Chapter 2 Mae
The second floor of the Cypress Palace casino is a world apart—reserved exclusively for the elite.
Hollywood actors, star athletes, and their entourages lounge in cordoned-off sections, separated by velvet ropes and guarded by hulking bodyguards hired by both the celebrities themselves and the casino who wants their money.
The air is thick with money and self-importance, the kind of energy that thrives in places where no one ever hears the word "no. "
The women who work this floor are my unintentional rivals, though they’re mostly, blissfully unaware of my existence.
They glide through the room like they own it, heels clicking against the polished marble floor, their smiles equal parts invitation and performance.
Their confidence is probably bolstered by the thousand-dollar tips they pocket nightly—tips slipped to them by the very people they aim to charm.
Among them is Miranda, who halfheartedly trained me when I first joined the casino staff five months ago.
Her “training” was more a crash course in passive aggression, delivered with the grace of someone who clearly thought I wouldn’t last. So, it’s no surprise that the second she spots me stepping off the elevator with Dexter, her face twists into an unflattering scowl.
She storms toward me, her movements quick and sharp, her anger barely concealed beneath a layer of false professionalism and thick foundation.
If I weren’t so focused on what’s coming next, I might laugh at how predictable she is responding to me entering “her” space.
I’ve always been a girl’s girl but for whatever reason, Miranda seemed to dislike me from the moment I started here.
“What the hell are you doing up here, Mae?” she snaps, planting herself squarely in my path like she’s some kind of gatekeeper for the VIP section. Unlucky for her, I don’t work here anymore and she’s about to piss off the hulking guy standing next to me.
Dexter’s transformation is instant and unnerving.
The easygoing, charming guy who’d just been cracking jokes downstairs vanishes in an instant, replaced by someone else entirely—someone darker, more dangerous.
The warmth in his eyes turns cold, and his jaw tightens as he steps forward, placing himself slightly in front of me as if to protect me.
The shift is so drastic, so unsettling, that for a moment I almost forget why I’m here and question what I just agreed to.
Miranda falters, her confidence shrinking under Dexter’s glare. “This area is for staff and VIPs only,” she says, though her voice has lost some of its edge and her eyes are obviously more nervous now.
“She’s with me,” Dexter says, his tone cutting and authoritative. There’s no room for argument, no invitation for further discussion.
End of story.
We’re apparently “together” now.
For a second, I almost feel bad for Miranda. Almost.
Her mouth opens, probably to fire back some half-baked excuse about rules or protocol around fraternizing with employees, but Dexter doesn’t give her the chance. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “Do you have a problem with that?” he asks, his voice so dark it sends a shiver down my spine.
Miranda freezes, her confidence now completely stripped away. “No,” she stammers, stepping back and dropping her arms to her sides nervously. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Dexter's gaze locks with mine again, and in an instant, his menacing expression melts away, replaced with nothing but warmth. The seamlessness of the transition in his expression is… unsettling, but I’m just glad I’m not on the receiving end of his wrath.
Who the hell did I agree to work for?
He nods his head at me, then moves to guide me through the ribbon that marks off his section, now completely ignoring Miranda.
When we make it to a table in the back corner that’s covered in empty shot glasses and drug paraphernalia that I pretend not to notice, I finally relax enough to realize I’m really doing this.
I’ve broken employee rules, told off Miranda and now I’m sitting in VIP as a guest for the first time.
"Would you like something to drink?" he shouts over the loud music that’s playing through the second-floor speakers.
"Vodka, please." Because why the hell not?
Dexter waves Miranda back over to where we’re now seated and requests our drinks. She takes the orders without glancing my way and then quickly leaves, almost tripping on her way out and fumbling in a way I’ve never seen her behave before.
"What are you and your friends celebrating tonight?" I ask as I look around at the other massive men that are squeezed into the space, stretched out with either women on their laps, drinks in their hands or participating in various betting games.
