Chapter 3
RILEY
The sweltering desert heat hits my face like a damp towel the moment we step out of the Onyx. Behind me lies my father’s air-conditioned empire; ahead of me, the Las Vegas Strip stretches out in all its gaudy, tasteless glory.
Jack pulls me onto the sidewalk. His fingers close around my hand with a naturalness that’s both jarring and strangely grounding.
He maneuvers us through the sea of tourists: couples on vacation, bachelor parties for men and women ready to go wild one last time before the altar, businessmen on layovers, and gamblers convinced they’re about to hit it big. In Vegas, you find everything and everyone.
The neon signs of the Strip paint Jack’s face in shifting hues every few seconds.
One moment his profile glows red; the next, a massive screen drenching his silver-streaked hair in a harsh blue.
He looks like a man who’s at home in this city.
I probably look like a woman seeing daylight for the first time.
Technically, that’s not even a lie.
“Where exactly are you dragging me?” I ask, raising my voice over the chaos around us.
Jack slows his pace, lets go of my hand, and slides his fingers casually into his pockets. The sudden distance leaves a weird phantom sensation in my palm. Like something was supposed to be there.
“We’re almost there,” he says, nodding toward a glittering facade across the street. “The Nebula.”
The Nebula belongs to one of our biggest competitors, Derek Rattington. My father hates the man and the place so much he won’t even say the name out loud anymore.
We step inside, and the noise is a solid wall of clinking, cheering, and thumping live music. The carpets are so loud my retinas should file a formal protest. It smells like cheap drinks and expensive mistakes.
Jack heads straight for a craps table. He taps a heavy-set guy in a Hawaiian shirt on the shoulder. The man turns, catches Jack’s gaze, and wordlessly steps aside like a fire alarm just went off.
“Ever thrown dice, Riley?” Jack asks, leaning down toward me. His aftershave—pure, clean masculinity—mixes with the omnipresent casino scent, and my pulse decides to kick it up a notch.
“Up until now, I’ve mostly stuck to probability theory.” I rest my forearms on the edge of the table, studying the layout. “This is a statistical nightmare. The house edge on a proposition bet is over sixteen percent.”
“Forget the statistics.” He tosses a thick wad of bills onto the felt, and the dealer slides a tower of chips toward him. Jack splits the stack into two identical halves and pushes one over to me like he’s sharing his lunch. “Place a bet.”
I put a red chip on the pass line. A young guy with a crooked baseball cap shakes the dice, blows on them, and throws. A seven. The table explodes. Total strangers high-five each other. My bet doubles.
“See?” Jack takes a glass from a passing tray. “Sometimes instinct beats logic.”
“A statistical outlier.” I take my new chips and spread them across the six, the eight, and the hard ten. A completely nonsensical spread that would drive any math professor into early retirement.
The dice roll again. A six. Then an eight. My stack grows.
“You’re playing reckless,” Jack notes, watching me double down on the hard ten.
“Maybe it’s because the money doesn't mean that much to me.” I shrug.
“A rare sentiment in this town.” He bets on the eleven. “Most people would do almost anything for enough cash. You, on the other hand, sound like someone who doesn't have to worry about next month’s rent.”
I grab a cocktail a waitress sets on the edge of the table. Something pink with a little umbrella. It tastes like watermelon and vodka—or rather, vodka with a hint of watermelon. I could tell him I don't worry about rent because I still live in my father’s mansion. But that’s none of his business.
“I leave the worrying to other people,” I reply.
“Other people.” He looks at me with a crooked grin. “So you have people who manage your finances. People who clean your apartment. People who organize your life.”
“I didn't say anyone organizes my life.”
“You didn't deny it either.”
The dice clatter across the felt. A twelve. The table groans in unison. my bet on the hard ten vanishes.
“Who pays for all this, Riley?” Jack swirls the drink in his hand. “And don't give me that back-office-for-an-accountant line. Accountants don't wear evening gowns that cost more than a small car.”
I finish the rest of the pink cocktail and set the empty glass down. “My employer is generous. He takes care of his employees.”
“Takes care.” Jack repeats the words with an inflection that puts them in heavy quotes. “Interesting choice of words. Sounds less like a boss and more like a guardian.”
I laugh, but it’s a pitch too shrill. “You should be a psychologist. Or a conspiracy theorist. Both are probably better long-term bets than card counting.”
The kid with the baseball cap throws again. An eight. My last chip on the eight pays out. Jack slides his own winnings over to me without looking. Like five thousand dollars is just a used napkin he doesn't need anymore.
“I don't need your money,” I say.
“Neither do I,” he says, handing a portion of our chips to the baseball cap kid, who looks like he’s having a heart attack.
Before I can respond, my handbag vibrates. A persistent hum. I pull the phone halfway out and look at the glowing display. The name Dad blinks in white letters against a black background.
My stomach knots. Security has definitely reported that I left the Onyx with an unidentified man by now.
Normally, I’d answer immediately, but something makes me hesitate.
My father would demand explanations. He’d order me to come back right now.
He’d say he’s worried, and it would feel like a noose tightening around my throat.
Jack watches my fingers. He sees the glow of the screen, but he can't read the name.
“Important call?”
I take a deep breath, staring at the pulsing screen. For twenty-seven years, I’ve always obeyed. Every single time. My thumb hovers over the green button. Then it moves over and hits red. The display goes dark.
