Page 29 of Hitched to My Enemy
I looked up to see her standing in the doorway, holding the cheap chapel-provided band between her thumb and forefinger. The metal had already started to tarnish, a faint greenish tint visible along the edge.
"Holy shit, Harlow." Her eyes widened comically. "You actually married him. This is real."
I ended the call hastily, rushing to take the ring from her. "It's not what you think."
"It's a wedding ring. What else could it be?"
"It's complicated."
"You keep saying that." She folded her arms. "Start explaining."
I sank onto the edge of my bed, suddenly exhausted. "We got drunk after the gala. Ended up at one of those 24-hour wedding chapels. It was a mistake, a drunken accident we're going to fix as soon as the licensing review is complete."
Giselle stared at me for a long moment, then burst out laughing. "You? Harlow 'I-have-a-ten-year-plan' Clarke? Got drunk-married in Vegas?" She collapsed beside me on the bed,shoulders quaking with mirth. "This is the best thing I've ever heard."
"It's not funny," I protested, despite my lips twitching traitorously. "It's a disaster."
"It's hilarious," she countered, wiping tears from her eyes. "And weirdly perfect."
"Perfect? This could destroy my career if anyone at the commission finds out."
"Or it could be the universe kicking you out of your comfort zone." She picked up the ring again, studying it. "Why did you keep this? If it's just a drunken mistake, why not throw it away?"
The question caught me off guard. Why had I kept it? I could have left it in Easton's drawer, thrown it away, melted it down. Instead, I'd asked for it, brought it home, placed it among items I kept safe.
"Evidence," I said weakly. "In case we need to prove the marriage was real for the annulment."
"Bullshit." She placed the ring on my nightstand with deliberate care. "If this was just about legal evidence, you'd have taken a photo of the marriage certificate. You wouldn't be keeping a cheap ring that looks like you got it out of a carnival vending machine." She studied my face with her artist's precision. "You kept it because this means something to you. He means something to you."
"That's ridiculous. Four days ago, I considered him my professional adversary."
"And now?"
"Now he's... I don't know." I ran a hand through my hair. "It's complicated."
"You said that already." Giselle sat beside me, her expression softening. "Look, I'm not here to judge you. I just want to understand what's happening. One minute you're investigating him, the next you're married to him, then you're sleeping with him... It's a lot of change for someone who color-codes her sock drawer."
Despite everything, I laughed. "I do not color-code my socks."
"You absolutely do. And your hangers face the same direction. You're the most meticulously organized person I know, which is why this whole situation is fascinating." She nudged my shoulder with hers. "Harlow Clarke, breaking rules and following her heart instead of her rulebook."
"I'm not following my heart," I protested. "I'm... I don't know what I'm doing."
"That's the best part." Giselle's eyes sparkled. "You've spent your entire life following every rule, planning every step. When was the last time you felt truly, messily happy? Not just satisfied with a job well done, but exhilarated?"
The question struck deeper than she could know. When had I last felt real joy, the kind that bubbles up unexpectedly rather than arrives on schedule? I thought of Easton's office, of laughter shared over Thai food, of the way he'd looked at me with those storm-gray eyes as if I were precious rather than merely useful.
"I think I'm falling in love with him, Gis," I whispered, the words terrifying in their truth. "And it terrifies me."
"Good." She squeezed my hand. "The best things usually do."
"You don't understand. If the commission finds out—"
"Then you'll figure it out." She stood, pulling me to my feet. "But first, I need to meet this man who's managed to make my rule-abiding sister throw caution to the wind."
***
The commission building's hallways hummed with tension as I made my way to my office that afternoon. Conversations died when I passed, only to resurface in hushed whispers once I was beyond earshot. Colleagues who normally greeted me warmly gave tight nods or suddenly became fascinated with their phones.
