Chapter 2 - The Twenty-Four-Hour Clock
The sound of drawers opening and closing echoed down the hallway like a rhythmic drumbeat.
Ryan appeared in the doorway three minutes later, his tie completely off, his hair messier than before. He stood in the doorframe, watching me fold three pairs of work trousers and stack them neatly into the right side of the suitcase.
"Nora," he said. The anger had left his voice, replaced by a tight, nervous edge. "What are you doing?"
"I'm packing," I said, without looking up.
"Where are you going?"
"To a hotel."
"For the night?"
I picked up my toilet bag from the bathroom counter and zipped it shut. "I don't know."
Ryan took two steps into the bedroom, reaching out to grasp my forearm. His grip was warm, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and cheap champagne.
"Nora, please. Look at me."
I stopped and looked at his face.
"I'm sorry," he breathed, his eyes searching mine. "Okay? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have posted those photos without asking you. It was reckless. I was drunk, and everybody was laughing, and I didn't think about how it would look to your family or my mom. I'll take the post down right now."
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, his thumb flying across the screen with desperate speed.
"It's already down," he said three seconds later, holding the screen toward me as if showing a gold star to a teacher. "See? Deleted. It's gone."
I looked at the black screen.
"Deleting the post doesn't delete the marriage, Ryan."
Ryan let out a long, hard breath, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose. "Nora, we've been over this. It’s not a real marriage."
"I work at the marriage license bureau, Ryan," I said, my voice dropping an octave into a cold, clinical flatline. "I’ve worked there for four years. Do you know how many people walk through my counter every single day thinking a 'Vegas wedding' is a joke?"
He didn't answer.
"You signed an official state marriage certificate," I continued. "It was officiated by an ordained minister licensed by the state of Nevada. It was filed with the Clark County Clerk's office the moment you stepped out of that chapel. In the eyes of the law, the state, the IRS, and the city of Las Vegas, you are legally married to Ava Brooks."
Ryan stared at me, his eyes wide. "So... so we get an annulment tomorrow morning. Big deal. It takes five minutes."
"An annulment requires proof of fraud, bigamy, or severe mental incapacity," I said, zipping the top cover of my suitcase shut with a heavy shhhk. "You were not insane. You walked up to my counter, looked me in the eye, signed your real name, paid sixty-five dollars in cash, and walked to a chapel on your own two feet. You cannot annul a marriage simply because you sobered up and realized your girlfriend isn't smiling anymore."
The silence in the room stretched so long that the quiet hum of the central air conditioner sounded like thunder.
"What are you saying?" Ryan whispered.
"I'm saying you have to divorce her."
Ryan blinked. "Divorce?"
"Yes."
"A real divorce?"
"There is no such thing as an unreal divorce, Ryan."
He staggered back a half-step, his hand resting against the edge of the dresser for support. "Nora... we're getting married in six weeks. If I have to file for a divorce from Ava, it'll take months! The background checks, the paperwork, the public records—"
"The wedding in six weeks is canceled," I said softly.
The words hit the room like an anvil falling through glass.
Ryan’s face went completely grey. "What?"
"The wedding is canceled."
"Nora, no!" He lunged forward, grabbing both my hands in his. His fingers were shaking now. "No! We’ve spent eighteen months planning this! My parents paid the deposit on the country club! Your sister bought her plane tickets yesterday! You can't cancel our wedding over a stupid mistake!"
"It wasn't a mistake, Ryan," I said, gently pulling my hands out of his grip. "A mistake is dropping a glass or forgetting to buy milk. You spent five years showing me where I stood on your list of priorities. Today, you put it on paper."
"Nora, please—"
"I need you to step away from my bag, Ryan."
He didn't move. He stood there, looking down at me, his eyes wet, his chest heaving as the alcohol finally began to clear from his system, leaving behind the terrifying reality of what he had done.
From the hallway, a faint sound echoed into the bedroom.
It was Ava.
She was sitting on the living room sofa, her feet up on our coffee table, humming a song quietly to herself while she scrolled through her phone.
"Ryan?" Ava called out, her voice echoing down the corridor. "Where are the extra towels? The guest bath is out."
I picked up my suitcase by the heavy side handle.
May you like
I looked at Ryan one last time.
"She’s your wife," I said quietly. "Go get her a towel."
