CHAPTER 37
EDEN
By the time my shift ended, my feet ached, and my thoughts were tangled in one persistent loop.
Carl.
The new floor manager, Oliver, had stepped in without missing a beat.
He’s been confident, organized . . . efficient.
If I hadn’t worked alongside Carl for the last few years, I might not have questioned the transition at all.
The casino hadn’t skipped a beat. The tables were full.
The money was flowing. On the surface, nothing felt disrupted.
But Carl had been out on the floor just yesterday. And now he was apparently . . . gone.
Leigh’s tear-bright eyes and trembling hands kept flashing through my mind. I told myself she was panicking. She panicked about everything—bad tips, missed texts, divorce rumors.
Still.
I needed to ask Jagger.
Not because I thought anything bad had happened. Just because if Carl had been fired or quit suddenly, he would know. And if there was a perfectly normal explanation, then I could give Leigh something to make her feel better.
I stepped into the private elevator and swiped the keycard that granted access to the penthouse.
The doors slid closed with a soft hiss, sealing me in.
As it climbed, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall.
My eyes seemed dulled by hours under artificial lights, and my mascara was faintly smudged at the corners.
Perfect. The casino had a way of draining the color out of you, like it fed on energy and left behind whatever was still standing.
The numbers ticked upward . . . but then the elevator didn’t stop. It passed the penthouse floor without slowing.
I frowned, glancing up at the display as it continued climbing. “That’s not right,” I murmured. I stepped forward and pressed the PH button again, but it just kept going. I hadn’t even known there were floors above Jagger’s place.
The car continued climbing for another few seconds, and then it finally stopped. There was a soft mechanical sound I’d never heard before, and then the doors slid open.
A burst of wind slammed into my face, whipping my hair back as the roar of an engine cut through the night. I blinked against it, stepping forward instinctively—and realized I wasn’t staring at a hallway.
I was standing on the roof.
The night sky stretched wide above the building, the Las Vegas skyline glittering in every direction. And directly in front of the elevator, a helicopter waited with its blades already spinning, the rotors slicing through the air in a thunderous rhythm that whipped the wind around me.
“Ready to go?” The words came from behind me, and I startled and turned.
Jagger was standing just inside the elevator doorway. I hadn’t even heard him coming over the roar. His shirtsleeves were pushed up, the dark fabric rippling in the wind, and his hair was already tousled as if he’d been standing out here for quite some time.
He looked amused by my shock, and my heart did something erratic in my chest. “What is this?” I asked as he stepped forward and pulled me into him. He smiled down at me like I was adorable.
“Happy anniversary.”
I blinked. “What?”
“We’ve been together for three months today.”
I stared at him. “We have not been together for three months.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Haven’t we?”
“No,” I said, almost laughing. “And you know that.”
“Three months ago,” he said, leaning closer so I could hear him over the blades, “you walked into my high roller room.”
My stomach dipped.
“And I knew,” he continued quietly. “I knew I had to have you.”
The words sent a breath-stealing rush through me. “That’s insane,” I whispered.
“Probably.” His hands tightened just slightly at my waist. “Doesn’t make it less true.”
I searched his face, half expecting a joke . . . but there wasn’t one. “So you’ve just been . . . counting from that night?” I asked.
“Yes.”
My heart pounded. “That’s not how relationships work.”
“It is for me.”
The rotor wash surged harder, and he stepped closer, shielding me instinctively with his body.
“Three months since the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice dropping. “Three months since I decided you were mine.”
“Jagger,” I whispered, swooning despite all the red flags this man continued to give me. Why did it somehow feel romantic when he did things like handcuff me to him or casually declare that our relationship had begun the first time we met—when I was still married?
A therapist could probably answer this.
He grinned, probably knowing exactly what I was thinking. “Come on, Eden,” he said. “Let’s celebrate and go for a ride.”
And standing there, with the wind whipping around us and the city glowing beneath us, I realized something terrifyingly simple. I would follow Jagger Thatcher anywhere.
He guided me toward the helicopter with one hand firm on my lower back. The pilot nodded at us as Jagger helped me inside. The interior was sleek and surprisingly intimate, with leather seats facing each other. A small bucket of champagne sat secured between them.
“At two in the morning?” I asked as he climbed in after me.
