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CHAPTER FOUR

“Fuck, Maiken, what the hell have you done?”

Surprise number one was waking with a very handsome man leaning over me. Surprise number two was the impact of my forehead with his. “Ouch.” I gently touch the lump forming there.

Christ. Another bruise to cover.

I sigh. I’m in a rideshare on my way home to Henderson.

Surprise number two — wait, no, three (shit, hangovers make math hard) — was that absolute dick of a man storming in and taking a verbal dump on me.

Surprise number… four? — yes, four — is the massive fucking diamond ring on my finger.

I lower my hand to look at the huge sparkly stone. It flashes its knickers at me, and I realize this is why Reece asked what I remembered from last night.

Holy hell and a half. What kind of craptastic situation did I get shit-faced and stumble into?

Also? I can’t believe what an asswipe his father is.

“A dancer, a wedding ring, and an F1 champion walk into a bar…” I snort. “That’s so stupid.”

The driver stops in front of my apartment building, so I tip him and haul my ass outa the car. The gin hangover is still raging through my system like an angry bull, kicking the inside of my skull and making the world too bright and too loud.

"Never. Drinking. Again."

My apartment complex isn't much to look at — a collection of two-story stucco buildings from the '70s with exterior staircases and railings that have seen better decades.

Its pink paint has faded to a sickly flesh hue under the relentless desert sun, and the landscaping consists mostly of rocks and a few cacti that look as baked as I feel.

But it's affordable, and I know all my neighbors, which counts for a lot in a city where people come and go like casino chips.

Plus my mom lives across the courtyard from me.

The concrete stairs radiate cold through my boots as I trudge up the outdoor staircase, each step sending jolts of pain through my skull.

I slide my hand along the metal railing.

It’s frigid in the desert morning chill, and somehow that small sensation triggers a flood of memories — Reece's warm fingers covering mine on that stupid Mario Kart wheel, cool condensation sliding down a glass, the weight of that thousand-dollar tip notification lighting up my phone.

God, he seemed so genuinely sweet. Nothing like the kind of guy who'd?—

"Maiken Lange?"

I freeze halfway up the stairs, jerking around to see a man I don't recognize standing at the bottom. The sudden movement makes me woozy, and that raging bull in my head kicks itself. Which I know makes no sense, but I’m really hungover, so a lot doesn’t quite make sense right now.

This guy’s in his thirties, wearing jeans and a polo shirt, and he’s holding up a small voice recorder. "Sorry to bother you, but are you Reece Pritchard's wife? Can you tell us how long you've been secretly dating?"

What. The. Fuck.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The words come out sharper than intended, adrenaline suddenly burning through my hangover fog.

"We have photos from the chapel last night." He pulls out his phone, his expression shifting from polite to predatory. "Just a few questions about your relationship with?—"

Nope. Nope-nope-nooope.

I sprint up the remaining stairs, heart hammering against my ribs. My keys jangle wildly in my trembling hands while footsteps pound on the stairs behind me. Finally, the lock turns. I throw myself inside and slam the door, deadbolt clicking and security chain rattling into place.

"Ms. Lange! Just a few minutes of your time!" His knocking turns to pounding. He jabs at the doorbell which, God bless my landlady, has been broken for years.

"Leave me alone or I'm calling the cops!" I sound braver than I feel as I back away from the door.

My phone buzzes in my purse. When I fish it out, the screen is a chaos of notifications — missed calls from unknown numbers, frantic texts from Delilah, Yasmine, and Eddie, and social media alerts popping up faster than zits on a fourteen-year-old boy.

How the—? Who the—? What the actual fuck is happening?

I creep to the window and carefully part the blinds.

My stomach plummets to my feet. The lone reporter has multiplied into a swarm — three, no, four men with cameras, circling like vultures.

A chick with TV anchorwoman hair is setting up a microphone, her movements precise.

Behind her, a news van with a satellite dish parks at the curb, its logo screaming a local station’s letters.

"Holy shit."

I’m trapped.

My phone rings again. The caller ID says it’s another local news station. I decline the call and check my social media notifications. My accounts are still blowing up with messages and tags.

