"Go back and join the party," says Cuddy to Wilson. "I just need a minute alone."

Wilson hesitates.

"Go!" she orders. He cocks his head in that Cocker Spaniel way of his, and leaves.

Cuddy reaches into her purse, pulls out a Kleenex and a compact, blows her nose, dabs some powder on her face.

"You're getting powder on my conjugal bed."

It's House, standing in the doorway.

"Go away, House."

"I can't," he replies. "This is my room. Or, as you used to call it, the Fantasy Suite."

"You're so damn pleased with yourself," Cuddy says. "You got what you want, right? You made me cry. Satisfied?"

"That's not what I wanted." His voice is serious: "I never want to make you cry."

She glares him. "Then what the hell was this all about? This sham of a marriage? If not to make me cry, then what. . .?"

"I wanted you to. . ." he seems to be weighing whether or not to tell her the truth ". . . to object."

"You staged this whole wedding so I would object? That's twisted, even for you House. Did you have any plan for if I didn't object?"

He chuckles grimly, "Apparently not."

"But why House?"

His voice is quiet: "If you objected, it would mean you still love me."

She closes her eyes. Her frustration is mixed with something resembling relief.

"You know I still love you, House. This was never about me not loving you."

"Now you tell me. Then why'd you let me go through with it?"

"Because I forfeited the right to object when I broke up with you. It's your life, House. You have to make your own choices."

"Huh," he says, still half dazed. "So it looks like I'm married."

"Yeah, it looks that way."

"On the plus side, did you see how smokin' hot she is?"

"She's very pretty, House."

"I suppose a three-way is completely out of the question?"

She gets up. Strides toward the door.

"Good night, House."

"Good night, Cuddy."