“Time is a suggestion,” he replied, fastening my headset over my ears before pouring two glasses with steady hands despite the vibration.
The helicopter lifted, the ground dropping away so quickly that my breath caught.
The Strip spread out beneath us in a blaze of color—towering marquees flashing, rooftop pools glowing turquoise in the dark, the Eiffel Tower replica lit in molten gold, and the massive Sphere rippling with shifting light while traffic traced bright, restless lines through the city below.
Jagger leaned closer, pointing through the glass. “That’s where I’m taking you to dinner next week,” he said, indicating a rooftop restaurant I’d only ever seen from the sidewalk. “And that hotel—I’ll book the top floor suite one night. I want you to see the city from there.”
My gaze tracked wherever he pointed.
“That club,” he continued. “They have a private entrance just for Cruz and me. And next month—” He gestured beyond the Strip. “We’ll take this out to the Grand Canyon so you can see the sunset. It’s incredible.”
I looked down at the restless sprawl below us. “I’ve hated Vegas for a long time,” I admitted softly.
Jagger glanced at me instead of the view.
“It felt fake,” I continued. “Like everything was glitter on top of something rotting. It felt like it chewed people up and then spit them back out changed.” My throat tightened.
“It ruined Ryan . . . or maybe it just . . . finished the job.” I watched the traffic crawling below, the hotels stacked high and bright and impossible.
“I used to feel like it was doing the same thing to me,” I said.
“And now?” Jagger asked.
I took a sip of my champagne. “Now,” I said slowly, “it feels different.”
“How?”
I glanced at him. “Like it’s not swallowing me anymore,” I admitted. “Like I’m above it.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You are.”
The helicopter banked, the entire Strip unfolding beneath us in a slow sweep. I turned the champagne glass in my hand, watching the bubbles catch the light, and looked down at the city I’d spent years resenting.
It didn’t feel like the same place. Or maybe I wasn’t the same girl.
For so long, Vegas had felt like a trap .
. . like something that had taken and taken until there wasn’t much left of me that wasn’t tired.
Every corner held a memory of something heavy.
Of working double shifts. Of Ryan coming home later and later.
Of watching pieces of us rot under all that shine.
But up here, with Jagger’s hand steady in mine and his voice in my ear and the wind roaring around us . . . it didn’t feel like a trap.
It felt like a backdrop. Like something he was rewriting.
“I think you’re fixing it for me,” I said softly.
His brow lifted.
“You’re replacing all the bad parts,” I clarified.
“Good,” he said quietly. “That’s the point.”
I looked back down at the city—at the lights, the motion, the restless pulse of it—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like it was taking something from me.
It felt like he was making it give it all back.
“Because I don’t plan on letting this place have you,” Jagger murmured, his hold on my hand growing firmer. “You’re mine.”
***
I was in love with Jagger Thatcher, and it didn’t feel gentle.
It felt like an impact.
Like something inside my chest had been struck hard enough to crack it open, and instead of bleeding out, light poured in.
Being near him rewired me. The air shifted when he walked into a room. My body recognized him before my mind caught up—my pulse changing tempo, my skin tightening, my thoughts narrowing until there was only him. It wasn’t infatuation. It was gravity.
He didn’t hover at the edges of my life.
He occupied it.
And the terrifying part wasn’t how intense he was . . . it was how certain I felt standing in it. There was no wobble. No half step backward.
Falling for him wasn’t drifting. It was surrendering to something powerful and knowing it wouldn’t crush me. It was letting myself be seen at my loudest, neediest, and most unguarded—and watching him step closer instead of retreat.
It felt reckless and irreversible. It felt like standing at the center of a storm and realizing the storm chose you back.
It also felt like getting the best fuck of my life.
My palms were flat against the cool glass, the city lights dancing across my skin. The penthouse was silent except for the sound of our rough breathing and the wet, rhythmic slap of his hips meeting my ass.
Jagger had me bent forward, one hand wrapped around my throat from behind, the other braced on the window beside mine.
His cock drove into me again, each thrust pushing my breasts against the glass and scraping my nipples against the cold surface until they ached in the best way.
The piercing dragged along my front wall every time he pulled back, hitting that spot that made my vision blur and my knees threaten to give out.
“Jagger—” His name came out as a plea.