Martinis and Mistakes
“You what?!” Nora, Skylar's best friend nearly choked on her martini. “You married William Scott?!”
Under the rash illumination bar hummed with soft jazz, clinking glasses, and the quiet chatter of wealthy patrons. Dim lighting painted golden streaks across polished wood and velvet booths. Skylar sat at the corner table, legs crossed, swirling her drink—a fiery amber liquid that matched her mood. Across from her, her best friend Nora exploded in shock.
“How could you married William Scott?” Nora’s voice nearly cracked glass. “William freaking Scott? CEO of ruthlessness? That guy probably charges his reflection rent.”
Skylar gave her a lopsided smile, lifting her glass. “Relax. It’s a contract marriage. Two years, fake love, staged smiles, fat paycheck. That’s it.”
Nora slammed her glass down. “Girl, are you insane? William freaking Scott? That devil in a suit? The man who fired CFOs for using blue pens instead of black?”
Skylar snorted. “That sounds exaggerated, even for him.”
“I’m serious, Sky! He’s ruthless. Ice-cold. The man once shut down an entire branch just to prove a point.” Nora leaned forward, lowering her voice. “He’s the kind of guy who makes interns cry for fun. You need to stay the hell away from him.”
Skylar tilted her head, expression unreadable. “Wish I could.”
“Then why did you say yes?” Nora demanded. “After what he did to you back in college? After rejecting you like that at the engagement banquet—humiliating you in front of everyone?”
Skylar stared into her glass, her voice quieter now. “Because I don’t have a choice, Nora. You know how deep I am in debt. I either take this insane deal or risk getting dragged to court—or worse, the streets.”
Nora blinked. “So he’s paying you?”
“300K a month,” Skylar said flatly, raising her brows. “And another mil just to move in.”
She poured herself another drink. The way her hands trembled didn’t go unnoticed.
“Okay, now I really want to punch him,” Nora muttered. “He thinks he can buy his way into people’s lives.”
Skylar gave a bitter chuckle. “He doesn’t want me. He wants his grandma to believe he’s settling down. And apparently, I’m her top pick for ‘ideal bahu.’” She raised her glass in a mock celebration. “Congrats to me.”
“You’re seriously going to live with him?”
Skylar shrugged. “His grandma's nosy. And powerful. If she finds out it’s fake, we’re both screwed.”
Nora groaned, rubbing her forehead. “This is a disaster in designer packaging.”
“Tell me about it,” Skylar muttered. “Every time he talks to me, I want to hurl something at his smug face. But I also want to keep my credit score intact.”
They both laughed, though Skylar’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Nora reached out, touching her hand. “Just… promise me something?”
“What?”
“Don’t fall for him again.”
Skylar’s face froze for a second, but she masked it with a crooked grin. “Oh, please. I’m not that girl anymore.”
“Good,” Nora said firmly. “Because heartbreak’s not worth any paycheck, Sky. Even if it has abs and a trust fund.”
There was a silence between them. Jazz music trickled through the air, and outside, the city blinked with lights and oblivion.
Skylar, now noticeably tipsy, leaned back and raised her glass toward the ceiling.
“To fake marriages,” she slurred, “and real pain!”
“Sky, maybe slow down—”
“To ex-fiancés who turn into devil CEOs,” she continued, her words slurring further. “And to desperate girls with broken dreams and unpaid bills.”
“Okay, you’re done,” Nora said, reaching for her glass, but Skylar hugged it close like a teddy bear.
“I loved him once,” she mumbled, eyes suddenly glossy. “So stupid, right? Thought I could win him back. Thought… maybe if I stayed, he’d see me. He never did.”
“Sky…” Nora’s voice softened.
“But now—now he needs me.” Skylar gave a wobbly smirk. “To play a perfect wife. For his grandma. For his precious chairman seat.”
She giggled, but it quickly turned into a hiccup, then a sigh. “So I’ll play. I’ll smile. I’ll kiss him in front of Granny dearest. And I’ll take every rupee he throws at me like coins in a wishing well.”
Outside
A sleek black SUV rolled to a stop at a red light. Inside, William sat behind the wheel, his two friends chatting animatedly in the back.
“Bro, we could’ve gone to that new rooftop lounge—”
“Yeah, but Scott here’s all business as usual.”
William didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed outside the window.
