My craving for Agatha Rose

Everleigh Roman woke up with a splitting headache from the sunlight.

She groaned, rolling over.

Her cheek rubbed against something impossibly smooth. Cool, slippery, expensive satin. Not the cotton blend she had on her bed in the tiny studio apartment she was currently being evicted from.

She reached out blindly for the glass of water that should have been on her nightstand. Her fingers brushed against mahogany, then paper. Thick, textured paper.

Evie cracked one eye open. The room spun, a kaleidoscope of beige and gold. She forced her vision to focus on the document under her hand.

Certificate of Marriage.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow that knocked the breath out of her.

She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist.

She wasn't wearing her dress.

She was wearing a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the fabric smelling of cedarwood and something darker, like rain on asphalt.

"No," Evie whispered. "No, no, no."

Flashes of memory assaulted her. The charity gala. Darrin's sneer as he told her she was worthless without him. The open bar. So much vodka. And then... a man. A tie. She remembered gripping a silk tie, pulling a face down to hers. She remembered demanding someone save her.

She looked around. This wasn't a room; it was a kingdom. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, furniture that probably cost more than her college tuition.

On the nightstand, next to a platinum cufflink that glinted maliciously in the sun, was a note.

Evie picked it up, her hand trembling so hard the paper rattled. The handwriting was sharp, aggressive.

Gone on business. Last night was... memorable. - G.

G.

She had married a man whose name began with G.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to summon a face.

Nothing.

Just a blur of a sharp jawline, a sensation of large, warm hands on her waist, and eyes that looked like the deep end of the ocean.

Her phone vibrated against the wood, a violent buzz that made her jump.

She fished it out from under a pillow that smelled like him.

Eighteen missed calls. All from Illa.

She swiped the screen, bringing the phone to her ear. "Illa?"

"Evie! Oh my god, are you alive?" Illa's voice was a shriek that pierced her headache. "You disappeared! One minute you were crying about Darrin near the ice sculpture, and the next you were gone. Did you get kidnapped? Are you in a ditch?"

"I'm in... a hotel," Evie croaked. "Illa, I think I did something stupid."