The Worst Hangover in History
469 Words
Ava Williams woke up to thre never wanted to experience the taste of regret, the soun heartbeat trying to escape h unfamiliar weight of a man's across her waist.
She froze.
The arm was attached to a man. A very large, very warm, very shirtless man. His face was buried in the pillow beside her, dark hair messy, broad back rising and falling with deep, even breaths. A tattoo of a compass peeked from beneath his shoulder blade- intricate, detailed, and completely at odds with the expensive watch still strapped to
his wrist.
Where am I? What did I do? And why does everything smell like champagne and bad decisions?
Ava's brain, still foggy from what she co only assume was an epic night ofcelebration, tried to piece together the last twenty-four hours.
She remembered the gala. The Las Vegas Event Planner Awards. Her name being called. The standing ovation. Her first major industry recognition after three years of hustling, of working seventy-hour weeks, of smiling through bridezillas and corporate clients who thought "elegant" meant "cover
everything in gold spray paint."
She remembered the champagne. So much champagne. She remembered her best friend Maya dragging her to a club. She remembered a man in a dark suit who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. She remembered thinking he was the most beautiful person she'd ever seen, even with that permanent scowl.
She remembered... signing something?
Ava's stomach dropped.
She sat up slowly, wincing at the light ctreamina throuah tho floor to_coilinawindows of what was clearly a luxury hotel suite. The view of the Las Vegas Strip confirmed her location. The crumpled clothes on the floor confirmed her poor life choices. And the small, official-looking document on the nightstand-
She reached for it with trembling fingers.
Certificate of Marriage.
Groom: Noah Alexander Blackwood.
Bride: Ava Marie Williams.
Date: June 15, 2026.
Location: Little White Wedding Chapel, Las Vegas, Nevada.
Ava read it three times. Then she read it a fourth time, just to be absolutely,
completely, one-hundred-percent certain that
she had not, in fact, married a stranger in Las Vegas while blackout drunk.
She had. She absolutely had"Oh no," she whispered. "Oh no, no, no, no–"
The man beside her stirred.
Ava's breath caught in her throat as he rolled over, revealing a face that could have been carved by a Renaissance sculptor if Renaissance sculptors had been into brooding billionaires with jawlines sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes-gray, stormy, currently squinting against the light-opened slowly.
They stared at each other.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Ava could see the exact moment recognition hit him, watched his expression shift from confusion to dawning horror to something that looked lot like volcanic rage.
a
"You," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"Me," Ava squeaked.
- Writer
