Page 80 of Accidental Vegas Vows

His office.

Shit, that had to be where my stapler was.

He’d been working from home in the evenings and late into the night. He must have needed my stapler and gone searching for mine, the thought not even crossing his mind to tell me or put it back.

Padding down the last set of stairs into the open living room on the ground floor, I rounded the corner, stepping into the hallway that ran opposite to the kitchen. There was only one door along it, which I’d always considered kind of odd every time I came back here — one that led directly into his office.

The scent of oak invaded my nostrils. Everything in here was polished wood, dark paint, and matched the shadowy design of his kitchen and living room. But then the hint of lingering almonds, rum, and vanilla came swiftly after as I made my way to his desk. A last little reminder that he’d spent all night in here.

I sunk down into his office chair, doing a quick scan of the top of his desk and coming up short. He’d bought the exact same chair for my space upstairs, and although his was slightly more plush from less use overall, it was just as comfortable. His home laptop sat on his desk undisturbed and closed, and although the temptation was there, I didn’t open it.

But I needed my damn stapler.

One long drawer ran along the top of the footwell, and I checked there first, but found nothing except a couple of stacks of unused post-it notes and a handful of slightly bent paperclips.

The upper drawer to my left held two stacks of paper, both some kind of legal paperwork that I didn’t fully understand, but I could at least gather that they were to do with the lawsuits from Blackwood’s against the four companies he’d acquired.

In the lower drawer to the left, I found nothing but a faint sheen of dust on the bottom of it and a single discarded paperclip half-lodged in the wood at the very back.

I turned to my right, hooking my finger on the handle of the upper drawer, and tugged. My breath caught.

There, on top of a stack of papers, sat my stapler. Finally.

I wrapped my digits around it and lifted the heavy duty stapler up onto the desk, but the moment I went to close the drawer, my vision snagged on my own name. Damien Blackwood and Olivia Martin.

I looked a little closer, pulling the drawer further out so I could see the entire top sheet of paper. Application For Annulment: Notice of Acceptance was written across the top in big bold lettering, and my fucking heart stopped beating.

What… the hell?

With shaking hands, I lifted the papers out of the drawer. The date on the top right corner was nearly two weeks ago. I scanned the page, hoping that maybe it was just a standard bit of mail to inform the two applicants that their paperwork had been accepted by the office but was still pending approval. But the more I read, the more my stomach churned, and the more angry I became.

It wasn’t pending approval.

They were waiting for a court date to be set.

————

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when I heard the front door alarm chime.

I hadn’t even moved from his office. I must have spent hours upon hours staring at those papers, reading every line, memorizing them. I vaguely remember calling the courthouse to ask whether a date had been set in the hopes that maybe he’d just recently scheduled it and hadn’t had the chance to tell me, but the woman on the phone informed me that both parties need to agree to the date before it was finalized.

I’d almost thrown up on his desk after that.

Steps padded through the living room, and even in my haze of shock and anger, even with my inability to move, I could feel myself vibrating, could feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. Part of me hoped it was Caroline, but I knew deep down in my gut that it wasn’t.

The footsteps grew closer, closer, closer.

And stopped.

“Liv?”

I couldn’t bring myself to tear my gaze from the papers in front of me. I couldn’t bring myself to move from his chair, my knees tucked up against my chest, my toes dangling off the edge, my arms around my shins. I didn’t care that I was still in what I considered pajamas when Noah wasn’t around — a far too large shirt of Damien’s and nothing else.

“Fuck,” Damien sighed, and something leather and metal hit the ground. Had to be his briefcase.

The backs of my eyes burned, but I hadn’t drank any water since I’d come downstairs and I’d cried out far too many tears. They wouldn’t form — only threatened to.

“Liv—”

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