ACCIDENTALLY MRS. MORETTI

Chapter 1

What Happens in Vegas

(Summer’s POV)

The music in the club was loud enough to shake my ribs. Or maybe that was the tequila. The bass thumped in my chest, heavy and relentless, matching the frantic beat of my own heart. Every flash of pink light felt like a spotlight I didn’t want to stand under.

The lights swept across the dance floor in dizzying pulses, catching sequins, bare shoulders, and raised glasses. Bodies pressed too close beneath chandeliers that probably cost more than my entire university tuition.

Somewhere behind me, Kiara was screaming Beyoncé lyrics like she was being personally evaluated, while two of Chloe’s bridesmaids attempted to dance on a velvet booth they absolutely should not have been standing on.

Vegas glittered.

Vegas lied.

And my life had imploded twenty‑three minutes ago.

I stared at my phone again.

Still there.

Still real.

Still humiliating.

Three photos. One video.

Seven years reduced to something you could scroll past. My fingers went numb around the phone, like the device had suddenly turned to ice in my hand. I felt sick — hot and cold all at once.

Leon Bellamy sat in a rooftop bar back home in Denver, one arm slung around a brunette I recognised instantly. The one I’d been told not to worry about. The one who was “just a friend.” The one I’d smiled about, shrugged off, defended.

Because I trusted him.

Because I wasn’t insecure.

Because I wasn’t—

Stupid.

In the first photo they were laughing. In the second, her hand rested against his chest like it belonged there. In the third, he leaned in too close, mouth near hers, expression soft in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time. She smiled like she already knew how the night would end.

The video made it worse.

Not blurry. Not ambiguous. Not something that could be explained away.

They kissed.

Slow. Familiar. Certain.

Like this wasn’t new.

Like I was the only one who didn’t know.

Intimate. Public. Like he didn’t care who saw.

The caption sat beneath it, bright and smug.

someonebetty: Out of sight, out of mind, I guess 😘

My throat tightened.

I locked the screen before I could do something dramatic, like throw my phone into the nearest champagne tower.

“Summer!”

Kiara collided into my side, breathless and glowing, curls wild around her face, cheeks flushed from dancing. “Why do you look like someone just ruined your life?”

I smiled too quickly. “No reason.”

Her eyes narrowed immediately.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The smiling-while-internally-dying thing.”

“I do not internally die.”

“You absolutely do.” She stole my drink and took a sip. “Okay. Tell me who I’m fighting.”

“Nobody.”

“Summer.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose, forcing my shoulders to stay loose.

Not here.

Not in the middle of Chloe’s hen party, packed with strangers, bad remixes, and too much attention.

“Pre-wedding jitters,” I said lightly. “I just need some air.”

Her expression softened, concern replacing suspicion.

That almost undid me.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“I’ll be fine. Go back to terrorising the DJ.”

She hesitated, then pointed a warning finger at me. “Five minutes.”

“Five minutes.”

I slipped away before she could change her mind, weaving through bodies and spilled drinks, past laughter that felt too loud and too easy. The bass thudded against my back as I pushed through the doors into the corridor.

Cool air hit my skin.

The noise dulled instantly, replaced by the distant clatter of slot machines and someone shouting triumphantly down the hall like they’d just discovered electricity.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

Seven years.

Seven years of shared routines, future plans, inside jokes, compromises. Seven years of believing I was building something solid.

My phone buzzed.

Leon.

Of course.

I stared at his name without answering.

Then a message appeared.

Leon: Babe, don’t start spiralling. It’s not what it looks like.

A short, incredulous laugh escaped me.

Not what it looked like.

Right.

Because he’d just accidentally ended up with his tongue down another woman’s—

No.

I shut that thought down.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Steady. Unhurried. Deliberate.

I wiped beneath my eyes quickly and straightened just as he came into view.

Damien Moretti.

Black suit jacket open, dark shirt beneath, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding what looked like hotel paperwork. The lighting caught the silver at his temples, sharpened the angles of his face, traced the line of his jaw.

Just great.

Of all the men to run into while my life was collapsing, it had to be him.

Forty-two shouldn’t have looked like that. It felt almost insulting.

His gaze landed on me immediately. And stayed.

Not intrusive. Not careless. Just attentive.

Damien always looked at people carefully, like he noticed more than he said.

Which was unfortunate for me, considering I currently resembled a woman one inconvenience away from a complete psychological collapse.

