Like I have something to prove, I show up to Bellagio Atrium early the next day. I'm clean-shaven and dressed dapper for the wedding. Or, at least, dapper is how one middle-aged, cordial lady describes it. She and her equally middle-aged, cordial husband excels at one of those only-in-Vegas professions. The couple makes their living as wedding witnesses, among their other gigs.

I check the corner that the hotel cordoned off for us in the indoors garden for any surprises. Nothing dreadful hides between the flower constructs. However, Naz is also conspicuous by her absence.

"She better not stand me up," I mutter.

"Don't you worry, dearie, no girl would ever stand up a guy like you," my witness chimes in with professional courtesy.

She has a nasal laughter that can be either calming or irritating. I get to hear a lot of it, while the Minister is setting up for the ritual. Thanks to the titter, even her most superficial questions are like nails on the glass for my frayed nerves.

"Where did you meet your sweetheart?"

She tailed me down the street and botched the job. "In a gift shop back in L.A."

"Oh, how sweet! You found a bigger gift than you went shopping for, right?"

Here comes the titter. In three, two... shit. With a titanic effort I don't massage my temples. "We sort of bumped into one another. Turns out, we have mutual friends. In L.A.! What are the chances... Word for word... Well, you know how it goes."

Apparently she does, because she nods sagely, while I bite my lips. Hysterical laughter pressurizes my chest, seeking to escape. I'm getting lightheaded from its pent-up bubbles.

"Isn't it so romantic to be married in Vegas?" the witness pries.

The crowds will soon overrun the Atrium to photograph Bellagio's Christmas displays. Santa, his reindeers, and apocryphal polar bears made from carnations, poinsettias, and other buds. The floral display reminds me painfully of my baby's-breath-dilemma, but it's a must-see for the families touring the former Sin City. Naz and I need to get married pronto and clear the area. What's so romantic about that?

"Were you married in Vegas?" I deflect.

Her trite wedding story is so long, by rights it should take half-an-hour to tell. Alas, the glance I steal at my phone confirms that only five minutes have elapsed since the last time I checked at 10:10 a.m.

Naz is now officially late. I fidget with the phone.

"Take advice from an old lady," my not-so-old lady whispers in a conspiratorial tone, "don't text her. A girl needs a bit of space on a day like this."

"Naz is not just any girl," I say. "She has to be special to marry me." Very, very special.

"Aww." The lady blasts me with her irritating laugh again.

What I meant was Naz wouldn't be late when she's getting her wish. She would steamroll under anyone who has the audacity to stand in her way. Except for executing this complicated bypass around Luca with my help. That she hesitates to show up means she still loves him. She could deny it all she wants, but I'm not fooled. Plus, why would she divulge it's not his fault with Liz, if not to vindicate him in my eyes? See, she loves that piece of shit!

This time it's the lady's husband who interrupts my wallowing.

"Here comes the bride," he announces, mopping his growing bald spot. "And what a beautiful lady she is! Isn't she, sweetie?"

Lord in Heaven! Where did Naz find these two I Love Lucy extras?

"Small weddings are so romantic! You can tell it's just for the two young lovers," the lady coos.

"I wish it was smaller." Despite the minimalist size of my wedding party, I feel exposed. Vegas is filled with eyes hungry for any entertainment, which Naz delivers in spades.

Naz would have never worn a white dress, I think, even if she were marrying her precious Luca. Her gown is in a pastel shade, unlike anything I've seen her wear to date. A cool, pale violet-gray. I glance down—yes, it's the same color as my shirt, just a little lighter. She'd only seen me fitted for a moment and she remembered!

The dress has no bling. All of it—the crystals, the felt flowers, the sparkles—all of it went on the left side of Naz's head, where her hair twists out of the way, pulled over to spiral down the other shoulder. Breath hitches in my throat. Audibly, dammit!

The lady pats my hand. "You'll do fine, my dearie. Go stand before the Minister now."

Belatedly, I realize it was my fretting that earned me extra attention, dulcet tones, and a stupid conversation about romantic ceremonies. Naz likely paid the couple to pin me down until she arrived. They performed admirably, and who can blame them? The country is in a fucking recession and it's hard to find gigs. I know it first-hand as a small business owner. Times are tough.

I turn to the Minister. "We may begin."

Naz lifts a brow before taking her place, poised and radiant. Some of the blush on her cheeks might even be real. For her sake, I hope it is. No human should have so little soul left, they wouldn't blush when tricking a Minister. The best proof she loves Luca is that she's marrying me.

A sudden pinch on my arm returns me to reality. The Minister is looking at me expectantly. This must be the worst time to ask someone to repeat their question. I clear my throat.

My nature rebelled against pledging myself with a traditional oath, so I muddle through my own version of the vows.

"Today, I take you, Kamila Nazarevich, to be my wife. May our designs come to fruition, and may we both find happiness."

Nazarevich doesn't have the same reservations as I do. Or, maybe, she doesn't have enough creativity. She promises to hold me till death do us part, as per standard script.

Then, of course, the inevitable. The kiss to seal the deal.

"Liar," I whisper as my lips approach Naz' mouth and where a man in love would have whispered something else.

We've kissed before. We stood by the windows on Christmas Eve, and we kissed. This is different. I'm ordered to kiss her for myself in front of witnesses, rather than rehearse a kiss. Naz has a strange expression on her face as I linger over her mouth. Dare and awe mix, like she's asking herself if I have the guts to kiss her at all.

"Pucker up," I say.

Naturally, her lips part before I touch them.

Well, shit. If she is going to be like that...

I take full advantage of this opening, even planting a palm at the small of her back to anchor her. My girl doesn't back away though, doesn't give an inch.

My lips close around hers, her lips close around mine, latching onto the unlooked-for pleasure. She keeps her eyes shut for a millisecond longer than I do.

I can't remember breathing in until the State of Nevada pronounces us a man and a wife. The middle-aged couple offers joyous congratulations. My hand is being shaken as if I have done something admirable.

It's done.

I'm a married man.

Whether or not this is the biggest mistake in my life, at least it's done.

Once we're standing by the elevators, just married, my new wife whispers into my ear, "Wipe your lips."

"Hey, you started it." But I wipe my lips. Slowly, carefully, on the sleeve of my suit, staring her down as I go. Red lipstick streaks the pricey wool. By some miracle, the air between us doesn't explode into a nuclear fireball.

That's when I realize why I need her to be in love with Luca. Why I need this wedding to be as fake as the opulence of the Bellagio. Because, against all reason, if there's an ounce of the real thing in this farce, I crave that ounce.

What I want is revenge, but I also want—

No. 

Shit, no!

I want revenge, and Naz will help me get at Luca, no matter how she feels about him. Or to hell with her, her spank and her cherry-tasting lips.