PROLOGUE:

She's brushing her teeth with her finger and some toothpaste out of a little travel sized thing she found on the counter when she hears the alarm go off. It's the most annoying preset iphone alarm possible. The one that makes the same sound that a sinking ship would while it shuffled people onto lifeboats. But even that sound, as much as she hates it, is better than the sound that comes once it's off. The man she woke up beside is awake. She hears his feet - foot, if she remembers correctly. Though all of this seems like a weird fever dream because she has never ever woken up beside someone she didn't immediately recognize before - hit the ground and even though she knows it's ridiculous, she finds herself looking for an escape plan.

There are no hopes of sneaking out undetected, and she sighs, combing through her hair with her fingers. There's a green handled brush beside the sink, not far from the toothpaste she swiped, but that would be easier to be caught. She doesn't want to risk leaving black hair in his comb when he's so uncompromisingly blond. That would kind of suck.

Also, okay. Yeah, maybe she wants to look decent for the awkward morning after conversation that's sure to come. Not that it matters, really - she intends to never see the man again - but he had seemed pretty attractive when she snuck out of bed. Even with the ridiculously clingy way he blindly reached for her as she scooted away and took the bedsheet with her. And the way his eyes squinted even more closed against the morning sunlight, leaving wrinkles on his face that she remembers, now that she's more awake, certainly weren't there last night.

She remembers the easy smile he flashed her as he sat down beside her and wants desperately to crawl into a hole. Not that he was unattractive when she was searching for her clothes, exactly. Just that she was a mess and if that was the worst he got, she had no excuse whatsoever.

When she bites the bullet and creeps out of the bathroom, he's hunched over a suitcase he's hefted onto the bed. The shirt in his hands is forgotten when he sees her, though. "Oh. Hello there," he says, dragging a hand through his bedhead in a weak attempt to smooth it down. If anything, it makes it worse. Ugh. This would be so much easier if he wasn't adorable. And fit. Not in a ridiculous magazine cover sort of way. Like, there's no six pack or anything. But his arms look strong.

They are strong, if she remembers correctly. Strong and gentle all at once.

He clears his throat, eyes dropping to the shirt in his hands. She looks away while he puts it on. As if the damage isn't already done. As if the damage wasn't done last night. "Did you sleep well?" he asks.

She shrugs. Her phone had been going off all night long. She should have answered it, but she wasn't exactly in her right mind. As evidenced by the blond standing in front of her, looking at her like she might be crazy. But when she woke up and realized that she wasn't in the room she and Prim are sharing with the rest of the bridal party, she read over the litany of the texts on her way-too-bright phone and decided her apology may seem more sincere if she didn't look like a mess from the night before. "Look, ah, I should go," she says. "This was . . ." she's not sure how to finish that sentence. "I should go," she says again.

"Hey," he says, voice low and gentle and - if she remembers correctly, the same as it was last night when he asked to buy her a drink. "No need to rush out."

"There is," she insists. "I have to find my sister. So, um, I'll need to be getting out of here."

"Do you - What do you remember about last night, Catherine?"

"Katniss," she corrects with a scowl, brushing her hair out of her eyes with her hand. The smile drops from his face.

"Katniss," he repeats. "What are you doing with my ring?"

"Your ring?" she looks down at her hand, scowling at the loose ring that's threatening to fall off of her finger.

"That's my ring," he says. "The Mellark family crest."

Mellark. Shit. "Oh. Sorry. Here, take it back."

He doesn't move to take the ring when she holds it out. Just shakes his head at her.

"Katniss Everdeen."

She gave him her last name?

"Oh fuck," he says, and his voice isn't low and careful and practiced anymore.

"What?" she asks.

"Katniss Everdeen," he says again, grabbing the suit jacket she recognizes from the night before off of the back of the chair and digging into the pocket. "As in -fuck."

"What?" she asks again. And when he doesn't respond, she takes the paper from his hands.

"Fuck," she echoes weakly.

While she stares at the marriage license - at her name on the marriage license, signed shakily but certainly in her handwriting - he swears a few more times. Peeta Mellark. That's his name. When she tears her eyes away from the document, he's on his phone.

"Now isn't the time for you to be playing -"

She meant to make an Angry Birds joke, or something. But then he holds his phone out towards her, showing her a grainy picture of them. It must be from last night. She recognizes his outfit. And hers, with a little pang. She's in a clearly rented dress – and veil! – and him in a suit jacket that looks much better on him than the dress looks on her. She thinks that it's the one he dug the document out of.

"Can't be real," he says. "No way. No way. It's not real. No one would let us get married. Not with how drunk you were."

"How drunk I was?" she protests. "I don't think you were sober, either."

"How did you talk me into this? No. Forget that. It's probably not legal, anyway. But I'll get it taken care of."

"Talk you into this?" she asks, irate. She remembers bits and pieces, suddenly. Remembers him – Peeta, if memory serves, and the name on the marriage license is to be believed – approaching her while she wallowed and moped about her sister and the rest of the bridal party not thinking she was cool, but he certainly was the one to talk to her first. "I didn't!"

"That's not your signature, then?" he asks.

She shoves the paper back towards him. "I can't. I can't deal with this right. Now I have to find my sister. For all she knows - shit. For all I know, you're some kind of psycho."

"I'm a politician," he says, voice close to a growl. "This is bad. This is so bad."

"You want to talk about bad?" she asks. "I'm here for my sister's bachelorette party. I can't - I can't get married at her bachelorette party!"

"I'll get it annulled - quietly. I don't want this getting out any more than you do. But you have to stay here. With me. Until we can. I'm just going to call my PR rep. Maybe you can take a shower? See what you can remember?"

"Excuse me?" she asks. "No. I have to . . . I have to talk to my sister."

He calls after her, but she's faster, and though her high heels are still in her hands, she manages to start to run down the stairs while he's still calling for her.

This isn't happening. Can't be.