A wicked grin spreads across Dexter’s face. "You really don’t keep up with sports, huh?"
"Not really. Especially not with football. Remember the whole ex-husband who played in the NFL? He killed any interest I might have had in sports. Anytime a game comes on now, I intentionally change the channel out of spite, even though he’s no longer in the league."
He nods. "I get that, but do you ever think learning about the sport and embracing it again might be a way to reclaim what he stole from you? Kind of a big ole fuck you, you don’t get to take this from me?”
I think about it for a minute. I can see how that could be healing. I suppose I’ll have to if I’m going to work for this guy in some capacity. “Maybe.”
He grins and nods. “Good, because we’re here tonight celebrating the Super Bowl."
"Oh, who's playing? Is it on tonight?"
He laughs heartily. "No, we’re celebrating that we won it."
My eyes widen in shock as the realization finally hits me.
Yes, I may ignore all things football and change the channel when any mention of the sport comes on TV, but you’d have to be living in another country not to recognize Dexter’s name, and I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was him earlier in the dark lighting of the bar downstairs.
"Y-you're Dexter Black? The quarterback of the NFL team the Miami Waves?"
He nods and smiles, jabbing a thumb at his chest. "Yep. That's me."
I glance around the suite again, my eyes catching on a few other familiar faces—ones I recognize from TV or from the sidelines during games back when Vance had his short-lived stint with the Texas Thunderhawk’s before his ban and Elsie’s birth.
Of course, I hadn’t noticed them when we first walked in.
I was too overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of the place, focused on getting to a table where I could sit, spread out, and breathe.
The poor lighting and deafening music in here didn’t help.
Why do they keep these suites so damn dark?
The answer is obvious: to keep prying eyes from the outside world from seeing what VIP guests get up to in here.
My mind flashes to Vance, and I can’t help but wonder how many of these suites he’d partied in during our short marriage.
How many times had he stepped into places just like this, soaking in the attention of strange women and participating in the drugs and alcohol that ended up being his downfall while I was at home, waiting for him like a fool, pregnant with our child?
I shove the thought aside and try to focus, but then it hits me again that I’m about to do a secret favor for a Super Bowl–winning quarterback. My nerves return and I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter, my voice shaky as the gravity of this bizarre situation starts to sink in.
I fold my arms across my chest, taking a small step backward, my skepticism rising.
“Okay, so... why exactly do you need my help?” My tone sharpens as I try to mask my unease with sarcasm.
“I mean, if you just won the Super Bowl, you’ve got to be rolling in money and offers for support. Why me?”
In the back of my mind, a darker thought forms, and I hate how quickly it creeps in. Did I just quit my job for some kind of shady deal? Worse—am I here as part of a joke? Some twisted prank orchestrated by Vance to humiliate me.
Does he know Vance?
The man seated in front of me doesn’t flinch under my scrutiny.
His calm, steady gaze is both unnerving and comforting.
“You’re right,” he says evenly. “I am rolling in money and offers for support. But I need your help because what I need fixed requires someone unknown—someone off the radar.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a quiet intensity that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
“I can’t risk using any of the big PR firms, no matter how discreet or sensitive they claim to be.
It’s too dangerous. One leak, one slip-up, and everything I’ve built is gone.
But I trust you, Mae. I trust you to be discreet. ”
I nod my head, waiting for him to elaborate on why he trusts me over an organization designed for sensitivity directed towards athletes; but instead, he picks up two full shot glasses from the table and hands one to me.
"But first, let’s celebrate that divorce of yours."
***
Two hours later, I’m teetering on the edge of blackout, spinning in circles and dancing alone in Dexter's VIP section.
My shoes pinch, my head swims, and my movements are borderline ridiculous, but I can’t seem to care. The pulsing bass thumps through the suite, and the champagne haze buzzing in my veins tells me I deserve this—whatever this is. Letting loose, a new job opportunity, a better future.