Woke Up Married to the Handsome Stranger

What the actual....

“Oh my…….” I tried to move my body, but it felt so heavy and weak. Silence. For a long, disoriented moment, I let the silence hold me, like a blanket I could not move under. Then I realized the silence was the wrong kind. I managed to drag my upper body off the bed and open my eyes, and I was in no way prepared for what I saw.

Layers of silk and lace hugged me like a stranger’s arms. The bodice bit at my ribs, unfamiliar boning pressing where nothing had pressed before. I stood up in a waddle from the bed and rushed to a nearby mirror

“What the f**k?” I exclaimed to no one in particular because I was dressed in all white, a freaking wedding dress. My hair was done in a way I did not recognize, loops and braids and a few stray curls that framed my face as if some kind hand had tried to make me prettier than I felt.

Then I glanced around the unfamiliar room. Where was I? And how in the world did I get here? I was in what looked to be a hotel suite, with pale walls, and a window with the city spread below like a glittering rumour. An image of a wedding popped in my head, only it looked like I was the bride. Did I really get married, or is it just a bad dream? The wedding dress was proof enough that I had not dreamed. It's real.

I was having a mini panic attack as the events of earlier started coming back to me in bits. I saw the club again. I remembered the burn of cheap whiskey and the way I had decided, with drunk bravado, that tonight I would do something reckless. I remembered him, the stranger in the velvet booth. I remembered coming onto him. I remembered the moment he told me I was drugged. And I remember following a complete stranger to god knows where. Then blank.

“What s**t have I gotten myself into this time?” I rubbed my face as if that would erase the image I was currently seeing.

“You have gotten yourself into a marriage,” I screamed and jumped as a voice startled me. I didn’t realize I was no longer alone.

“You!” I came face-to-face with the stranger from the club, but a little different now. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, with his dark hair plastered down by steam. I was so caught up that I didn’t hear the shower running. He looked like a god. If I thought he was hot before, I seriously underestimated him. He is drop-dead gorgeous and sexy with his perfectly toned arms and chest running down to his slim waist, and a deep V disappearing into the towel.

“Take a picture, it will last longer.” Cocky. What more did I expect from an arrogant businessman?

“Where am I?” I asked. My voice sounded small in the big room.

“You are married,” he said. He did not smile. “Get changed. We are leaving soon.”

“Married.” The word landed like a physical blow. My mind scrubbed for recollection and found the flickers, the church, the vows, the photographer. “How?” I asked. “Why? I do not remember agreeing to a wedding.”

He dried his hair, folding the towel, and kept it on a rack without looking at me.

“You signed,” he said. “You agreed.”

“That is impossible. This has to be some sick joke.” The panic I felt was like a prick crawling up my spine.

He reached for a suit jacket and slid into it like a king putting on armour. “You were intoxicated, but sober enough to try and seduce a complete stranger and then asked to go home with him,” he said. “You said you would agree to anything I proposed as long as I left the club with you. You agreed while coherent enough to understand the words, and you signed while coherent enough to make it binding. That is what matters.”

I had the wild foolishness to think logic would soothe him. “You cannot just marry me because I was drunk and a damsel in distress in need of saving.” Like he would listen to me.

“That’s where you are wrong, because I did. Now get ready, we’re leaving.” He adjusted his watch on his wrist, and I just realised this man shamelessly got dressed in my presence. Men.

“You took advantage of my situation. You’ve made your point, don’t talk to cold and mean-looking strangers. Now let me go.” I tried again hopelessly to convince him.

“I will leave. I won’t bother you any longer. I will sign whatever you want to end this. I will-”

He turned and silenced me with one look. His eyes were grey and cold, almost the colour of steel. He stepped close until he was hovering over me and lowered his voice until it settled to decibels that shot daggers.

“You will get dressed and do as I say. You are mine now,” he said. His voice sounded anything but friendly, and it sent chills down my spine. “You agreed to be mine the moment you made eye contact with me. You will not leave.”

“You cannot own me,” I said right back. “I am not property.”

He smiled then, but not with kindness. “Of course you are not property.” He pulled himself off, and I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He opened a nearby drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. He pulled out a bundle of files and practically threw it on my lap. My name was typed there in neat letters, the kind that made things official.

I did not need to read far to find the clause that felt like a hand clamping around my lung. The divorce clause was blunt and indisputable.

“You may not file for divorce within the first three years of this marriage. Should you breach this,” I read aloud because I needed to taste the words, “you will be required to pay the sum of one billion dollars as liquidated damages.”

"What the actual f**k?"