“You’re not dancing,” he said calmly.

I folded my arms, more to steady myself than anything else. “Observant.”

A faint shift touched his mouth.

God.

That almost-smile should’ve been illegal.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the way I was gripping my phone, then lifted again.

A quiet, unconvinced sound left him. “Mm.”

That stupid sound felt too knowing.

“I’m serious. Everything’s fine.”

“Summer.”

The way he said my name—low, even, patient— pulled something tight in my chest. Leon would have argued, made this about me being dramatic. Damien just… waited.

“I just…” My voice caught. “I needed five minutes."

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t crowd me. He studied me for a long moment. Then, without another question, he stepped to the side and leaned casually against the opposite wall, giving me space without leaving.

No pressure. No interrogation. Just presence.

We stood like that for a few seconds, the muffled thud of music vibrating faintly through the walls.

“Kiara’s threatening to fight someone,” he said eventually.

Despite everything, I snorted. “That sounds about right.”

“She also attempted to climb onto the DJ booth.”

“I fully believe that.”

“She blamed tequila.”

“Was tequila involved?”

“Extensively.”

A hint of warmth touched his voice. It settled something in me I hadn’t realised was shaking.

Silence returned.

Heavier this time.

Closer.

I became painfully aware of things I shouldn’t have been noticing. His cologne—clean, understated. The quiet steadiness in the way he held himself. The contrast between control and ease.

I looked away quickly.

This was Damien Moretti.

Kiara’s uncle. The man who raised her and somehow managed to look both exhausted and intimidating at all times.

Not a man I should be noticing anything about — especially not while my engagement was quietly collapsing in my hands.

My phone lit up again.

Leon.

Damien’s gaze dropped briefly to the screen before returning to me.

Something in his expression shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

“He hurt you.”

It wasn’t a question.

The words landed cleanly, and for some reason, that was what broke through.

Not the photos. Not the video. Not the message still sitting unanswered.

Just… being seen. Just someone acknowledging it without making me feel crazy.

I let out a breath that shook. “That obvious?”

“Yes.”

I looked down at my engagement ring. It felt different now. Heavier. Cheap. Like costume jewellery pretending to mean something.

“He’s with another woman,” I said finally, the words quieter than I expected. “And apparently not worried about who knows it.”

Damien went very still.

Not stiff.

Contained.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Simple. Direct.

And that, more than pity or outrage, hurt worst of all. Because he sounded sincere. Not awkward. Not performative.

Just sincere.

I swallowed, blinking hard against the sudden sting in my eyes as I stared at the floor tiles.

“Why?” My voice was thin. “It wasn’t your fault. The pathetic part is I think everyone else probably knew. I was the only one living in the dark. The only one stupid enough to believe the lies."

“No,” he said quietly. “And no.”

I looked up.

“They lied to you,” he continued, tone even, controlled. “That’s not the same thing.”

“How do you know?”

A pause. The kind that felt deliberate.

“Because if Kiara suspected, his car would already be on fire.”

A surprised laugh slipped out of me—real, unguarded, embarrassingly honest.

His gaze softened at the sound.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Leon: Can you not do this right now?

I stared at the message, disbelief hollowing out something in my chest. Something cold settled into place.

Not: I’m sorry. Not: Please let me explain. Just: Can you not do this right now?

“I think,” I said slowly, “I’ve been in a relationship by myself.”

The words hung between us.

Damien watched me for a long moment, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes.

Then, quietly, “Then maybe it’s time someone loved you properly.”

My breath caught.

Something shifted between us.

Neither of us moved. It was a step too close to something I wasn’t ready to name.

I straightened, distance snapping back into place. “I should go back inside.”

Damien pushed off the wall, ease returning to his posture, control settling neatly over everything.

“Summer—”

“I’m fine, Damien… Mr. Moretti.”

The change of title hung in the air between us. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes cooled, like a door clicking shut. He accepted the distance I’d handed him, even if I hated that I’d put it there.

His gaze held mine a second longer than it should have.

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t stop me.

Just inclined his head and stepped aside.

Letting me go.

I walked back toward the noise, the music growing louder with every step, the lights brighter, harsher.

My phone buzzed again. I didn’t look at it.

Behind me, the corridor fell quiet.

But the feeling followed.

And as I pushed back into the crowd, one thought settled in, steady and impossible to ignore—

Something had already shifted. And I had a terrible, beautiful feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.