I Now Pronounce You Mortified
Skylar sat frozen on the bed, staring at the marriage certificate like it had personally betrayed her. Her cheeks still burned with humiliation.
But then…
Pieces of the night started to drift back—foggy, scattered, ridiculous… and strangely intimate. At last she remembered throwing up
She gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God… I puked on him. On his suit!”
She buried her face in a pillow and screamed.
“Skylar Green, you idiot!” she muttered into the fabric. “Of all the things you could do in front of the man who holds your entire future in his manipulative hands, you choose pillow fight and projectile regret?!”
She sat up again, her heart thudding—not just from embarrassment, but a flutter of anxiety.
Because this wasn’t just some hookup gone wrong.
This was William Scott’s bedroom.
This was the contract marriage she had agreed to.
This was real now.
And something told her it was only going to get messier from here.
Oh god, William—then the blinding brightness of his penthouse lights, and his annoyed voice muttering something like “I need hazard pay for this.”
She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Why couldn’t I have just blacked out like a normal drunk person?”
Then… more flashes.
Hands guiding her. Cold fingertips on her wrist. A shirt being pulled over her head.
Wait.
Her eyes widened. Did he… change her?
Another memory hit her like a jolt of electricity.
—
Last night, after she’d thrown up and collapsed onto the velvet couch, William had sighed in frustration.
“Great. She reeks. I can’t let her sleep like this.”
“Do you always talk to unconscious people?” she slurred, suddenly sitting up, eyes bleary.
“You’re conscious now?” he asked, looking like he regretted it immediately.
She blinked at him with a dazed smile. “Whoa… you have really nice shoulders.”
William froze. “What?”
“And chest,” she added dreamily, poking his shirtless muscles. “Do you do pushups? Or does money just sculpt abs these days?”
He caught her finger mid-air. “Stop poking me.”
She giggled, wriggling out of his grip. “You smell like control issues and heartbreak.”
He rolled his eyes. “You smell like tequila and regret.”
Then, as he gently helped her out of her vomit-soaked dress, turning his gaze away like a gentleman, she whispered, “You know… if you weren’t such a corporate devil, you’d be really hot.”
He stiffened. “Thanks, I think.”
“But you are a devil. All sharp jaw and zero soul,” she added, tugging at his collar to keep herself upright.
Then she did the unthinkable—she rested her palm flat against his chest.
“You hide your heart under all these manly packs,” she mumbled, eyes closing. “Boom boom… William Scott's secret heart…”
His hand had stilled over her arm. For a second—just one second—he didn’t move.
She tilted her head, leaning forward, barely inches away.
“William…” she whispered, breath warm against his cheek.
He held her steady, tension in his jaw, eyes dark and unreadable.
Then—thump.
Her head dropped onto his shoulder as she passed out mid-flirtation.
—
Back in the present, Skylar clutched the pillow to her chest and let out a strangled groan.
“I touched his chest. I flirted with his abs. I practically purred about his shoulders.”
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
“And the worst part? He was actually... sweet. Ugh. Why? That makes it worse!”
Just then, the bedroom door creaked open.
Skylar sat up like a bolt, hair a mess, shirt slipping off one shoulder.
William stood there, freshly showered, dressed in a navy shirt with the top buttons undone, holding a mug of coffee.
He raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking over her flushed face.
“Ah. So Sleeping Beauty awakens.”
Skylar stared at him, eyes wide. Then immediately dove back under the blanket.
“I regret everything,” her muffled voice came from under the covers.
"Good morning, Mrs. Scott. How’s your hangover?” A teasing smile playing on William's lips seeing Skylar all flustered.
She narrowed her eyes. “If you say one word about last night—”
He smirked. “Which part? The flirtatious commentary? The chest poking? Or when you called my house a joyless museum?”
Her jaw dropped.
“You remember everything?”
“Oh, I’ll never forget,” he said, smug as ever, walking in and placing the coffee beside her. “Especially the part where you proposed to a ficus and accused me of hiding my heart in my pecs.”
