Chapter Twelve Dylan
Las Vegas looks like temptation carved into neon.
The jet door opens, heat hits, and for a moment I forget why we came. All I see is Sunny—hair blowing back, eyes wide, mouth parted like she’s just stepped into a world built out of wishes and mistakes.
“Breathe,” I tell her.
She nods. But she doesn’t breathe.
I place my hand at the small of her back—not for show, not for cameras, not because anyone is watching.
Because I need the anchor.
Connor arranged a car. Blacked-out windows. No plates to track. When we step in, Sunny’s fingers curl around the seat like she’s bracing for impact.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say. It surprises us both.
Her eyes lift. “But if we don’t… Trevor wins.”
The darkness in me growls, low and quiet. He won’t win anything. Not as long as I’m alive.
I don’t say that aloud. Instead: “It’s your call. Your yes is the only thing that matters.”
Her gaze searches mine—like she’s looking for a trick, a trap, the part where I take her wings and clip them.
But there’s nothing to find.
So she whispers, “…Yes.”
And I feel it like a brand across my ribs. Not fake. Not a deal. A yes.
Las Vegas has chapels on every corner—drive-thru vows, Elvis impersonators, neon crosses. I reject all of them.
Connor booked us somewhere no one knows—quiet, hidden, old enough to feel sacred. White stone. Arched doorway. Stained-glass moonlight.
Sunny stands in the aisle in the dress she packed—light blue, soft, simple. She touches the hem like she’s deciding whether to run.
“This is too real,” she whispers.
“It’s supposed to look real,” I remind her.
But that isn’t the problem. The problem is—it feels real.
A minister clears his throat. “Shall we begin?”
Sunny’s breath catches. “Wait. Shouldn’t we… rehearse?”
“There is no script,” I say. “Just us.”
Those words hit her. I see it. Her shoulders soften. Her pulse slows.
And then she nods.
We walk toward each other—slow, steady, the world shrinking with every step.
When the minister speaks, I don’t hear every word. I hear her breaths. I hear mine. I hear the dangerous promise of what this could be.
Her fingers slide into my palm for the ring exchange. Her hand is small—warm—trusting. The kind of touch a man could die for.
When I say the words—For thirty days. For headlines. For strategy.
They leave my mouth like lies.
Because in my chest they are vows.
Her voice trembles when she repeats hers. But she doesn’t look away. She looks at me.
Like I am something she chose.
After
The chapel doors close behind us and silence falls. Sunny exhales—long—like she’s letting go of a lifetime.
“You okay?” I ask.
She lets out a shaky laugh. “I think I’m married.”
“Fake married,” I correct.
“Right,” she says softly. “Fake.”
The word lands differently this time. Heavy. Lonely. Half-empty.
I open the car door for her. She hesitates before climbing in. Like she expected something—a kiss, a moment, a beginning.
I ignore that thought before it becomes dangerous.
The Suite
The hotel staff bows when we enter—too practiced, too humble, like they know exactly who walks in.
We step into the elevator. Forty-third floor. Penthouse suite.
The doors open to red velvet, gold fixtures, a view that looks like the universe lit itself on fire.
Sunny’s eyes widen. “This is unreal.”
She walks ahead—slow, reverent—touching nothing and everything all at once.
I watch her. Every move. Every breath.
Then I step to the bedroom doorway—and I stop dead.
One bed.
Not two. Not separate rooms.
One.
King-sized. White sheets. A battlefield.
Sunny sees it a second later. Her inhale is audible.
“Oh,” she whispers. “I thought—”
“It’s fine,” I say too fast. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
She shakes her head. “No—you’re not sleeping on a couch in a $10,000-a-night suite.”
“Sunny. I’m not—”
“You’re not uncomfortable,” she says quietly. “I am.”
Her honesty hits harder than a punch.
She’s afraid of wanting me. I’m afraid of what happens if she does.
I take one step toward her. Then another.
“We don’t touch,” I say. A rule. A lie. A prayer.
“We don’t cross lines.”
Her gaze lifts. Unsteady. Burning.
“What if the line is already gone?” she whispers.
That sentence hits like a match to gasoline.
I open my mouth—to stop her, to warn her, to tell her she can’t ask me that—
but I never get the words out.
Because her phone—locked, protected, hidden—vibrates from inside her bag.
She pulls it free. Looks at the screen. Face drains of color.
“What—?” I step closer.
Her voice breaks.
“It’s him.”
Trevor. Five words. Sent like a threat.
“Til death do us part.”
The world narrows. My blood turns to ice. This wedding just became war.