Chapter 5 #2
And two… and this is the part that makes me hate myself a little more each time I acknowledge it… I don't actually want to leave.
Not him, not this place, not even this completely fucked-up scenario we're living in.
It's… God, it's exciting. It makes me feel alive in a way nothing else ever has.
It's also sick. Deeply, fundamentally sick.
And I'm so goddamn tired of being sick.
This changes today.
At the airport, standing in the check-in line with my single carry-on bag, I have second thoughts.
Is it crazy to fly to Vegas to shop?
Yes. I mean, there's no other answer than yes, is there?
That's the rational response. The sensible one. The thing a normal person would say if you told them what I'm doing right now—booking a last-minute flight to Nevada because I've decided the boutiques in Idaho Falls aren't going to cut it for whatever this transformation is supposed to be.
But… if one had the funds—and I do, courtesy of Caleb's relentless deposits that keep appearing in my account like accusations I haven't responded to—and one had never been to Vegas, which I haven't, and one was shopping for a glow-up, which is apparently what I'm calling this performance now, and one lived in sleepy Idaho Falls where the most exciting store is a Target that still has a Pizza Hut inside it… is it really crazy?
The woman ahead of me in line checks two massive suitcases and I wonder where she's going, if it's somewhere normal, somewhere that makes sense. I adjust my grip on my bag and don't move when the line shifts forward.
I need a change.
Not just a trim or a new lipstick shade or one of those magazine makeover articles that promises transformation in five easy steps.
Not a tiny change. A massive change. The kind that turns you into someone else entirely—someone you can pretend to be until maybe, eventually, you forget you were ever anyone different.
I need advice about this change too. Professional advice.
Like, actual cut-and-color expertise from someone who went to school for this, who knows what they're doing, who can look at me and see potential instead of the girl who's been wearing the same oversized hoodie rotation for the past two years.
Someone who can work miracles with highlights, and layers, and whatever else people pay for at real salons.
And not just hair advice either—I need the whole package. The full Pretty Woman treatment, the complete before-and-after transformation montage where the frumpy nobody walks into the boutique and walks out looking like she belongs in a different tax bracket.
Because I do belong there now. In that different tax bracket, with all the women who smell like expensive perfume, and have skin that glows from regular facials, and bodies maintained by personal trainers.
Who cares if I didn't earn it the normal way—and objectively, didn't I earn it?
I mean, what the fuck, right? After everything that happened, after the island and the cabin and watching him—no.
Not thinking about that. But still. If anyone's earned the right to spend money they didn't technically work for in any traditional sense, it's me.
I'm not poor, dirty, sick Scarletta anymore. I'm not the girl who wore the same leggings for four days straight because laundry felt impossible. I'm not the one who forgot to eat, who lived on instant ramen and black coffee, who couldn't afford a haircut.
In fact, all this working out—the endless treadmill sessions, the yoga classes I rotate through to avoid familiar faces, the weights I habitually lift while zoning out—has given me a hot bod I only dreamed of as a teenager.
I'm practically cut. Lean muscle in my arms, definition in my abs, thighs that don't jiggle anymore when I walk. My ass is an actual shape now instead of just existing.
I look good. I know I look good because men tell me constantly, and I smile and say thank you and ghost them before the third date.
So I check in at the airport counter, sliding my ID across with the kind of casual confidence that still feels like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
I go through security without incident—no beeping, no pat-downs, just a smooth glide through the scanner and a polite nod from the TSA agent who doesn't look at me twice because I'm nobody worth remembering.
I get on the plane, settle into my window seat, buckle in, and let myself disappear into the hum of takeoff while scrolling mindlessly through my phone.
And two hours and five minutes later—after a complimentary ginger ale I didn't finish and a packet of pretzels I ate just to have something to do with my hands—I'm stepping off the jetway into McCarran International Airport, surrounded by the chaotic symphony of slot machines dinging and chiming, people rushing past with roller bags, and that enormous Welcome to Las Vegas sign lit up like a whore on Christmas, glittering, and shameless, and utterly, perfectly alive.
My smile is so big it feels like my face might crack open. I feel reborn before the glow-up has even officially started, before I've set foot in a salon, or touched a poker chip, or done anything except breathe in recycled airport air that somehow smells like possibility.
