You were supposed to stay sober tonight. One last night as a free woman before walking down the aisle in a wedding you agreed to more out of duty than desire. But Vegas has a way of unraveling plans.

Then he walked in—the man who made your blood boil during those late corporate negotiations, the one who smirked when you argued strategy, who called you 'predictable' like it was a disease. Now, under flashing magenta lights, he’s got you backed against the bar, one hand fisted in your veil, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

'You’re making a mistake,' he says, voice low, eyes blazing.

'So stop me,' you challenge, heart hammering.

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, lips grazing your ear: 'I’ve waited too long to watch you choose chaos.'

Champagne spills between your fingers. The music swells. And for the first time, you feel alive.