His gaze locked onto a familiar figure.
Across the street, at the bar patio, Skylar sat with her head down on the table, giggling randomly between hiccups. Her friend Nora looked stressed, trying to keep her upright as she babbled something incoherent.
William’s brows furrowed. “What the hell…”
Without a word, he parked the car and got out.
Inside the bar
Nora tried to shake Skylar awake, who now had a half-eaten lime wedge stuck to her forehead and was mumbling about “marrying a goat if it pays more.”
“Sky, please, get up. You're gonna pass out—”
“Noraaaa,” Skylar slurred, “do you think goats know betrayal? Bet they’re loyal. Unlike some people with fancy hair and billion-dollar egos…”
Suddenly, a shadow loomed over them.
“Is she always like this after three drinks?”
Nora looked up—eyes widening. “William Scott?”
William looked from her to Skylar, who was now poking the table and whispering, “I named this table after my ex’s soul. Flat, cold, and dead.”
“She’s drunk off her mind,” Nora muttered. “What are you even doing here?”
“I was driving by. Saw her. Figured someone should stop her from licking a bar napkin like it’s gourmet sushi.”
Nora hesitated. “You two aren’t exactly... friendly.”
William knelt beside Skylar, gently pulling the lime wedge from her head. She blinked at him.
“William?” she whispered, peering at him dramatically. “Am I dead?”
“No. But you’re about to wish you were if you keep acting like this.”
Skylar giggled and flicked his nose. “You have two faces. Stop moving, I’ll pick the real one.”
He looked up at Nora, deadpan. “She’s coming with me. In this state, she’ll either get kidnapped or accidentally order a thousand pizzas.”
Nora hesitated a moment longer, then sighed. “Fine. But take care of her. Or I’ll throw a thousand pizzas at your face.”
William unlocked the door of his penthouse and guided Skylar in. She looked around, eyes wide like a kid at Disneyland.
“Woooow,” she whispered. “It’s so clean here. Is this... is this a hotel? Or a museum?”
“It's my house,” William muttered, helping her take off her heels.
“Ohhh. That explains the lack of joy.”
She stumbled forward, crashing into a plant. “Oops! Sorry, dear leafy friend!”
William sighed. “You're talking to my ficus now.”
“I talk to everything, Mister Emotionally-Unavailable.”
As he helped her toward the bedroom, she suddenly stopped, turned to him with narrowed eyes, and poked his chest.
“You! You never smile. Not even once. Like—like this!”
She attempted a goofy grin but ended up snorting.
Then she grabbed a cushion, tossed it in the air, and shouted, “Pillow fight!” before whacking William in the face.
He froze.
“…I’m going to sedate you.”
But before he could wrestle the pillow away, Skylar suddenly went pale.
“Oh no…”
William’s eyes widened. “Oh hell no—”
Too late.
She leaned over and threw up all over the William's tailored suit.
William stood there, stunned, as Skylar looked up with glassy eyes and mumbled, “Told you I was allergic to rich people’s smell…”
The next morning, warm golden light filtered softly through the tall, sheer curtains of the expansive window. Everything smelled faintly of expensive cologne and clean linen.
Skylar groaned, the pounding in her head demanding attention before her brain could even process her surroundings.
She slowly sat up, blinking against the sunlight, one hand pressed to her temple as if holding her skull together.
Her eyes scanned the room—polished marble floors, sleek black-and-gold furnishings, abstract art on the walls, and a walk-in closet that could house a small village.
She froze.
"Where the hell am I?”
Still disoriented, she looked down at herself—an oversized white shirt engulfed her frame, its crispness unmistakably not hers. These long sleeves hiding her hand, clearly designed for someone much taller.
She sniffed the collar. Definitely male. Definitely rich.
She groaned again.
Dragging herself to the floor-length mirror near the closet, she blinked at her reflection.
Mascara smudged under her eyes, hair a mess of waves, and a very suspicious drool mark on the collar of the shirt.
She gaped at her reflection. “Why do I look like I got run over by a luxury sedan and dumped in a billionaire’s walk-in wardrobe?”
Her eyes darted to the bedside table, where her purse rested—slightly open.
A familiar document peeked out.
Her heart sank.
“No, no, no…”
She pulled it out with trembling fingers—the marriage certificate.
“Oh crap,” she whispered. “I did.”