“Wrong number,” I say, sliding the device back into my bag. My heart is hammering all the way to my fingertips.
Jack says nothing. But his look tells me he doesn't believe a word of it.
“You still owe me a drink.” I turn to him, flashing a grin that’s wider than it needs to be. “My chips are gone.”
He leaves the rest of his winnings to a staring elderly couple who look like the Holy Spirit just answered their prayers personally.
Then he places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit.
His thumb rests exactly where the zipper of my dress ends.
The contact burns through the thin fabric.
“I know a bar you’ll like,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Out on the Strip, street performers line the sidewalk. A saxophone player squeezes a smoky melody into the night air. Two Elvis impersonators pose for photos with a group of shrieking tourists. A man in a hot dog costume hands out flyers for a strip show.
“You’re looking around like you’ve never been outside,” Jack remarks. He steers me past a horde of guys swinging beer cans and singing a song that’s pure ear torture.
“I rarely leave the On…” I catch myself. “I rarely leave my office.”
“So you’re hiding.” He grins provocatively.
“I usually prefer it quiet. Out here, chaos rules.” I point to the hot dog man who just stumbled, his flyers scattering in every direction. “Like that guy over there.”
Jack stops in front of a high-rise made of mirrored glass. The Silver Star. No neon sign. No flashing lights. Just a single bouncer in a black suit who looks like he could flip a compact car with a wink.
The elevator catapults us to the top floor. The doors slide open to reveal a rooftop lounge that’s the exact opposite of the Nebula. Dimmed lights. Polished marble floors. Soft jazz. Sophisticated atmosphere.
We sit in a corner booth, and the entire city lies beneath us. Thousands of lights flicker through the desert night like an oversized carnival.
“Two Reposado. Neat,” Jack orders.
He leans back, crosses his legs, and spreads his arms across the back of the sofa. His presence fills the entire booth. I’m sitting next to a man who claims every space like he owns it.
“You’re running from something,” he says. Not a question.
I turn my head toward him. “I’m taking a break.”
“People taking a break decline calls politely. People running hit ignore like they’re trying to crush the phone.”
The tequila arrives in heavy glasses. I take mine and sniff it. Agave and something smoky.
“You’re analyzing me again,” I say.
“You make it way too easy.” He lifts his glass.
“You’re wearing an evening gown you hate.
You toss thousands of dollars on gambling tables without blinking.
And you ignore calls even though your hand is shaking while you do it.
Plus, you’re sitting at a rooftop bar with a total stranger you met a few hours ago.
The question isn't whether you’re rebelling. The question is: against whom?”
I knock back the tequila. The agave burns down my throat, spreading a velvet warmth in my chest. The city lights blur into a soft glow.
“Against a flawless life.” I set the glass down. “I’ve never made a mistake, Jack. Not one. I’ve always functioned. Always made the right choice. Always did what was expected of me.”
“And who decides what the right choice is?”
I trace the rim of the empty glass. “Let’s just say there’s someone who has very specific ideas about what my life should look like. No surprises. No unknown variables. Everything has to be planned.”
Jack leans forward. The distance between us shrinks to half an arm’s length.
“Security is an illusion.” His voice drops. “The strongest wall won’t stop anyone if someone opens the door from the inside.”
I look at his hands—strong, capable fingers. They’re the hands of a man who can take charge when it counts.
“Maybe I’m just looking for a distraction,” I say.
“I’m not a distraction, Riley.” He leans in even closer. His gaze drifts over my face, lingers on my lips, then returns to my eyes. “I’m the mistake you’ve been waiting for.”
Apparently, we’re on a first-name basis now. I laugh softly. The tequila is softening my thoughts and loosening my tongue. “You have quite the ego.”
“And you’re afraid of what happens when you stop being a good girl.”
The sentence hits me like a slap. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s the truth. I grab the bottle the waiter left on the table and pour us both another round.
“Okay, Jack.” I lift the glass. “You want me to stop being good? Then show me how. Something that goes beyond a few shots with a stranger. Not just tequila in a fancy bar—that’s just a scratch in the paint. I want a deep dent.”
He stares at me. For a moment, something shimmers behind his controlled facade. Something unpredictable. Then he downs his tequila, stands up, and offers me his hand.
“Get up.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re getting married tonight.”
I stare at him while the alcohol flows warm through my veins. The thought is absurd. Completely insane. It’s the stupidest idea ever born in a rooftop bar.
It’s the biggest mistake I could possibly make.
And that’s exactly why…
“You’re serious, aren't you?” I ask. “To a stranger whose last name I don't even know?”
“Only the best for my future ex-wife.” He grins, and this time it reaches his eyes. “We’ll find a chapel. With Elvis.”
A laugh breaks out of me, so loud and free that heads turn at the neighboring tables, but I don't care.
For the first time in my life, I don't care about anything.
The cameras, the rules, the protocols someone else handles for me.
The call I didn't take. The green dress that’s been choking me all night.
I reach for his hand and let him pull me out of the leather chair. His fingers close around mine, and this time, I leave them there.
The elevator opens. I step in, turn around, and grab the lapels of his suit. I pull him toward me. His eyes widen by a fraction. For the first time tonight, I’ve surprised him.
The doors close behind us, and the city below disappears.