You wake up on a hotel bed, blanket barely covering your own nakedness, and take a look around at your trashed surroundings. Drugs on the table. Booze on the floor. Chair flipped over. Clothes strewn about. Your hair falls over your eyes and you push the blonde strands off your face and a ring grazes the skin of your forehead.
You push your arm up and out to examine the beauty from afar. It’s pretty and expensive, but that’s how they always are whenever you two decide to christen his new con with a wedding. He knows what you like.
A kiss at your ankle brings your awareness back to your body and a handsome man with bedhead is kissing his way up your leg.
“Morning Mrs. ...” He trails off at your knee, mouth twisting into a question and yours does the same. Shit. What new identity are you two sporting this time around?
But you cares, really. You married him in the first time with your real names and every other time is just for kicks. It’s stupid and needless but everyone is willing to cut discounts and give gifts to the supposed newlyweds. Who doesn’t love a wedding?
And it’s romantic, you think with a giddy smile, legs twisting around him until he’s on his back on the bed and you’re sliding up his body. Saying the vows again. Having a honeymoon again. The names are fake. It’s still a charade.
But the love is real, as are the fancy new rings, and that’s all that will ever matter.