Chapter 5 Jake
JAKE
One-Night Stand Etiquette
This morning feels like some kind of bizarre dream.
Granted, it’s not the first time I’ve woken up next to a beautiful woman. I enjoy sex. I appreciate the simplicity of a one-night stand. But I always treat the women with respect, and I always know their names.
This is the first time I don’t know the name of the woman lying naked beside me.
And that leaves me with a confusing mix of shame, frustration, and anger.
I drag a hand over the back of my neck, irritation prickling under my skin.
This isn’t about regret.
I don’t regret one-night stands. I don’t regret sex.
But I regret not remembering.
It’s sloppy. It’s careless. It’s not me.
It doesn’t align with my one-night stand etiquette.
And yet—
My gaze drifts to her again.
And the moment I do, the blank space in my mind flickers.
Fragments.
Her mouth on mine. Her laugh, bright and reckless. Her hands on my shoulders, her legs wrapped around my waist like she trusted me to hold her.
And then— her body beneath me. Bare. Unapologetic. Confident.
My pulse kicks harder.
Fuck.
The memories don’t come back all at once. They come in flashes. Heat. Movement. Skin. The sound she made when I—
I exhale slowly, forcing my thoughts back under control.
Because one thing is suddenly very clear.
The sex was spectacular.
Not good. Not decent. Not forgettable.
Spectacular.
The kind that lingers in your muscles the next morning. The kind that makes your body remember even when your mind doesn’t.
And seeing her naked now—
God.
She doesn’t even try to cover herself.
She isn’t embarrassed. She doesn’t apologize.
Her energy is bright. Confident.
She just stands there, completely unashamed, sunlight spilling over her creamy skin, flawless and warm.
It does dangerous things to my self-control.
When she gets up from the breakfast table I know what the paper is before she even picks it up.
Images from last night come to me in flashes.
The way she looked in her yellow dress.
The scotch. The tequila shots. A neon sign. The chapel. Gary, the Elvis.
Oh no.
Fuck.
My stomach drops so fast it feels like I’ve missed a step on a staircase.
“Don’t,” I say.
Too late.
She lifts it.
Her eyes scan the top line.
And then the coffee cup slips from her fingers.
It shatters against the marble floor.
Hot coffee splashes everywhere—including her bare foot.
She shrieks.
Not a composed, dignified sound.
A real one, full of pain, shock, and fear.
“Shit,” I snap, already moving.
But to her I say, firm and sharp, “Don’t move.”
She freezes immediately.
Good.
There are shards everywhere. Razor-sharp white fragments scattered across the marble like broken teeth.
I grab her before she can instinctively step back into them, my hands closing around her waist. Her skin is warm beneath my palms.
I lift her off the ground without thinking.
She doesn’t resist.
Doesn’t even seem to notice.
She’s too busy staring at the paper still clutched in her hand like it might bite her. Then she slowly lets it fall to the floor as if in slow motion.
But when I shift, she winces.
“My foot,” she gasps, her voice high and tight. “It burns.”
"I’ve got you," I mutter, my jaw set.
“Bathroom,” I add, carrying her quickly across the suite.
She’s so light in my arms that it barely slows me down.
Her arms instinctively wrap around my shoulders, and for one stupid, treacherous second, my brain flashes back to last night.
Her legs around my waist. Her breath against my neck. Her voice saying my name.
I shove the memory down hard.
Focus.
I set her down on the edge of the deep soaking tub and immediately turn on the faucet, testing the temperature until it’s ice-cold.
"Lean back," I command.
She obeys, her eyes wide as I lift her foot and hold it under the steady stream of cold water.
She hisses at the initial shock, her fingers digging into the porcelain rim of the tub, but after a few seconds, her breathing begins to level out.
I keep my hand on her ankle, my thumb resting against the delicate bone, keeping her steady.
I should be thinking about the certificate.
I should be thinking about the legal nightmare.
But instead, my brain is traitorously cataloging the way the light from the bathroom vanity hits the curve of her neck.
"Is it better?" I ask, my voice sounding like I’ve been eating gravel.
Talia exhales a long, shaky breath, her posture slumping as the sting subsides. "Yeah. Yeah, the cold helps. Thank you, Hercules. You’re surprisingly handy in a medical emergency."
I look up at her. She’s already regaining that spark, that "Sunshine" energy that seems to be her default setting.
She gives me a small, tentative smile, her blue eyes searching mine. "I'm okay. Really. I think I’ll keep the foot."
I nod, slowly turning off the water.
I grab a plush towel and begin to pat her foot dry with more gentleness than I knew I possessed. "Good."
I stand up, offering her my hand to help her off the tub.
