Page 55 of Big Dick Energy

“The same adults who got black out drunk and married in a Vegas chapel by…” Sam consulted her phone. “An Elvis impersonator.” Sam smiled. “But this isn't just about protecting Dallas. You have assets too. A successful podcast, your own brand…”

“Again,” I said firmly, “unnecessary. We're getting divorced in three weeks.”

Sam laughed. Not a polite chuckle or a professional giggle, but a full-bodied laugh. “Three weeks?” She wiped tears from her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. “If you divorce in three weeks, every tabloid from here to Tokyo will know this was fake. They'll destroy you both.”

“Then we fly to Vegas tonight…” Davina started.

“Too late.” Sam pulled up something on her tablet, turning it to face us. “These photos from Vegas are already circulating. It’s only a matter of time before this goes viral. We need to get ahead of it.”

On the screen was a blurry but definitely identifiable photo of us at the chapel, me with arms wrapped around her as I dipped her at the altar with her head thrown back in joy, probably just before I kissed her.

We looked... happy.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Indeed.” Sam tucked the tablet away. “So you two better get comfortable with public displays of affection. Make this look real, or the media will eat you alive and pick their teeth with your bones.”

“That's graphic,” Davina said weakly.

“That's generous. The reality will be worse.” Sam tapped the envelope. “Six months minimum before you can even think about divorce. A year would be better.”

Our gazes collided, holding for a long minute. “A year?” We said in unison.

“Minimum six months,” Sam repeated firmly. “The postnup includes a confidentiality clause. Nothing too dramatic. You can talk about the marriage, obviously, that's the whole point. But once it's over?” She made a zipping motion across her lips. “Silent as the grave. It never comes out that this was arranged.”

We both stared at the envelope like it contained our death warrants.

“Also,” Sam continued, because apparently she wasn't done ruining our lives, “I've scheduled a photographer for your first date as husband and wife. Casual shots, nothing staged. We want organic romance, not prom photos. Think caught in a moment of genuine affection, not hostages trying to look happy.”

“We can do that,” I said.

“Can you, though?” Sam studied us. “Because right now, you're sitting three feet apart. You're supposed to be newlyweds. Drunk on love. Obsessed with each other.”

“We're... building up to that,” Davina said.

“Build faster.” Sam stood, then stopped abruptly, spinning back to face us. “I'm updating your social status to married within the next three hours, along with a social media post. By tonight, everyone will know Dallas Dodger is off the market. By tomorrow, you'll be America's most unexpected love story.”

She headed for the door, then paused. “Wait. Most important thing I haven't covered yet.” She set her bag back down, and my stomach dropped. Sam's most important things were never good news.

“You need a story,” she said, her tone shifting to deadly serious. “A believable, consistent story that you both know by heart. Every detail memorized. No contradictions, no hesitations.”

“A story?” Davina frowned. “We got drunk in Vegas and…”

“No.” Sam cut her off with a hand gesture sharp enough to slice bread. “That's what happened. That's not your story. Your story is what you tell your families, friends, and colleagues. The version that makes this believable, not a drunken mistake.”

She pulled out her tablet again, fingers flying across the screen. “How long have you been dating? Where was your first date? Who said ‘I love you' first? When did you know they were the one? These are questions people will ask, and if you stammer or contradict each other, even once, this whole house of cards collapses.”

“But we just tell them we've been keeping it quiet…” I started.

“Dallas.” Sam's look could have frozen hell. “Your mother is going to want to know everything. Her friends are going to interrogate you both at that party she's definitely throwing. One slip and suddenly it's all over social media that this is fake.”

“So what do we say?” Davina asked.

“That is for you two to figure out,” Sam said decisively. “Just make it believable.”

We exchanged glances.

“Love swept us away,” we said in unison.