Modern life is a fucking miracle when you have money.
The taxi pulls up to a porte-cochère that's quieter than the main Strip chaos, bronze-toned and understated in that way expensive things whisper instead of shout. A sign reads Wynn Tower Suites - Private Entrance and I feel like I'm sneaking into somewhere I don't belong.
Except I do belong. I paid for this. Well. Caleb paid for this, technically, but the money's in my account now so it counts.
The valet opens my door before I can reach for the handle. "Welcome to the Tower Suites, miss."
I mumble something that might be thank you and step out onto pavement so clean it looks freshly scrubbed. My single carry-on bag feels pathetic suddenly—everyone else arriving here has matched luggage sets and personal assistants.
Inside, the lobby isn't a lobby. It's more like walking into someone's very rich, very tasteful living room. Warm wood paneling, soft amber lighting, a massive floral arrangement on a center table.
No slot machines.
No noise.
Just hushed, rarefied air and the faint scent of something expensive I can't identify.
A woman in an immaculate suit approaches with a smile that's professionally warm without being fake. "Ms. Desmond?"
"Yes," I manage.
"Welcome. I'm Claire, your personal concierge. We have you in a suite on the fifty-eighth floor with Strip views. Your appointments begin in thirty minutes. I booked everything you requested."
I nod like this is normal. Like I do this all the time.
She walks me to a private elevator bank—not the main casino elevators, a completely separate set that requires a key card to access. The doors open immediately because apparently tower suite guests don't wait for anything.
The ride up is silent except for the faint whoosh of expensive machinery. When the doors open on my floor, Claire leads me down a hallway that smells like fresh flowers.
My suite.
My suite.
The door opens and I stop breathing for a second because the space is bigger than my entire old apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Strip—all those flashing lights, and crawling traffic, and chaos spread out below like a glittering infection.
Claire goes through the amenities—minibar, espresso machine, bathroom with the soaking tub, something about turndown service—but I'm not listening. I'm standing at the window, palms pressed against the glass, staring down at thousands of people who have no idea I exist.
No one here knows who I am.
Not ScarletSins. Not the girl who got sold at auction. Not the freak who ran a sex maze in the Caribbean.
Just another anonymous body in a city built for forgetting.
Claire's voice pulls me back. "Your first appointment is in twenty-five minutes, Ms. Desmond. Shall I have them send a car, or would you prefer to walk? The salon is just across the property."
I turn from the window. "I'll walk."
Then I remember the tip. I pull a fifty out of my purse and hand it to her. She doesn't look at it, just smiles at me and backs out.
The salon buzzes with excitement as my stylist—a vision with cascading black hair and a constellation of ear piercings—greets me with a champagne flute and a genuine smile.
"Transform me," I tell her, downing the bubbly like I need courage for what's coming. "Make me look… rich. Make me look… sexy. Hell. Fuck it. Make me look like a goddamned trophy wife."
She laughs. "Darling, by the time I'm done with you, you'll shine like the fucking sun. " She tosses her glossy mane, assessing me with the gleaming eyes of someone who creates magic daily.
I'm seated in the VIP room. Mirrors everywhere. Music pulsing like a heartbeat. Two assistants appear with a platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries. I eat them without reservation.
"Platinum will make those gorgeous eyes pop," the stylist declares, fluffing my hair up as I watch in the mirror.
I drink more champagne, my flute never empty, as she paints my head with bleach. Transforming it into a gleaming sculpture of metallic promise.
I'm seated at a nail station while I process. Gel tips coated in a metallic purple. I've never had long nails in my life. I could look at them for hours, watching them change in the shifting light.
I have the sudden urge to tap things.
The rinse and shampoo massage sends waves of pleasure cascading through my scalp and down my spine. My eyes flutter closed involuntarily as I surrender to sensations so delicious, they border on orgasmic.
Then, I watch—utterly, completely, brazenly transfixed at the magic happening with a blow dryer.
The long, frizzy dirty-blonde hair I walked in with is gone. Replaced by a perfect platinum waterfall that catches every light in the room. Subtle layers framing a face I almost don't recognize.
She was right.
I shine like the fucking sun.