She takes it, her skin warm and soft, and we walk back into the main room, stepping carefully around the puddle of coffee and broken china.
The paper still lies beside it.
Waiting.
“Damn…” she whispers. “Is that really what I think it is?”
I don’t answer immediately.
Because we both already know.
Because I remember signing it.
Barely.
“It’s a marriage certificate,” I finally confirm.
The words sound foreign coming out of my mouth.
Unreal.
Like I’m saying them inside someone else’s life.
She goes completely still for half a second.
Then her eyes widen.
“Oh,” she says, blinking.
“Yes.”
She looks from me to the paper and back again, her lips twitching slightly.
“Well,” she says slowly, “that’s… unexpected.”
Unexpected.
That’s one way to put it.
“I don’t…” she continues, shaking her head lightly, still sounding more stunned than scared. “I hardly remember that part.”
I do.
At least enough.
We got drunk. We got reckless. We got married.
Jesus Christ.
I drag a hand down my face.
This isn’t how I operate.
I don’t lose control. I don’t forget names. I don’t wake up married.
This isn’t me.
Except it is.
Talia seems to shake herself physically, like she’s resetting.
I watch her spine straighten.
Her shoulders roll back.
Her chin lifts.
“Well, Hercules,” she says brightly, brushing invisible crumbs off her dress, “my grandma always told me I would marry rich. Guess she was right.”
Her voice is already back to its usual sparkle.
I huff out a short laugh before I can stop myself.
Then I sober immediately. “This is no laughing matter.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Ah, it’s okay, husband.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Yes, dear.”
I exhale sharply through my nose.
This is no use.
We need to deal with this in a practical manner.
And there’s only one solution.
One logical move.
One responsible move.
I guide her to the armchair and then pace toward the window, looking out at the Strip. The sun is high now, illuminating the city of sin in a way that makes everything feel exposed.
"Talia," I say, not looking at her. "There’s only one sensible thing to do here. We need to find a lawyer. We need an annulment. Immediately. Before this gets out. Before anyone sees."
I expect her to agree.
I expect her to start listing off reasons why this is a disaster.
Instead, silence. I turn around to find her sitting very still, her gaze fixed on the floor.
The "Sunshine" has dimmed.
She doesn't say a word.
Something that disappears before I can name it.
“That’s the only sensible thing to do,” I continue. “It was a mistake. We were drunk. It’s not legally binding in any meaningful way once we—”
I stop.
Because she’s not looking at me anymore.
She’s looking at the floor, quiet and still. Completely closed off.
The brightness from a moment ago is gone again.
And for some reason—that bothers me more than anything else.
“Isn’t there another way?” she asks now.
“No,” I say bluntly. It comes out sharp and cold.
But I just don’t have time for this.
“We get an annulment,” I repeat, firm.
She exhales slowly through her nose, studying me in a way that makes me feel like I’m the one exposed.
“Right,” she says.
But she doesn’t sound convinced.
I can’t bear to look at her, so I bend down and lift up the marriage certificate, my eyes scanning the text.
STATE OF NEVADA.
Certificate of Marriage.
Our names.
Jake and Talia.
Talia and Jake.
Husband and wife.
My brain catches on her last name.
Talia Petrov.
“Huh, that’s funny,” I say, frowning.
She looks at me blankly.
“What is?”
“Your last name,” I say slowly. “It’s the same as my coach’s. The meanest, most old-school Russian to ever walk this earth.”
She looks more flustered now.
“What do you mean… coach?”
“I’m an athlete,” I explain.
Her face drains of color. “What kind of athlete?” she asks quietly.
I frown. That seems obvious.
“I play ice hockey. I’m with the Metro Raptors.”
She just stares at me. “What did you say your name was?” she asks.
Something cold slides down my spine. “Why?”
“What’s your full name, Hercules?” she presses, her voice tight now. “It’s not that hard of a question.”
“Jake,” I answer slowly. “Jake Morrison.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “No,” she whispers.
My stomach drops.
“You know who I am?” I say.
She nods faintly.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
My mind races. “And you’re Talia Petrov?”
She just nods.
“And you’re related to Coach Petrov?”
It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
She nods again.
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to steady the ground beneath my feet. “Related how?”
Silence.
She swallows.
“Is he like a distant uncle twice removed or something?” I push.
“No.”
The word lands heavy.
I stare at her.
She meets my gaze this time.
“He’s my dad.”
Coach Petrov. Talia Petrov.
No.
No.
That’s not—
That can’t—
My brain rejects it.
Refuses it.
Because if that’s true—
If that’s true—I married my coach’s daughter.
"Don't move," I say, my voice a hollow echo of its former self. "I think I need to throw up."