Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
DONOVAN
The line for the annulments desk is longer than it should be. Longer than it has any right to be.
But this is Vegas, and somehow, unlike weddings, elopements move much slower.
Like everything in this city moves fast until it doesn’t.
Scarlett stands beside me, arms crossed, sunglasses back on like armor. She’s colorless—black jeans and shirt—except for her flashy hair and leopard-spotted sneakers. Like if she hides behind her glasses long enough, this whole thing might disappear.
I shift my weight, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She hasn’t looked at me once since we left the café.
Not once.
It shouldn’t bother me. I’m not sure what else I expect anyway.
But it still does.
Maybe that’s because I haven’t stopped looking at her, trying to read every micro-expression that crosses her symmetrical oval face. Trying to figure out why I still want her thick, pink lips, her soft, ample curves, her flavor.
God, that tightens something low in my gut.
But it’s more than just lust or remembering her silky, dark red hair sliding between my fingers. It’s more than the adorable sounds she made when my head disappeared between her legs or the way her body responded to me. As if I were all she needed.
Something broke last night, and I can’t explain it. Or fix it. Like I realized there’s something I’ve been missing for thirty-four years that I didn’t even know existed. Let alone how much I craved it.
And now, it makes everything else before somehow mediocre—colorless, flavorless, boring.
Her dark eyes meet mine for one second, still unreadable. Then she looks away.
A couple ahead of us laughs quietly, fingers intertwined, paperwork in hand as if this is just another box to check.
Not for us.
For us, this is something else.
I glance down at my hand. At the ink circling my finger. Permanent, simple. Too real to ignore.
I flex it once. “This doesn’t have to be today,” I say.
Her head snaps toward me. “Yes, it does.” Her words come out too fast.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
A couple tense moments pass, and then, she exhales, tension still locked in her shoulders. We take another step forward in line.
The quiet settles between us like a wall. I have to find words. Talk this through with her, but where to start?
Words… expressing my feelings have never been my strong suit. Neither has being spontaneous as this ill-fated weekend has already proved.
“You always run this fast?” I ask. The words come out all wrong.
Her brow arches. “I’m not running.”
“Feels like it.”
Her head turns, finally looking at me. Really looking this time. “You don’t understand,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “I don’t.”
I let the confession settle. “But I could.”
Her fingers flex against her arms. Her gaze flickers—just for a second—like she’s considering it. Then it’s gone.
“No,” she says again, quieter now. “You couldn’t.”
We step forward again. Closer to the desk and being done.
Something in my chest tightens. I don’t like this. Not one bit. Not how easy she’s making this. Or how final it already feels.
Something else cuts through, too, clean and sharp. Her concern before about safety.
“You don’t even know me,” she adds.
“I don’t need to know everything,” I say. “And there’s time… to sort all of this out.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” Her voice cracks on that last word.
I shift closer without thinking. “Then tell me something,” I say.
Her laugh is soft. Hollow. “You don’t want that.”
“Try me.”
She finally looks at me again. “I don’t stay,” she says. The words are quiet.
I frown. “Why?”
She shakes her head immediately.
“No.”
“Scarlett—”
“That’s not even my name.” The words slip out, sharp and unintended.
We both freeze.
The line moves, but neither of us does.
I stare at her. She looks straight ahead as if she didn’t just drop a match between us.
“Not your name?” I repeat.
Her throat works. “Forget I said that.”
Not a chance.
“What’s your name, then?” I ask.
She shakes her head again, harder this time. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“No,” she says, turning toward me fully now. “You really don’t.”
There it is again. That edge like a warning.
“I do because if that’s not your name—” I gesture toward the marriage certificate “—then, we’re not actually married.” My eyes narrow. “Unless I’m missing something?”
She shakes her head, forehead creasing. Her mouth works, but no words come out. It’s frustrating as hell.
“Scarlett… Burgundy, whatever your name is, you can trust me,” I say, voice lowering, moving in on her.
