9. Margot
9
MARGOT
I ’m knee-deep in cross-referenced logs and unauthorized access reports when I realize I can’t find the one folder I actually need. Of course. Because nothing about this sabotage nightmare wants to cooperate. I fire off a message to Olivia, attaching the file path I remembered from my old desktop at headquarters: Can you pull this for me? Should be in the internal drive from Q4, marked ‘Foundations: Recalibrated.’ I hit send, then go back to pacing the living room while Grayson hums off-tune in the kitchen and burns something that smells vaguely like toast.
Five minutes later, my phone buzzes. One new message from Olivia.
Olivia: Found your folder. But also… Margot? Beneath that is a PDF. I click it: State of Nevada Certificate of Marriage . My name. Grayson King. Dated nearly a year ago. The room goes quiet around me. My heartbeat does not.
“Grayson!”
He walks in holding a mug. “If it’s about the smoke detector, I already opened a window…”
“We’re married.”
He freezes. “...Come again?”
I hold up the screen. “Olivia found a marriage certificate . In Nevada. With our names on it.”
He takes the phone, squints. “Well, I’ll be damned. I always knew Vegas had a weird energy.”
“This isn’t funny!”
“I’m not laughing. I’m impressed.” He hands the phone back. “I mean, out of all the ways we could’ve ended up legally bound, this one has style.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “This has to be a mistake. Or a prank. Or, God, I don’t know. A blackout trip?”
Grayson leans against the doorframe, looking far too entertained. “We were in Vegas last year. For that investor conference.”
I blink. “No. No. We went out for one drink.”
“And I distinctly remember you declaring we needed to ‘marry our algorithm to the future.’”
“That was metaphorical!”
He grins. “Was it?”
I groan, spinning toward my laptop. “I need to find out what happened. There must be photos. Receipts. Security footage. A drive-thru Elvis witness.”
“I’ll make popcorn,” he says, already walking toward the kitchen.
I shoot him a glare. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m adapting. Isn’t that what you always say? Relationships require flexibility.”
I toss a throw pillow at him. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re my wife, apparently.”
He catches the pillow and winks, and I dive headfirst into a frantic digital paper trail, hoping this wild twist somehow comes with a trail of answers, and maybe, just maybe, something I don’t regret.
"Okay," I say, after few minutes of digging through old emails and blurred Instagram stories, "we were at the Wynn. We definitely stayed there. That’s confirmed."
Grayson, now parked on the couch beside me with a half-eaten bowl of popcorn in his lap, tilts his head. "Right. I remember the hallway smelled like eucalyptus and ambition."
"And we had that client dinner with Cassian and the European investors," I continue. "I wore that gold wrap dress. You wore the navy suit you hate."
"You told me I looked like a smug Bond villain."
"Because you did." I scroll down. "Then there’s a three-hour block that night where neither of us posted, texted, or emailed anyone."
He leans closer, peering at my screen. "That’s... suspicious."
"Or we just fell asleep."
"Margot. You don’t just fall asleep in Vegas. You fall into a marriage license."
I shoot him a look. "Why aren’t you more freaked out by this?"
He shrugs, far too relaxed. "Because if I’m going to accidentally marry someone, at least it was you."
My heart lurches, and I hate how much that one sentence disarms me.
"Don’t go soft on me now," I mumble, still scanning through digital receipts.
He grins. "Never. I’m just saying, maybe this was inevitable."
"Inevitable?"
He shrugs again, brushing a popcorn kernel off his shirt. "Come on, Evans. You think we could go to Vegas, drink overpriced cocktails, and not accidentally get hitched? We’ve always been a little... dramatic."
I press a hand to my forehead. "I need to find proof. Something that tells us this wasn’t a hallucination."
"There’s a charge here," he says, nudging my arm. "‘Chapel of Eternal Algorithms.’ That sounds promising."
I blink. "That can’t be real."
"Only one way to find out."
I click the link. There it is, a website, areal one. Complete with neon cursive and a clip-art heart beating next to an icon of a server rack.
"This is absurd."
"This is us," he says, laughing. "Ridiculous, improbable, and strangely on brand."
I turn the laptop toward him. "If I find photos, you’re helping me delete them."
He winks. "Only if I get to pick one for our save-the-dates."
I throw another pillow at his head. He ducks, and somehow, beneath all the disbelief and chaos, I can’t stop smiling. Grayson gets up to refill the popcorn, and I follow him into the tiny kitchenette, pacing as I scroll through our Vegas weekend calendar on my phone. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with that maddeningly amused expression.
“We have to tell someone,” I mutter, half to myself. “Eventually.”
“Eventually,” he echoes. “But not today, right?”
I stop pacing. “Why not?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Because you’re barely holding it together and I think if you have to explain this to Olivia in real time, your soul might vacate your body.”
I exhale, dragging both hands through my hair. “Okay. Fine. Maybe you’re right. But what does this mean for us? What do we do with this?”
He shrugs again, but this time it’s slower, more thoughtful. “Maybe we lean into it. Embrace the mystery. Use it to our advantage.”
“Our marriage is not a marketing angle, Grayson.”
He grins. “Not yet.”
I slap his shoulder with the back of my hand, but he catches my wrist, tugging me slightly toward him.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Are you mad?”
I look up at him, and it takes everything in me to say the truth out loud. “No. Not mad. Just… confused, and a little panicked that I don’t remember something that’s legally binding. That terrifies me.”
He nods, serious now. “Then we figure it out. Together.”
I nod back, letting the moment stretch. Then I pull my hand free and open the mini fridge.
“Want to stress-eat some questionable cabin cheese?”
He laughs. “Only if we pair it with toast and mild existential dread.”
I hand him the cheese. “Perfect. The married couple cuisine.”
We fall back into our strange little routine, bumping elbows at the sink, side-stepping each other in the hallway, stealing glances as we pass. We’re figuring it out, or at least surviving it, one surprise at a time.