Chapter 4
MADDIE
The Las Vegas airport hits me with sensory overload the moment Snorty and I step off the plane.
Rows of slot machines line every scrap of wall space, their screens flashing cherries, gold bars, and cartoon diamonds like they’re trying to hypnotize arriving passengers.
“Which carousel is ours?” I ask Snorty. He lets forth a skeptical grunt that perfectly matches my mood.
I spot my faded blue suitcase on the conveyor belt and lunge for it before someone else mistakes it for theirs.
“Excuse me. Miss Madison Smith?”
I turn to find a tall man in a crisp black suit. His name tag reads Max.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“I’m your driver to the Las Palmas Hotel.” He takes my suitcase with a courteous nod. “Right this way.”
We step outside into a surprisingly cool desert breeze. Sharper than New York’s spring air. Yet clean in a way that wakes me up.
The limo idling at the curb releases the scent of buttery leather when Max opens the door.
Inside, the Rolls Royce resembles the inside of a jewelry box. Polished wood, soft lighting, and buttery leather seats.
“Water or champagne?” Max gestures toward the chilled mini-bar.
“Water, please.”
“And a treat for the little gentleman?” He produces a bone-shaped biscuit. Snorty accepts it with a happy little yip.
As we glide onto the Strip, I look at familiar icons right outside my window.
Maybe I'll never get to see Paris. But right in front of me is a fake Eiffel Tower. The Bellagio fountains spray water in intricate designs just like they do in the movies.
Caesar’s Palace looks exactly like a place I'd want to visit in ancient Rome.
And I also realize how many couples are here.
How many honeymoons.
How many weddings.
It's a city built for romance.
And here I am. With my dog.
“It doesn’t have to stay that way,” a tiny voice inside me whispers.
Even though I hate Rio Wilder, for one weekend, people will assume I’m the kind of woman a rockstar chooses.
A woman someone fights for.
A woman worth showing off in public.
Girls will look at me with envy.
And honestly? I could use a little envy right now.
Taking my lead, Snorty presses his nose against the window, a happy little puppy smile on his face.
What inspires his smile, I'm not sure. Could be that he's driven in a chauffeured Rolls Royce around Las Vegas.
Or maybe he's just thrilled a handsome uniformed chauffeur gave him a bone-shaped biscuit.
“Glad one of us is living the dream,” I say, stroking his fur.
We pull up to the sweeping driveway of the Las Palmas Hotel. The facade gleams in the rose-colored morning light. Gold trim, towering palms, and valet attendants dressed like casino royalty.
“Welcome to the Las Palmas Hotel,” the bellman says, opening my door with a movie-star smile.
He helps me out, then carries my luggage inside.
A woman with a sleek ponytail and a clipboard approaches.
“Ms. Smith?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Priscilla, your VIP Concierge. Prince Michael asked that you receive the full hospitality experience. Please follow me and I'll take you to your suite."
"Thank you. You can call me Maddie."
Priscilla guides us past the long check-in lines and velvet ropes and straight to a private elevator. The casino’s noise fades instantly once the doors shut.
A bubble of quiet I didn’t know I needed.
"This is our VIP floor," she says, the plush carpet swallows the sound of our steps as she leads me down a long hallway. She slides a gold key card into a pair of double doors.
“Your suite.”
I step inside, unprepared for its grandeur.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the Strip in all its glory. The living room looks like a set from a billionaire’s penthouse.
Marble floors polished to a mirror shine, velvet sofas big enough to sleep on, and a balcony that wraps around the entire suite.
“Please follow me to your quarters,” Priscilla says.
When she opens the door to what she calls 'my room,' the bedroom is a cloud of white linens and luxury pillows.
The bathroom is practically a spa. Jacuzzi tub, steam room, rainfall shower, marble counters that could double as a photoshoot backdrop.
“And Mr. Wilder?” I ask, trying to sound neutral while checking for any signs he’s already here.
“The Master Suite is on the opposite side of the living area,” Priscilla says, gesturing across the enormous living room. “You won’t be disturbed.”
That’s a relief. I don’t need to run into Rio in pajamas or while brushing my teeth. The more space between us, the better.
“What about my brother? And the rest of the band?” I ask.
“I’m not informed about all arrangements,” she says politely.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me flinch.
I open the text message. It's from Steven.
"I'm to meet my brother in the conference room," I say to Priscilla. "Do you know where that is? What he's referring to?"
“Yes. It's adjacent to the Sony Bono theater. Prince Michael rented it out so your group would have the rehearsal stage, dressing rooms, and conference area in one place. I’ll take you.”
We head back to the private elevator. The quiet hum of it descending gives me a moment to collect myself.
I wasn’t prepared to see Rio this soon.
For the last four years, I had fantasized about when and how we would meet again.
And what we would say to one another when we finally did.
But here we are.
Snorty nuzzles my chin, oblivious to the panic turning my gut.
When the elevator doors open, a long hallway stretches out in front of us.
“The conference room is just ahead,” Priscilla says, urging me forward.
My pulse quickens as I approach the double set of frosted-glass doors.
Behind them, I hear the low murmur of voices. Male voices. Laughter. A guitar chord.
Rio.
I swallow hard and hoist Snorty a little higher in my arms. This will be one weekend I won’t forget.