The Husband Hangover: Chapter Three - The Brunch from Hell

Walking into the Vance estate with Marcus's brother on my arm felt like walking into a firing squad. But for the first time in my life, I wasn't the one being shot at. Roman is a shield, but he’s also a cage.

Chapter Three

The Brunch from Hell

Ivy Rhodes-Vance

The Vance family estate looks like something out of a period drama—all gray stone, sweeping ivy, and the kind of oppressive silence that only comes with old, inherited money. Usually, walking up this driveway makes me want to check my posture and apologize for existing.

Today, I just want to vomit.

I’m wearing a dress Roman’s assistant delivered an hour ago. It’s a creamy off-white silk that looks like melted pearls. It’s dangerous, the color is a direct mockery of the pure white I fled in yesterday. It says I’m still a bride, but I’m no longer his. The cowl neck is elegant, but the back dips low enough to be a scandal in broad daylight.

It’s a middle finger in garment form.

"They’re still having brunch because my father thinks if he serves enough expensive mimosas, the 'incident' yesterday will just become a footnote," Roman says, his voice cutting through the hum of the SUV’s engine. "Marcus probably told everyone you had a fainting spell. He’s waiting for you to show up and play the part of the fragile, apologetic fiancé."

"He’s going to be disappointed," I mutter, checking my reflection. 

I catch the flash of the gold band as I adjust my arm. It’s a stark, simple circle compared to the three-carat monster Marcus used to chain me to his side. That diamond had felt like a price tag; this ring feels like a brand. It’s light, cheap, and yet it feels like it’s fused to my bone.

My makeup is a mask, but the ring? The ring is the truth.

"You're shaking," Roman says, his voice cutting through the hum of the SUV’s engine as we pull to a stop in front of the main house.

"I’m not shaking. I’m vibrating with the urge to flee the country," I snap, clutching my designer clutch so hard the leather groans. "Roman, we can't go in there. Your mother will have a stroke. Your father will probably have me arrested. And Marcus..."

"Marcus is a coward," Roman interrupts, his tone flat and cold. He reaches over, his large hand covering both of mine. The heat of him is grounding, a stark contrast to the icy terror blooming in my chest. "He had his chance to be the man you needed. He spent it in a vestry with a bridesmaid. Today isn't about him. It’s about us."

"There is no us," I hiss, looking at him. His stormy eyes are fixed on the front door of the mansion. "There is a drunken mistake and a very predatory trust fund loophole."

"Is that what you’re telling yourself?" He leans closer, his scent, sandalwood and pure confidence, filling my senses. "Because you didn't look like you were thinking about trust funds when you were begging me to take you to that chapel last night."

I flush crimson. The flashes are coming back now—jagged, blurry images of me pulled flush against his chest in the neon light of the chapel, the way his voice sounded when he said I do with more conviction than Marcus had shown in two years.

"I was drunk," I repeat, a weak defense against the way my body reacts to his proximity.

"Keep telling yourself that, Ivy. Maybe by dessert, you’ll believe it."

He climbs out of the car and circles around to my side, opening the door with a flourish that feels more like a challenge than a courtesy. He offers his hand. I stare at it for a beat, then take it. His grip is firm, possessive, as he tucks my arm through his and leads me toward the lion’s den.

The double doors swing open before we can even knock. The butler, a man who has perfected the art of looking like he’s smelling something sour, pales the second he sees Roman.

"Master Roman," he stammers. "We... we weren't expecting you."

"I’m sure you weren't, Arthur. Is the family in the solarium?"

"Yes, sir. But..."

Roman doesn't wait for the 'but.' He strides through the foyer, his shoes clicking rhythmically against the marble, dragging me along in his wake. My heart is a frantic bird trapped in my ribs.

We reach the solarium—a glass-walled room filled with white lilies and the clinking of silver against china. It’s a scene of perfect, manufactured grief. My mother is there, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Marcus is sitting at the head of the table, his head in his hands, looking like the tragic hero of a play he wrote himself.

Then he looks up.

The color leaves his face so fast I’m surprised he doesn't faint. He stands up, knocking his chair back with a loud clatter.

"Ivy?" he gasps, his eyes darting from my face to the hand tucked into his brother’s arm. "Where the hell have you been? We’ve been calling you for eighteen hours! I thought... I thought you were hurt."

"She’s perfectly fine, Marcus," Roman says, his voice dropping into that smooth, predatory register. He doesn't stop until we’re standing right at the foot of the table. The entire room has gone silent. My mother’s jaw is literally hanging open. "Actually, she’s better than fine. She’s celebrate-ory."

"What is he doing here?" Lord Vance—Roman’s father—thunders from the other end of the table. He stands up, his face a mottled purple. "Roman, I told you five years ago you weren't welcome on this property."

"And I told you five years ago I didn't give a damn about your welcome," Roman counters, his grip on my arm tightening just enough to remind me he’s there. "But I thought I should bring my wife by to pay her respects to the family."

The silence that follows isn't just quiet; it’s a vacuum.

"Your... what?" my mother whispers, her handkerchief falling to the floor.

Marcus moves then, rounding the table with a look of desperate, ugly fury. "What the hell are you talking about? Ivy, tell him to shut up. Tell him this is some sick joke."

He reaches for my other arm, but Roman steps in front of me, a wall of charcoal wool and repressed violence. The height difference between the brothers has never been more apparent. Roman looks like a mountain; Marcus looks like a molehill.

"Don't touch her, Marcus," Roman warns, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You lost the right to lay a finger on her the second you decided your wedding day was a good time for a side-piece."

"Ivy, please," Marcus begs, looking over Roman’s shoulder at me. "I was stressed. I made a mistake. I love you. We can fix this. We can still have the ceremony next week—"

"There won't be another ceremony," I say, my voice surprising me with its steadiness. I step out from behind Roman, squaring my shoulders. I look Marcus right in his watery, blue eyes—the eyes I used to think were kind. "Because I’m already married."

I lift my left hand. The cheap gold band catches the light of the solarium, looking like a blinding sun.

"To Roman," I add, the words tasting like victory and hemlock all at once.

Marcus looks like I’ve slapped him. My mother lets out a soft, strangled "Oh, dear God," and faints back into her chair and my father does his best to hold her upright.

"You did this to spite me," Marcus snarls, his face contorting. "You slept with my brother to get back at me? You’re a who…."

He doesn't get to finish the sentence. Roman moves so fast I barely see it. He has Marcus by the throat, pinning him against the glass wall of the solarium. The lilies tremble.

"Say another word about my wife," Roman whispers, and the sheer malice in his tone makes my hair stand on end, "and I will remind you exactly why I’m the brother that was cut out of the will. I don't play by the rules, Marcus. I never have."

"Roman! Let him go!" his father bellows.

Roman waits a beat, his eyes locked on his brother’s terrified face, before releasing him like he’s tossing out the trash. Marcus slumps against the glass, gasping for air.

Roman turns back to me, his expression softening just a fraction—not into kindness, but into something possessive. He offers his arm again.

"I think we’re done here," he says. "The air in here is a bit... stagnant."

As he leads me out of the room, past the sobbing and the shouting and the ruin of the Vance family's dignity, I realize I’m not shaking anymore. I’m cold and I’m terrified of the man whose arm I’m holding.

But as we walk out into the sunlight, I catch Marcus watching us from the window. And for the first time since I found that video, I don't feel like a victim.

I feel like a weapon.

And Roman Vance is the one holding the trigger.

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