The Husband Hangover: Chapter Five - The Morning After, the Morning After

The hangover has finally cleared, and I’m left with the truth. I didn't just marry the wrong brother to get revenge. I married the only man who was ever strong enough to catch me when I fell.

Chapter Five

The Morning After, the Morning After

Ivy Rhodes-Vance

The light in the penthouse this morning is different. It’s not the sharp, judgmental glare of the day after the wedding that never was. It’s soft, filtered through the high-rise haze of the city, warming the charcoal sheets and the skin of the man sleeping beside me.

I stay still for a long time, just watching Roman. Without the sharp suit and the predatory gaze, he looks almost… peaceful. His dark hair is a mess against the pillow, and the harsh lines of his jaw have softened in sleep.

I look down at my left hand. The cheap gold band is still there. It’s scratched now, a little dull, but it feels heavier than the diamond Marcus gave me ever did. It feels like a promise kept rather than a trophy won.

I slip out of bed, moving as quietly as I can, and pull on one of Roman’s discarded white dress shirts. It smells like him—sandalwood, iron, and something uniquely masculine. It swallows me whole, the cuffs hanging past my fingertips, but the weight of it is comforting.

The fabric is high-thread-count cotton, crisp but broken-in. I roll the sleeves up, the heavy folds of fabric a stark contrast to the flimsy, restrictive lace I’ve been expected to wear for years. Underneath the hem, my legs are bare, the morning air cooling the places where he left me burning last night. Every time I move, the scent of him billows up from the collar, wrapping around me like a silent possessiveness. It's borrowed armor, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m hiding. I feel like I’m being shielded.

In the kitchen, I go through the motions of making coffee. The hum of the espresso machine is the only sound in the penthouse. My mind feels clear for the first time in days. The "hangover"—both the literal and the emotional one—has finally burned off, leaving behind a terrifying, beautiful reality.

I’m married to Roman Vance and I don’t want an annulment.

"You're remarkably domestic for a woman who was ready to set a country club on fire forty-eight hours ago."

I turn, leaning against the marble counter as Roman leans against the doorframe. He’s wearing only a pair of dark grey sweatpants, his chest bare, showing off the tattoos that Marcus always told me were "low-class." To me, they look like a map of a life actually lived. And I have to admit… quite delicious.

My eyes trace the dark ink that snakes over his shoulder and down his ribs, disappearing beneath the low-slung waistband of his sweatpants. One looks like a coordinate, maybe a place he escaped to when the Vance name became too heavy. Another is a jagged, abstract blade. They’re beautiful in a way that’s meant to warn people off, a visual no trespassing sign that I’ve just spent the last eight hours ignoring. I watch the way the muscles in his stomach ripple as he breathes, the raw, unpolished power of him making the sterile, marble-and-glass kitchen feel suddenly too small. Marcus was all polished marble and curated smiles; Roman is granite and fire.

"The fire is still there," I say, offering him a mug. "I’ve just decided to use it to keep warm instead of burning everything down."

He takes the coffee, and his fingers brush mine. That same spark from the car, the bar, and the bedroom jumps between us. He sips the coffee, and his eyes never leave mine.

"You're still wearing it," he notes, glancing down at the gold band on my finger.

"It’s a bit hard to get off," I lie, my heart rate picking up. "Must be the cheap metal."

Roman sets his mug down and steps into my space. He doesn't crowd me; he just exists in a way that demands I acknowledge him. He takes my hand, lifting it to his lips, his gaze intense.

"Ivy," he says, his voice a low rumble. "We did this in a whirlwind. We did it when you were hurting and I was… opportunistic. The trust fund, the revenge against Marcus—that’s all noise. If you want out, I have the best lawyers in the city on retainer. I can make this marriage disappear by noon."

"One phone call," he continues, his voice devoid of emotion, though his eyes are searing. "I can have the papers drawn, the records suppressed, and a nondisclosure agreement in your hand before the sun hits the mid-point of the sky. You could walk out that door and tell the world you were kidnapped, or that it was a momentary lapse in judgment. You could go back to the lilies and the brunch and the life where everyone knows your name and no one knows your heart." The clinical reality of it, the ease with which he could erase us, is a bucket of ice water over my skin. He’s giving me a key to a cage I’ve already burned to the ground.

I feel a pang of fear. "Is that what you want?"

Shaking his head back and forth,"I want you," he says, and the simplicity of the statement floors me. "I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you. But I want you sober. I want you wide awake. I want you to choose me because you want me, not because you’re trying to hide from a mistake."

He lets go of my hand, and the sudden absence of his touch leaves me feeling dangerously untethered. The silence between us stretches, but it’s not the tense silence of the solarium. It’s the silence of a crossroads.

"I spent two years trying to be perfect for the perfect brother," I say, my voice steady. "I tried to fit into a life that was too small for me. I was asleep, Roman and Marcus was a dream that turned into a nightmare."

"Marcus liked the idea of me. He liked the way I looked on his arm at fundraisers and the way my family’s pedigree looked on a wedding invitation. Every kiss felt like a transaction, every touch was a performance for an audience that didn't exist." I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, my fingers digging into the warmth of Roman's chest. "But with you, even when I was half-out of my mind at that bar, I felt... awake. Primal. Like I was finally reacting to something real instead of just reciting lines from a script I never wanted to read."

I step toward him, closing the gap he just created. I reach out, my hands sliding over the warm muscles of his chest.

"Last night wasn't about revenge," I whisper. "And this morning isn't about a hangover. I remember enough to know that you were the only person who actually saw me. Not the bride. Not the 'perfect' Ivy Rhodes. Just me."

He reaches down, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, pulling my face up so I have to look at him. "You’re scared," he observes.

"Terrified," I admit. "You're a dangerous man to love, Roman Vance."

"The most dangerous," he agrees, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "But I’m the only one who’s never going to lie to you."

He leans down, his forehead resting against mine. We stand there for a moment, as two people who built a life out of ashes and spite, then realized we’d accidentally built something real.

"So," he says, his breath warm against my skin. "If I did this all over again… if we went back to that tacky chapel right now, fully sober and wide awake… would you still say yes?"

I look at the man who saved me by ruining me. I look at the future—messy, intense, and entirely ours.

"Every damn time," I whisper.

And as he kisses me, I realize the hangover is finally over. The rest of my life is just beginning.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: December 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix