Page 18 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Early Friday afternoon — Ariana

I t started with a buzz. Then another. Then a full-on avalanche of vibration from my phone, which was buried under a beach towel and sunscreen in the oversized tote I’d brought to the hotel pool.

They’d given us the VIP section. Again. Turns out, when you vacation with a rock band, velvet ropes just sort of… part.

I almost ignored it. I was sitting on a chaise lounge under a giant umbrella, wearing sunglasses the size of satellite dishes, and trying to pretend I was on vacation and not in the middle of a legal disaster that involved way-too-hot abs.

But the buzzing wouldn’t stop.

With a sigh, I reached into the tote, dug around past a slightly crushed granola bar, and pulled out my phone. Twenty-seven missed notifications. Mostly texts. A few emails. One from my boss.

My stomach dropped.

I opened the most recent one. It was from Jillian, another assistant DA in Milwaukee. All it said was:

WTF, Ariana?? Call me.

That was not the kind of message you ever wanted from a colleague. I scrolled up.

My mom just sent me this.

She’d attached a screenshot.

It was from TMZ .

The headline screamed in bold, unholy font:

“WHISKEY SMOKE’S BASSIST WEDS BADASS PROSECUTOR IN LATE-NIGHT VEGAS SHOCKER”

Below it, a photo. Of me. Of me . Holding a bouquet of cheap, fake flowers and what looked like a rhinestone tiara, standing next to Christopher in front of a neon heart that said “TRUE LOVE WEDDING CHAPEL.”

The caption underneath:

“Christopher Wentworth, of Whiskey Smoke, tied the knot with former high school sweetheart and current Milwaukee assistant district attorney Ariana Remington in a surprise late-night ceremony Thursday. No comment yet from either party.”

I blinked at the screen, trying to decide if I should throw it or just scream into a pillow.

It got worse.

In addition to my job title, the article named the most high-profile case I’d worked last year.

“Remington, who made headlines in 2024 for prosecuting the Eastside gang conspiracy case, is a rising star in the DA’s office.”

I dropped the phone like it was radioactive. How the hell did they know all of this?

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“What happened?” Meg asked from the next chair over. She was sipping something pink through a straw and scrolling Pinterest wedding boards.

I held up the phone.

She took one look and gasped. “Oh shit.”

Ellie leaned over. “Oh my God. Is that real?”

“It’s real. It’s very real. And it’s everywhere.”

My email pinged again. This time from our press liaison at the DA’s office.

“Please advise ASAP whether you wish to issue a formal statement or remain silent at this time. Are you available for a call?”

“Kill me now,” I muttered.

Meg sat up straighter. “How the hell did they get pictures?”

“There was a photographer at the chapel. I think his name was Kenny. Or maybe Kenny was the officiant. I don’t know. I was drunk and emotionally compromised.”

Ellie was reading the article on her phone. “Oh no. They have a quote from the chapel manager. She says, ‘They were laughing and kissing and seemed totally in love. It was super romantic.’”

“I will sue her,” I said, standing up and pacing the tile. “I will sue the chapel. I will sue the internet. I will sue Nevada.”

Meg grabbed my wrist. “Ari, breathe.”

“I’m a public servant,” I snapped. “I prosecute dangerous people for a living. I can’t be out here looking like I just drunkenly eloped with a rock star in full view of half the internet.”

Christopher appeared before I could spiral further. Shirtless. Smirking. Holding a bottle of sparkling water and looking vaguely like a Greek statue but with better hair.

“Hey,” he said. “Why is everyone staring at their phones like someone died?”

I whirled on him. “Because someone leaked photos of our wedding to TMZ and now it’s viral, and my office wants a statement, and my entire prosecutorial integrity is hanging by a thread!”

His smirk vanished.

He held out the bottle. “Sparkling water?”

I took it without a word and cracked the cap like it was a neck I wanted to snap.

