropped beside it, staring at the ring that refused to come off no matter how much soap, lotion, or sheer desperation I used. My skin was red from trying, but the damn thing still sparkled like it owned me.

Because it did.

Roman Wolfe owned me, and he didn’t even know it yet.

I buried my face in my hands, groaning into the quiet. The air smelled faintly of the lavender candle I’d left half-burned weeks ago, a comforting normalcy that clashed violently with the chaos in my head.

It had been two days since I ran. Two days of replaying every detail, every sliver of memory from that night until I wanted to scream. The vows slurred through laughter. The way his hand fit around mine as though it belonged there. The heat in his eyes when he called me his wife.

And then my escape, barefoot through the hotel like a thief in the night.

A coward. That’s what I was.

I should’ve stayed. Faced it. Faced him. But no, I bolted like the twenty-two-year-old mess that I am, leaving behind nothing but crumpled sheets and maybe—just maybe—a man who would’ve made me stay if I’d let him wake.

And the guilt… oh, it gnawed at me.

Because while I’d been hiding in this shoebox of an apartment, pretending to be normal, there was still a marriage license in a drawer somewhere in Las Vegas with my name on it. A legal tie binding me to a man I didn’t even know.

I groaned again, louder this time, and kicked off my shoes. They clattered across the hardwood, echoing in the too-quiet room.

The universe wasn’t supposed to work like this. I was supposed to have my wild night, my bad decisions, and then move on. That’s what Vegas was for—what everyone joked about. What happens there stays there. Except apparently marriages.

I shuffled into the kitchen and pulled a soda from the fridge, cracking it open with shaking hands. The fizz drowned out the ugly thoughts in my head for about three seconds before they came back sharper.

I couldn’t tell anyone. Not Macy, not my mom, not a soul.

Especially not my mom.

She already thought I was a walking disaster. If she knew I’d managed to drunkenly marry a stranger on top of everything else, she’d never let me hear the end of it. She’d sigh in that disappointed way she had, the one that made me feel like I was five again and had dropped her favorite vase.

No, I’d bury it. Deep. Pretend it never happened, no matter how much my conscience screamed.

But pretending didn’t erase the guilt.

It sat on my chest at night, making sleep impossible. It followed me to work, where I stared blankly at my computer screen while emails piled up. It echoed in my head when Macy chattered over the phone, asking why I was being so weird and avoiding her questions about Vegas.

By day three, I was a zombie.

I dragged myself to the couch after work, too drained to cook, and ordered greasy takeout I barely touched. The TV flickered in the background, but I couldn’t focus. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Roman.

The curve of his mouth against mine. The way his deep voice wrapped around me, threading through my veins like silk and fire.

And the worst part? My body remembered even if my brain begged it to forget.

I hated myself for it.

I hated that the guilt wasn’t just about the marriage certificate, but about wanting him even after I ran. About wondering what he’d do if he knew where I was. If he’d chase me. If he’d even care.

The ring glinted under the TV light. I cursed at it, yanking again, but it stayed stubbornly stuck.

“You’re ruining my life,” I hissed at it, which made me sound officially insane.

Finally, I grabbed a baggy hoodie from the couch armrest, yanked the sleeves down to cover my hands, and shoved the ring out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind. That was the plan.

Except it wasn’t working.

The guilt only grew heavier, pressing down until I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Like any second, someone would knock on my door—an official, a lawyer, or worse, Roman himself—demanding to know why his runaway wife thought she could vanish without a trace.

I curled up on the couch, tugging the hood over my head, and closed my eyes.

Maybe sleep would finally come.

But even as I drifted, I knew the guilt wouldn’t let me rest.

It was only a matter of time before it caught up with me.

And I was right.

Because the next morning, when I shuffled half-asleep into the kitchen, the buzzing of my phone on the counter snapped me fully awake. The caller ID made my blood run cold.

It was my mom.

Vivian Carter, queen of dramatics and disappointment.

I swallowed hard, staring at the flashing screen. Ignoring her wasn’t an option; she’d just keep calling until she showed up at my door, demanding answers.

I forced my voice steady when I picked up. “Hey, Mom.”

“Finally,” she sighed, her tone sharp. “You’ve been dodging me for days. What’s going on with you, Lena?”

My grip tightened on the phone. If only she knew. “Nothing. Just work. I’ve been tired.”

“Well, you’d better wake up,” she said briskly. “I have news. Big news.”

I frowned, dread prickling down my spine. “What kind of news?”

There was a pause, followed by the sound of her voice softening, almost giddy. “I met someone. And not just anyone. He’s incredible, Lena. Smart, successful, handsome… and he makes me feel alive again.”

My stomach flipped violently, the soda I’d chugged threatening to claw its way back up.

I gripped the counter until my knuckles turned white. “Mom, you’re engaged? Already?”

“Not yet,” she said with a laugh that grated against my ears. “But soon, I think. Very soon. I can feel it.”

The guilt that had been simmering inside me exploded into panic. My throat tightened. “Mom, you don’t even know him that well—”

“Oh, I know enough,” she interrupted, dreamy in a way that made me want to scream. “And you’ll know too. You’ll meet him. This weekend. I want you to come to dinner. It’s important to me.”

My vision blurred. My chest heaved. I couldn’t breathe.

Because deep down, something told me I already knew.

Something told me fate wasn’t done with me yet.

And as my mom chirped on the other end of the line about how perfect he was, I realized with bone-deep certainty that my guilt was about to turn into something much, much worse.