Page 36 of Bound To Be Mine

22 text messages.

What the hell?

I opened Instagram first, and my feed exploded with tagged photos and comments. My heart started racing as I scrolled through them.

There I was, in my dress, standing in what looked like a chapel. And next to me, his arm around my waist, was Briggs.

We were both smiling. I was holding a bouquet. Where had I gotten a bouquet? Briggs looked happier than I’d ever seen him, his hair slightly mussed, his tie loosened.

And we were standing in front of what was very clearly a wedding officiant. Dressed like Elvis. My eyes dropped to the caption.

“BREAKING: Billionaire attorney Briggs Blackwell secretly marries wedding planner Mandy Carter in surprise Vegas ceremony!”

I stared at the screen, my brain refusing to process what I was seeing.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

I scrolled to the next photo. There we were again, this time kissing. His hand was on my cheek, and I was on my toes, reaching up to meet him.

Another photo. Us walking out of the chapel, his jacket draped over my shoulders.

Another. Us getting into a car, both of us laughing.

I felt like I was going to throw up. I looked down at my hand, at the ring that fit so perfectly. Oh God.

It was my wedding ring.

I got married last night. To Briggs Blackwell. And I didn’t remember any of it.

My hands started shaking as I opened the text messages. Most were from Cleo.

“MANDY CALL ME” “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED LAST NIGHT” “ARE YOU OKAY???” “SERIOUSLY CALL ME RIGHT NOW!”

There were other texts but I did not have the mental bandwidth to deal with any of it. I sank onto the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support me. This was bad. This was really, really bad.

I dragged myself into the shower and stood under the scalding spray, letting the water beat down on my skull like it could somehow wash away the catastrophic mistake I’d apparently made. My head throbbed with every heartbeat, a relentless reminder that tequila and I were no longer on speaking terms.

When I finally emerged, wrapped in the hotel’s fluffy robe, I forced myself to look at my phone again. Maybe I’d imagined it all. Maybe it had been some kind of stress-induced hallucination.

Nope. Still there. Still very, very real.

I scrolled through the photos again, studying each one, looking for some sign it was all just a practical joke. I wasn’t seeing the joke. I didn’t look like a woman being forced to do something she didn’t want to do.

I looked happy in all of them. We both did.

That was almost worse somehow. If I’d looked miserable or confused, I could write it off as a drunken mistake. But in these photos, I looked like a woman who was having the time of her life marrying a man she barely knew.

My phone buzzed. Cleo. Again.

I couldn’t avoid her forever. I took a deep breath and answered.

“Are you alive?” she said immediately.

“Barely.”

“What the hell happened last night?” she asked.