Chapter 10 Athena
ATHENA
I pause at the entrance of the Parthenon, smoothing down my white palazzo pants—Valentino, fresh from Paris.
The ma?tre d’ nods in deference—no reservation needed when you own the place.
Behind him, the dining room hums with the particular energy of success and celebration over wagyu beef and hundred-dollar glasses of wine.
My dinner companion, a gaming commissioner, has just canceled. His text suggests traffic on the Strip, but I know he’s probably at the Bellagio, trying to squeeze concessions out of my competitors. Let them have their little victories. I own the sky up here.
A familiar voice cuts through the ambient noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations.
I turn and have to do a double take. It’s really her—Ruby Walsh, looking decidedly less controlled than last time I saw her.
She’s sitting with four men in suits, an impressive wine bottle on their table.
Her cheeks are flushed, auburn hair slightly disheveled.
The top buttons of her silk blouse are undone, her jacket draped over her lap rather than the back of her chair—small details that speak volumes about her state.
I drift closer, drawn by curiosity. Ruby’s head is thrown back in laughter at something one of the men has said.
I’ve never seen her laugh so freely and it transforms her face completely, erasing the perpetual furrow between her brows.
Her green eyes sparkle in the golden light from the Swarovski chandeliers overhead, and for a moment, I glimpse the woman she might have been before grief carved its way into her soul.
Without thinking, I place my hand on her shoulder. She startles at the touch, twisting to look up at me. Recognition floods her face, followed quickly by something else. Embarrassment? Fear? The wine has stripped away some of her usual armor, leaving her emotions closer to the surface.
“Athena,” she says, her voice slightly husky. “I didn’t expect…” She trails off, clearly struggling to compose herself.
“Hey,” I reply, squeezing her shoulder. I survey the table—plates scattered with the remains of Chef Dimitris’s dessert specialties. “What are we celebrating?”
The man to Ruby’s right straightens himself, adjusting his tie.
“Ms. Stavros, right? I’m James Wilson.” He flashes me a smile.
“We closed the deal of a lifetime today, thanks to this brilliant woman right here.” He gestures at Ruby with his wine glass, nearly sloshing the expensive vintage.
“She absolutely destroyed the other side.”
“Did she now?” Under my hand, I feel Ruby’s muscles tense, coiled tight.
“You know each other?” Wilson asks, looking between us with poorly concealed curiosity. The other men at the table lean in, equally fascinated.
“We’re neighbors,” I explain, not removing my hand from Ruby’s shoulder. “Ruby and I share a fondness for late nights.” I catch her eye, enjoying the way she flushes deeper at the reference. The wine has made her more transparent than usual.
I signal to the sommelier. “This calls for celebration. Send over a bottle of the Krug, Andreas. On the house.” The 1988 vintage is a $2,000 gesture that will be repaid tenfold in gossip about my generosity.
“Oh, I should actually be going,” Ruby says, starting to rise. Her movement is unsteady, one hand gripping the table for balance. “I have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Nonsense!” Wilson protests, reaching for her arm. She flinches almost imperceptibly at his touch. “One more drink! This is a big day, Ruby. Just one more.”
I watch her falter, clearly torn between escape and social obligation. Her eyes dart around the room like a trapped animal seeking exit. Time to intervene.
“I’m heading home myself,” I say smoothly. “I’d be happy to give you a lift.”
She looks up at me, relief warring with suspicion in those striking green eyes. “I have my car…”
“Which you absolutely shouldn’t be driving,” I say firmly. “Come on, neighbor. Let me help.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nods. The men protest, but I silence them with a smile and a promise of champagne. Ruby gathers her things—briefcase, phone, suit jacket.
I guide her to the private elevator, my hand on the small of her back.
She’s warm through the thin fabric of her silk blouse, and I can feel the slight tremor in her muscles—too much wine, too much pressure, too much of everything.
The doors close and we descend in silence, the casino lights rising up around us through the glass walls.
“I’m sorry,” Ruby says finally, staring straight ahead at our reflections in the polished doors. “I never drink this much. I just… I didn’t want to go home.”
“A casino is the worst place to be when you’re feeling down,” I reply, watching her in return.
The elevator’s soft lighting smooths the shadows under her eyes but can’t hide the bone-deep exhaustion in her face.
“It’s designed to prey on that exact feeling.
The lights, the music—it’s all calibrated to keep you in a state of hopeful desperation. ”
She turns to me, eyes sharp despite the wine. A strand of auburn hair falls across her face, and her hand trembles as she tucks it back. “Your poison.”
I shrug. “Everyone’s got to make a living.”
The elevator reaches the garage where my Aston Martin sits waiting, and Ruby runs her hand along its sleek body as I open the passenger door.
“Beautiful car.”
“The real beauty is in its power.” I press a button and the roof begins to retract. “You look like you could use some air.”
“Yeah.” She sinks into the leather seat with a small sigh of surrender and I get comfortable behind the wheel. Ruby tilts her head back, letting the night wash over her as we emerge from the garage.
I can’t stop stealing glances at my passenger while I drive. There’s something about Ruby Walsh that pulls at me, a recognition of kindred spirit perhaps. We’re both women who’ve gone through immense heartbreak. I have learned to deal with mine; she hasn’t.
The I-215 stretches before us like a ribbon of black silk, the desert wind whipping through the open roof. Ruby’s hair dances in the breeze, strands of auburn catching the moonlight.
“Mmm, this is nice,” she murmurs, her eyes heavy-lidded. “It’s…”
I glance over as her words trail off. Her head lolls against the headrest, lips slightly parted, tension finally draining from her face as sleep claims her. The supposedly ruthless woman who secured a huge deal just hours ago now looks peaceful and sweet.
I remember what it was like, those first raw years after my loss, when sleep only came in snatched moments of exhaustion. That was a long time ago.
My car purrs as we climb into the foothills, the landscape opening up around us.
Ruby shifts in her sleep, a small sound escaping her throat. I resist the urge to touch her cheek. Instead, I focus on the road ahead, and let her rest. Some forms of escape don’t require contracts or passwords. Sometimes all it takes is the night wind and an open road.