She doesn’t back away or go stiff. Instead, her body relaxes like she wants this. And her eyes go black, pupils blown and her nostrils flaring.
I flex my hand at my side, fighting the urge to palm her cheek, draw her to me for a kiss. Part of me says that’s all we need—a reminder of last night.
But nope. I can’t.
Not with these mixed signals.
“You think you’re the first person with a past?” I ask quietly.
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
Her hands drop from her arms, fingers curling like she doesn’t know what to do with them anymore. “This isn’t something you fix with—” she gestures between us “—this.”
I step closer. Close enough now that she has to tilt her head to look up at me. “Who said anything about fixing you?”
That stops her.
“You’re not broken,” I add. “And whatever this… whatever you’re not telling me doesn’t have to mess this up. I’m more understanding than you’re giving me credit for.”
Her eyes dart to mine, like that’s what she needed to hear. But a second later, they go guarded and hard again. “We already fucked up if you’ve forgotten. Now we’re fixing it.”
“No,” I say, so close to her now that my breath pushes the hair from her cheek. “You’re fixing it. Maybe when you don’t even need to.”
She laughs. Only this time, it doesn’t sound so hollow. Instead, it’s gone bitter. “You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t know anything because you won’t talk to me… or give this a chance.”
Her eyes search mine as if she’s trying to find something. Maybe a reason to walk away… or one to stay. I’d give anything to know what’s going on in her gorgeous head.
“You don’t understand what I could bring into your life,” she says finally. Her voice is softer now and worn.
If she said anything else, I could let go. But this? There’s no way.
“I don’t care,” I answer. “And I don’t walk away easy.”
“That’s the problem.”
“Sounds like your problem,” I say.
Her lips part in surprise.
Good. Because I’m done pretending this is simple. “You want to walk away?” I continue. “Walk.”
Her chest rises and falls.
“But don’t do it because you think you’re saving me,” I add quietly.
My words hit their mark because that’s exactly what she thinks she’s doing.
The line moves again. The clerk behind the desk looks up. “Next.”
We’re at the front now. This is it… where it ends.
Or doesn’t.
I glance at her. She’s staring at the counter like it might swallow her whole. Her fingers twitch at her sides. Then—almost without thinking—I reach down and take her hand.
She freezes. But she doesn’t pull away.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask.
Her eyes close, just for a second. When they open again, they’re guarded and resolute.
“Yes.”
The word hits harder than it should.
I nod once. “Alright, then.”
I release her hand and step forward. In hushed tones, I explain our situation to the clerk. She doesn’t look surprised at all.
My head still throbs, mouth dry.
“Names?” she asks, not looking up.
“Scarlett Fuller,” Scarlett says quickly. Too quickly like everything about the way she’s acting today.
But it doesn’t make sense. If this isn’t even her name, why’s she using it? And why would we need an annulment in the first place?
The woman’s pen pauses. Just for a second. Then she looks up, eyes narrowing in Scarlett’s direction.
“Have we met before?” she asks.
Scarlett’s fingers tighten at her sides. “No,” she says.
The clerk tilts her head. “You just look—”
“We haven’t,” Scarlett cuts in.
The clerk hesitates. Then shrugs it off, looking back down at the paperwork.
“Alright,” she mutters. “Here’s your paperwork. Once I have everything and all your documents, we can move forward.”
I don’t move. I’m watching Scarlett. The way her shoulders are locked and how her breathing has changed from controlled to shallow and nervous.
“Scarlett,” I say quietly.
“Don’t,” she whispers. But it’s like she’s talking to the moment that just happened. This thing with the clerk, not me.
Her hands shake just enough that I catch it. Then she steps back, clutching the stack of papers to her chest. “Let’s go,” she says without hesitation or explanation. Just that same edge I heard before. Only sharper now.
I don’t argue, though too many words hang on the tip of my tongue to count. Instead, I follow the woman with long, burgundy hair.
Because I don’t know what just happened.
But I know one thing for damn sure.
That wasn’t nothing.