Champagne And Chaos

In my defense, I only went to the wedding for the champagne. And maybe the cake. Definitely not for the vows. Weddings, in general, made me itch. So how did I end up with a diamond ring on my finger, a pounding headache, and a husband? Simple. I should’ve said no to tequila shot number nine. I blinked at the silk sheets beneath me, then at the broad, bare chest beside me, and immediately considered calling a priest. Or a hitman. Either would do. Ethan Bramhall. Wall Street’s most ruthless shark. The man who once shredded my big career pitch, humiliated me in front of an entire boardroom, and basically set my professional life on fire. The man I swore I’d never speak to again unless it was to push him into oncoming traffic or testify against him in court. And apparently… my husband. Oops. “Morning, Mrs. Bramhall,” he drawled without opening his eyes. His voice was all gravel and smugness. The kind of voice that could’ve sold a cult. “Nope.” I scrambled out of bed like a burglar caught mid-theft. “Absolutely not. This is a prank. Ashton Kutcher is going to leap out of that closet any second now. I’m being Punk’d.” He stretched, slow and lazy, like he was the centerfold of some magazine titled Men Who Ruin Lives. “Still drunk, Ellinton?” “Both drunk and in denial,” I snapped, yanking the hotel sheet around me like armor. “Last night never happened.” He cracked one eye open. Gray. Cold. Sharp enough to cut glass. “The ring says otherwise.” I glanced down. Oh God. The rock on my finger was the size of a small country. “Tell me this is fake,” I begged. “Please tell me you bought this at a gas station next to the Slim Jims.” Ethan smirked. “I don’t do knockoffs.” Of course he didn’t. He probably had silk pillowcases custom-embroidered with his initials. This man screamed limited edition. “Relax, Ellinton,” he said, settling back like he was on vacation. “It’s just marriage.” “Just marriage?” I squeaked. “That’s like saying it’s just a nuclear bomb.” He shrugged. “Either way, we’re already trending.” My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I snatched it up. And there it was… #BramhallWedding plastered across i********:, complete with grainy photos of me and Ethan stumbling out of a chapel like extras from The Hangover. I covered my face with both hands. “Oh my God, I’m going to die.” “Not before our honeymoon,” he said smoothly. I peeked at him between my fingers. “You’re actually enjoying this.” He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough. And that silence? It gave me way too much room to remember. The flashing neon lights outside the chapel. The slurred “I do” I was ninety-nine percent sure I shouted instead of whispered. Ethan holding me upright when I nearly toppled over the officiant. The blurry crowd of strangers cheering like it was a prize fight. God, had I thrown the bouquet at someone? Because I vaguely remembered someone screaming when I launched flowers directly at their head. I wanted to crawl into a sewer and live with the rats. Thirty minutes later. I was half-dressed in last night’s bridesmaid gown, mascara smudged like a raccoon, when the hotel door burst open. “WHAT THE HELL, GRACE?!” Oh great. My cousin Bianca. The actual bride. Behind her, two bridesmaids craned their necks to peek in. One gasped, one giggled. I resisted the urge to leap out the window. “It’s not what it looks like,” I blurted. Bianca pointed at Ethan, who stood there shirtless, sipping hotel coffee like he was in a Calvin Klein ad. “It looks like you stole my wedding hashtag, my hotel suite, and my groom’s best man.” “…Okay,” I admitted. “It’s exactly what it looks like.” Ethan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just set down his mug and said, “We’ll send flowers.” I choked. “We will not send flowers!” Bianca’s face turned tomato-red. “Do you realize what you’ve done? People are talking about you instead of me! This was supposed to be my weekend, and now it’s #BramhallWedding!” I cringed. She wasn’t wrong. The hashtag had over thirty thousand posts already. One of them was literally me flashing a victory sign with a veil sliding off my head. Kill me now. Bianca stomped a heel. “Fix this, Grace. FIX IT.” “I will!” I promised, though I had no clue how. “I’ll annul it. Today. Immediately.” Ethan finally spoke, calm as ice. “No annulment.” Bianca and I whirled toward him. “Excuse me?” I demanded. He straightened, finally putting his damn shirt on, and said, “You think I’m letting go of the one thing the press actually approves of? Forget it. This marriage stays. At least until my merger goes through.” I blinked. “You did not just turn my accidental nightmare into a business deal.” His smirk said he absolutely did. Bianca groaned into her bouquet. “This family is cursed.” And me? I was starting to think she was right. But cursed or not, I wasn’t about to play house with Ethan Bramhall. No way. No how. “I’ll get it annulled before breakfast,” I declared, snatching my heels off the floor and wobbling into them with all the dignity of a newborn giraffe. “Good luck with that,” Ethan murmured, slipping his cufflinks into place like he hadn’t just wrecked my entire existence. I glared. “This isn’t over.” “It is if I say it is.” He smirked, then added, “Smile on your way out. Cameras love you more when you look cooperative.” I scoffed, stormed toward the door, and flung it open... Only to be hit with a wall of flashing lights and shrieking voices. “GRACE! Over here! How does it feel to be Mrs. Bramhall?” “Is it true you two eloped after the wedding?” “Grace, was this love at first sight?!” “Ethan! Ethan! Look this way! Kiss your bride!” I froze on the threshold, blinded, my heart thrashing like a caged animal. At least twenty paparazzi were crammed into the hallway, cameras firing like machine guns. Someone actually shoved a microphone under my chin. I stumbled backward, choking on air. “What… what the hell…” And then a hand closed firmly around mine. Ethan. Cool, steady, smug as always. “Smile,” he said under his breath, lips brushing my ear. “Unless you want to look guilty.” “I am guilty!” I hissed. He squeezed my hand harder, dragged me right up against him, and faced the cameras with the smoothest, fakest grin I’d ever seen. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ethan announced, voice booming like a campaign speech, “meet my wife, Grace Bramhall. Try not to scare her too much. She’s new to this.” The flashes exploded again. Someone cheered. My stomach plummeted into my shoes. And just like that, chaos wasn’t temporary. It was permanent