Chapter Two: One Tequila, Two Mistakes
382 Words
Forty-eight hours earlier…
Aria Carter was not supposed to be in Vegas.
She was supposed to be studying for her Modern Art final, sipping instant ramen broth, and crying over deadlines in her dorm room. But when her best friend, Liv, showed up at 11 PM with glitter on her cheek and a ticket in her hand, everything went sideways.
“It’s a free trip,” Liv had said. “You need this.”
Turns out, “free trip” meant Liv won a giveaway from a sketchy club’s i********: account and dragged Aria along as her “plus-one.” The hotel? Surprisingly decent. The club? Less so.
Now, soaked in bass and tequila, Aria leaned against the bar trying to remember her last name.
“Hey, Picasso,” a deep voice said beside her.
She turned. Slowly.
The guy was tall. Black suit, no tie, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes like storms. He didn’t belong here. Not in this crowd. Not with her.
“Excuse me?” she asked, trying to remember how to human.
“You’ve got paint on your fingers,” he said, nodding to her hand. “Guessing you’re either an artist or a very aggressive finger-painter.”
She blinked. “Art student. You?”
He didn’t answer. Just held out a drink.
She hesitated. Then shrugged. Vegas.
They talked. Laughed. Danced. At some point, he told her his name was Damien. Just Damien. She didn’t care. She liked the way he looked at her like she was something. Not just a broke student. Not just another face in the crowd.
They snuck away from the noise. Wandered the strip. The lights blurred. So did her thoughts. The night folded in on itself, soft and golden.
And then—
“I dare you,” Damien whispered, swaying slightly.
“To what?”
“To marry me.”
Aria laughed. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
“Exactly.”
“Then let’s do it.”
The neon chapel was pink and glittery and smelled like bad decisions. Elvis was the officiant. The ring came from a vending machine—she thought. Or maybe not.
She couldn’t remember the vows. Just that he kissed her like he meant it. Like it wasn’t a joke.
- Writer