“You don’t seem surprised,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“Because I was expecting it,” he said. “We were in a public chapel. I recognized one of the staff as a freelance stringer for celebrity gossip sites. I figured it was only a matter of time.”

“ You knew? ”

He shrugged. “Suspected. I mean, I’ve heard those gossip sites keep an eye on Vegas wedding licenses. It was only a matter of time.”

I stared at him like he was an alien. “You wanted this to go public?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I just wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“Well, congratulations. We’re now the punchline of the week, and I’m probably going to get pulled off a case or suspended.”

“Suspended? Ari, come on. You didn’t break the law.”

“I married you while drunk in Las Vegas. That’s not illegal, but it’s not a good look for a woman whose entire job hinges on credibility.”

Ellie stood up. “Do you want me to go get your laptop? You could write a statement. Maybe something neutral?”

Meg added, “Or lean into it. Say it was a personal mistake and you’re taking appropriate steps to rectify it. That’s kind of the truth, right?”

I sat down, heart racing. I’d spent years crafting my image. Being taken seriously. Rising through the ranks of the DA’s office, even when the old boys' club tried to keep me out. I couldn’t afford this kind of attention. Not like this .

Christopher knelt next to my chair. “I didn’t think it would blow up this fast. But look, I have a plan.”

“Oh, this should be rich.”

He crouched beside my chair. “We do nothing.”

I blinked. “We what now?”

“We don’t issue a statement. Not yet. We don’t confirm, don’t deny. Just let it simmer.”

I glared at him. “That’s your plan?”

“For now, yeah. Think about it: we’ve got forty-eight hours under our agreement. If we stay married, there’s no scandal. No joke. Just a happy couple?—”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Don’t say it.”

“In love,” he finished, grinning like a lunatic.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You are deranged .”

“But I’m right,” he said calmly. “If we issue something now, it becomes a circus. We say nothing, let it breathe, and if we end up staying married, it retroactively becomes romantic instead of reckless.”

“And if we don’t stay married?” I set down the water bottle and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Then we issue something clean and pre-approved. But later. Not mid-frenzy.”

Meg slowly nodded. “He’s not wrong. The story only explodes more if you jump in now. People move on fast unless you give them a reason not to.”

I sat back, exhaling hard. It made me nuts, but they had a point. “Fine. We only issue a vague placeholder statement for now for now. But we do prepare a more formal statement. For when the clock runs out. I want it drafted, vetted, and ready to go the second the forty-eight hours are up.”

“Done,” Christopher said, way too cheerfully for a man partially responsible for my public unraveling. He turned on his heel, already texting someone—his PR team, probably. Or maybe one of his idiot bandmates, who I was strongly considering billing by the hour for emotional damages.

Meg handed me her iPad. “Just in case. You might want to start sketching the version where you survive this with your dignity intact.”

I took it with a sigh.

By the time Christopher’s team had their placeholder statement up, the article had already spun off into three TikTok theories, a Reddit AMA from someone claiming to have seen us at the chapel, and at least one Instagram meme featuring my tiara and the words “BADASS ENERGY” in Comic Sans.

The official post was short and vague:

“In a private moment that turned unexpectedly public, Christopher Wentworth and Ariana Remington participated in a spur-of-the-moment wedding ceremony. It was a personal decision made during a celebratory trip with close friends. No further details will be shared at this time. We ask for privacy and respect for the couple.”

It wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t great. But it bought us time.

My phone finally stopped pinging. My boss emailed:

“Thanks for the clarification. Let me know if the situation escalates. Otherwise, we’ll hold off on a public statement.”

Relief washed over me.

Christopher texted:

Crisis (mostly) averted.

I didn’t answer.

But I didn’t block him either.

Which was probably a mistake.

Or maybe something else.

Because beneath all the outrage and spin control, something quieter had started to settle in.

Something dangerously close to curiosity.

Forty hours to go.

And suddenly, they didn’t feel long enough.