She covered her face with the pillow again and mumbled, “I hate you.”
“You also said I was hot.”
“I really hate you.”
He chuckled. And for a split second, something soft flickered in his eyes as he watched her.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, but not unkindly.
And she couldn’t tell if her heart was pounding from embarrassment, or the fact that she still remembered the feel of his heartbeat beneath her palm. It had been strong, steady, dangerous—and it lingered far too long in her thoughts for comfort.
Flustered and overwhelmed, Skylar turned on her heel and rushed to the bathroom, nearly tripping over the carpet as she shut the door behind her with a thud.
She leaned back against it, pressing a hand to her chest. Her heart was racing like a hummingbird trapped in a glass box.
“What the hell is happening to me,” she muttered, patting her face and trying to will away the blush spreading up her neck.
After a hot shower, she finally felt human again—mostly.
An hour later, the room had fallen into silence. Cautiously, she cracked the bathroom door open like a raccoon sniffing out danger. Seeing it empty, she tiptoed out into the bedroom, wrapped in a plush white bathrobe that practically swallowed her.
“Tap. Tap. Tap!”
Water droplets trickled from her damp hair, tapping lightly on the wooden floor. She glanced around, scanning the room in search of her clothes from last evening.
“Where are they? I can’t show up to work in a bathrobe like I just survived a soap opera,” she groaned, pulling open drawers and peeking behind furniture.
Just as panic was setting in, her eyes landed on a folded note placed on the nightstand.
She picked it up.
“Your clothes from last night are being dry-cleaned. I took the liberty of having something more appropriate sent over for work. It’s in the closet. -K”
She narrowed her eyes at the signature, both annoyed and grudgingly impressed. “Who does he think he is, Batman in Prada?”
Still, she made her way to the closet and opened it.
Her breath caught.
Inside hung a beautifully tailored outfit—classic, elegant, her exact style. A soft ivory blouse with bell sleeves, paired with a high-waisted emerald skirt that screamed both power and grace.
And right beneath it, her favorite nude heels.
“He actually paid attention,” she whispered to herself, brushing a hand over the fabric.
She did her makeup in the car, slapped on some lipstick with the precision of a sniper, and made it into the office building just five minutes before her boss’s radar could catch her.
At the Office – Skylar’s Work Studio
Nora spun around in her chair as soon as Skylar walked in.
“Someone had a very dramatic night,” she sing-songed.
Skylar dropped her bag on the table and glared. “You. You left me with him!”
“I didn’t leave you, I entrusted you. To a billionaire. Who smells like a mahogany-scented security blanket,” Nora said, smirking.
Skylar groaned. “Nora, I threw up on him. I touched his abs. I accused his plants of betrayal. Do you know how long it takes to recover from that level of humiliation?!”
“Wait—you touched his abs?!” Nora nearly shrieked, drawing the attention of half the room.
Skylar dragged her hands over her face. “Can we not do this here?”
Nora lowered her voice but leaned in, eyes gleaming with gossip. “So… what happened after you left with Mr. ‘I-Wear-Armani-To-Breathe’?”
“Nothing,” Skylar mumbled. “I passed out mid-flirt and woke up wearing his shirt like a homeless sleepover guest.”
“You’re glowing. Are you sure nothing happened?” Nora teased.
Before Skylar could throw a stapler at her, their general manager walked in and clapped his hands.
“Team, quick announcement—everyone to the lobby. The new CEO is arriving this morning, and we’re welcoming him in five minutes. Please line up.”
A ripple of excitement and murmurs swept across the design floor.
“New CEO? Did you know about this?” Nora asked.
“No. I thought Mr. Anderson was still here,” Skylar replied, straightening her blazer and joining the others.
Everyone stood lined up near the reception as a sleek black car rolled into the driveway.
Skylar folded her arms and sighed. “Whoever it is, I just hope they aren’t insufferable—”
The doors opened.
Out stepped a man in a crisp navy suit, sunglasses in place, confidence radiating like a designer perfume ad in motion.
Her jaw dropped.
William Scott.