Chapter 25: Vows in Verbiage.

Vincent Virenson.

The rain made my apartment look worse than it was. Not a flashy penthouse—just whiskey, gun oil, and last night’s bad decisions. Shadows clung to corners like squatters.

I sat on the edge of my couch, cigarette burning low. Three months. The judge’s words echoed like a drumbeat I couldn’t drown out. Three months to marry or face a lawsuit so nasty it could bury me alive.

Absurd. Humiliating. Real.

Only one person could drag me out of this ...