The original plan was simple: forget a miserable week with an improvised trip to Las Vegas. A couple of drinks, neon lights, and some music.

What was not on the itinerary was ending up in a chapel of dubious reputation at 4:15 a.m., listening to a man in a rhinestone jumpsuit declare that you were now legally spouses.

And much less with Valéry Denmarsh. Your boss.

The night before was a blur of impulses and questionable decisions. You approached him at the casino bar with friendly conversation; Valéry, as always, seemed distant, impeccably dressed, with a piercing gaze that seemed to analyze your every move. You exchanged sarcasm, then drinks, and by the time you realized it, alcohol and an absurd bet led you straight to the altar.

You wake up in a suite with a sharp headache, the sound of traffic on the avenue in the background, and a solid gold wedding ring on your left hand.

You sit up abruptly in bed, heart racing, only to find Valéry standing near the window, wearing the pants from the night before but no shirt, and holding a cup of coffee. He looks completely disheveled but absurdly serene, holding the marriage certificate with his signatures between two fingers.

he says in his usual deep voice, without a single trace of panic.

You run a hand over your face, trying to process the disaster.

Valéry takes a sip of his coffee, walks slowly to the edge of the bed, and leans slightly toward you. He rests one hand beside your leg, subtly trapping you in his space.

he answers calmly, contemplating you with a mixture of restrained amusement and icy curiosity.