"Formula 1 champion Reece Pritchard weds Vegas stripper in surprise ceremony"

"brEAKING: PNW Nitro’s Pritchard married in Vegas drive-thru chapel"

"Who is Mai-Lan Rouge? Meet Reece Pritchard's secret burlesque bride"

That last one accompanies a photo of us at the chapel. I’m laughing with that giant diamond on my finger while Reece stands opposite me, holding my hands, and a really shitty Elvis impersonator belts out a song behind us. We look deliriously happy and completely wasted.

I sigh. If Hector took this pic and sold it, I should be pissed, but fair play. He probably made enough to pay off his car. That's on our sorry drunk butts.

The knocking turns aggressive. Voices multiply outside.

"Maiken, are you pregnant? Is that why the rushed ceremony?"

"How did you and Reece meet?"

"Does your family know about the marriage?"

Shit. Fuck. Piss.

Hands shaking, I try texting my mom, though I know it's useless. Frankie's working her shift at the prison, and she won't see my messages for hours. She might as well be in another country right now for all she can help me.

I look around my one-bedroom apartment. No way out.

Pounding at the door sends my heart racing. My phone buzzes simultaneously. Christ. Why is the universe ganging up on me? This is such evil bullshit considering how hungover I am. When I glance at the newest text, I pause.

RP11:

Mai, RU OK?

The architect of my misery is checking in? I glare at the message, fury building inside me like air in a balloon and, fuckity-fuck-me, I’m close to poppin’ off.

I'm gonna kill Reece Pritchard. I'm gonna drive back to the Wynn and choke him with his own testicles.

Except underneath the rage is something else — a tiny, traitorous flicker of relief that he gives a flying fuck about what’s happening to me. I squash that feeling immediately. This is his fault.

I text back:

FUCK OFF

I get that you're cross. I can explain everything. People found out faster than I expected.

Which means he’s seeing all this shit unfold on social media too. Ugh. I want to hate him so much, but deep down I don’t. Which pisses me off even more.

Expected? You KNEW this would happen??

Not like this.

Was this all just to piss off daddy? Use the drunk stripper for your little rebellion?

You know that's not what happened.

The thing is, I don't know. I barely remember parts of last night, but I do remember his father barging in, the look of disgust on his face when he saw me, and how satisfied Reece sounded when he called me his wife .

I rub my wrist absently and wince at the deep bruises from that Junior dude. I also recall how Reece stepped in, and how he looked when he warned that asshole to back off. There was genuine protectiveness there, and rage.

My phone buzzes with another text from Reece, this one with an attachment. I open it to see a photo of a marriage license.

It's real. It has both our signatures. We're actually married.

“Fuck me.”

Let me send someone to get you out of there. You need space to breathe and think.

Stay the fuck away from me.

As I send that, I’m peering through the blinds again.

The crowd has grown to at least a dozen people.

Someone is interviewing my downstairs neighbor, Anushka, who's standing there in a pink silk bathrobe, velvet slippers, and full-drama makeup.

The retired showgirl looks thrilled by the attention, gesturing dramatically as if she's back on stage.

Normally, I find it endearing how she never leaves the house without false eyelashes and perfect contouring, even when she's just heading to the casino to chain smoke and play Keno all day, but right now I'm mortified that she's probably telling them all about helping me sew rhinestones on my pasties.

This is insane. I can't stay here, but I also can't trust Reece. Especially not after that encounter with his father. But... shit. Shit! I'm trapped and I fucking hate this feeling.

I'm used to having all eyes on me — hell, I get paid for it — but that's different.

When I'm on stage, I control everything: the lights, the music, what I reveal and what I keep hidden. I decide when to make eye contact and when to look away. I dictate every interaction between the audience and me. I’m the one telling the joke.

This ? It makes me the joke. I've gone from commanding attention to being cornered by it.

These people aren't admirers anticipating my next move; they're predators devouring whatever scraps of my life they can get.

They don't care about my art or my performance.

They just want to know if I'm pregnant with an F1 champion's baby or if I'm some gold-digging slut who trapped him during a drunken binge.

The thought makes my stomach churn worse than the hangover. That churning builds as another knock comes at my door and more texts chime my phone. I make a break for the bathroom. Bile rushing up my throat, I barely reach the tub in time to puke up last night’s dinner and a shit-ton of booze.

"Ungh." I spit the last of it out. "So gross." My voice echoes hollowly against the porcelain. I fucking hate barfing.