Page 13 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I shoot him a glare. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m adapting. Isn’t that what you always say? Relationships require flexibility.”

I toss a throw pillow at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re my wife, apparently.”

He catches the pillow and winks, and I dive headfirst into a frantic digital paper trail, hoping this wild twist somehow comes with a trail of answers, and maybe, just maybe, something I don’t regret.

"Okay," I say, after few minutes of digging through old emails and blurred Instagram stories, "we were at the Wynn. We definitely stayed there. That’s confirmed."

Grayson, now parked on the couch beside me with a half-eaten bowl of popcorn in his lap, tilts his head. "Right. I remember the hallway smelled like eucalyptus and ambition."

"And we had that client dinner with Cassian and the European investors," I continue. "I wore that gold wrap dress. You wore the navy suit you hate."

"You told me I looked like a smug Bond villain."

"Because you did." I scroll down. "Then there’s a three-hour block that night where neither of us posted, texted, or emailed anyone."

He leans closer, peering at my screen. "That’s... suspicious."

"Or we just fell asleep."

"Margot. You don’t just fall asleep in Vegas. You fall into a marriage license."

I shoot him a look. "Why aren’t you more freaked out by this?"

He shrugs, far too relaxed. "Because if I’m going to accidentally marry someone, at least it was you."

My heart lurches, and I hate how much that one sentence disarms me.

"Don’t go soft on me now," I mumble, still scanning through digital receipts.

He grins. "Never. I’m just saying, maybe this was inevitable."

"Inevitable?"

He shrugs again, brushing a popcorn kernel off his shirt. "Come on, Evans. You think we could go to Vegas, drink overpriced cocktails, and not accidentally get hitched? We’ve always been a little... dramatic."

I press a hand to my forehead. "I need to find proof. Something that tells us this wasn’t a hallucination."

"There’s a charge here," he says, nudging my arm. "‘Chapel of Eternal Algorithms.’ That sounds promising."

I blink. "That can’t be real."

"Only one way to find out."

I click the link. There it is, a website, areal one. Complete with neon cursive and a clip-art heart beating next to an icon of a server rack.

"This is absurd."

"This is us," he says, laughing. "Ridiculous, improbable, and strangely on brand."

I turn the laptop toward him. "If I find photos, you’re helping me delete them."

He winks. "Only if I get to pick one for our save-the-dates."

I throw another pillow at his head. He ducks, and somehow, beneath all the disbelief and chaos, I can’t stop smiling. Grayson gets up to refill the popcorn, and I follow him into the tiny kitchenette, pacing as I scroll through our Vegas weekend calendar on my phone. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with that maddeningly amused expression.

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