Chapter 3
Tashi
The hospital discharge papers crinkled in my hand as Orion guided me into the Olympus Royale’s private elevator—the one reserved for high rollers and apparently employees who’d recently set their rooms on fire.
“You sure about this?” I asked, my voice still scratchy from smoke. “Putting me on your floor seems like a terrible idea.”
Orion’s hand pressed lightly against my lower back, steadying me as the elevator climbed.
He’d spent the entire night in that god-awful hospital chair, his expensive suit rumpled, his usually perfect hair falling across his forehead.
He looked exhausted and somehow even more attractive for it, which seemed cosmically unfair.
“It’s the safest floor in the building,” he said. “Twenty-four-hour security. Restricted access. After what happened—”
He stopped himself. We’d agreed not to talk about the fire. Not yet. Not until the lawyers and fire marshal finished their investigation and decided what could be said without someone getting sued into oblivion.
The elevator doors whispered open onto a hallway that screamed money. Thick carpet muffled our footsteps. Recessed lighting cast everything in a warm, golden glow that made even my soot-stained clothes look almost elegant. Abstract art hung on the walls—the kind that cost more than my car.
“This way.” Orion led me down the corridor to a door marked 3207. He pulled a key card from his pocket. “This is yours. For as long as you need it.”
“How long is that exactly?”
His jaw tightened. “We’re working on it.”
Which meant they had no idea. Great.
He swiped the card and pushed the door open, then immediately pulled out his phone as it buzzed. “Ares. I need to take this. Will you be okay?”
I nodded, even though okay felt like a generous description of my current state. Orion squeezed my shoulder—a brief, warm pressure that made my stomach flip—then stepped back into the hallway, already talking in low, urgent tones.
The door clicked shut behind me, and I was alone.
The suite stretched before me like something from a magazine spread.
Seven hundred and eighty square feet of carefully curated luxury—muted grays, polished wood, clean lines that whispered expensive without shouting it.
The casino’s chaos faded to a distant hum in the walls, replaced by a silence so complete it felt almost aggressive.
I stood frozen, taking it in.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, framing the mountains etched in shadow against a molten-orange sky.
In a few hours, the Strip would light up like a circuit board, the whole city shimmering against the desert’s black expanse.
Heavy blackout curtains hung ready to transform the space into a cocoon when the light became too much.
To my left, a wet bar gleamed—granite counters catching the light, chrome fixtures polished to mirrors, neat rows of stemware waiting to be filled.
A bowl of green apples sat centered on the round dining table like an art installation.
But it was more than decorative—a compact stove and microwave nestled into the setup, making it an actual kitchenette. Practical.
Beyond, the living room contained a caramel leather sofa piled with geometric pillows, flanked by two ivory chairs arranged around a low table.
Plush but not cozy. The kind of space designed for business meetings or seduction, not Netflix binges.
A massive flat-screen hung on the wall, dark and expectant.
That’s when I saw them.
Three vases of flowers. One was placed on the coffee table, another on the dining table, and the last on the wet bar.
I moved closer, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
The first arrangement was all deep reds—roses, dahlias, and something exotic I couldn’t name. The card read, Welcome back. —Ares
His handwriting was exactly what I’d expect: precise, controlled, and slightly aggressive in its confidence.
The second vase held sunflowers and wildflowers, cheerful and a little chaotic. Glad you’re safe. The hotel needs you. —Leo
His handwriting was messier, with playful loops and crossed t’s that leaned into the other letters like they were gossiping.
The third was elegant—white orchids and pale pink roses arranged with deliberate artistry. Rest. —Orion.
His script flowed in elegant handwriting that probably looked the same at six years old as it did now.
My throat tightened.
On the dining table, next to Ares’s flowers, sat a brand-new laptop. Top-of-the-line, still in its box. A sticky note on top read: Replacement. Password is OlympusMarketing2026 —Management.
And clothes were spread across the sofa.
So many clothes. Yoga pants, soft tees, a cashmere hoodie that probably cost more than my rent, jeans, a cocktail dress, underwear still in packaging, bras in multiple sizes because apparently they’d guessed.
A note card sat on top of the pile: Pick what fits.
Have the gift shop collect the rest. We didn’t know your size. —L
I pressed my hand to my mouth.
This was too much. All of it. The suite, the flowers, the laptop, the clothes. The fact that three billionaire brothers had apparently held an emergency meeting about what to do with the employee who’d sexted them and then nearly burned down their hotel, and their solution was…this.
Kindness. Thoughtfulness. Protection.
I couldn’t deal with this right now.
My legs gave out and I sank onto the caramel sofa, surrounded by gift shop clothing and the scent of three different flower arrangements. The laptop box stared at me from the table. Through the windows, the sun continued its descent, painting the mountains in shades of amber and rust.
Everything gleamed. Everything was perfect. Spacious and curated, a refuge designed for comfort yet somehow stripped of personality. Like living inside a very expensive hotel room, which I realized was exactly what it was.
I picked up the cashmere hoodie. Charcoal gray, butter-soft, with the Olympus Royale logo embroidered discreetly on the chest. I held it against my face and breathed in the scent of new fabric and expensive retail.
Then I started crying.
Not pretty tears. Ugly, gasping sobs that hurt my smoke-damaged throat.
Because twenty-four hours ago I’d been rage-sexting my cheating ex, and now I was sitting in a luxury suite wearing yesterday’s soot-stained clothes, holding a hoodie that cost more than my laptop—my old laptop, the one that was now a melted puddle of plastic and silicon—while three men I barely knew treated me like I mattered.
Like I was worth protecting.
Like I was worth this.
The bedroom waited through a separate doorway—I could see the edge of a king-sized bed dressed in crisp white linens, a tufted leather headboard rising above it.
Golden lamps cast warm pools of light. The bathroom beyond would be sleek stone and glass, stocked with tiny bottles of eco-friendly products that smelled like citrus and herbs.
All perfect, and temporary, and terrifying me with how much I wanted to stay.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket with shaking hands.
Three texts, arriving simultaneously.
Ares: Security guard outside your door. Press the panic button by the bed if you need anything. I mean anything.
Leo: Hope the clothes work. Cassie from the gift shop said yoga pants are universal. Is that true? Asking for science.
Orion: Get some rest. Doctor’s orders. We’ll talk tomorrow.
I stared at the messages, then at the flowers, then at the mountain view turning purple in the dying light.
And I realized I had absolutely no idea what I’d gotten myself into.
For the first time since Daniel’s betrayal photo arrived on my phone, I felt something other than just rage or humiliation.
I felt seen.
Even if I had no idea what to do with that.
While I was caressing the cashmere hoodie, someone knocked on the door. Not the polite tap of housekeeping. A confident rhythm that somehow managed to sound cheerful.
I wiped my eyes with my sleeve—attractive—and called out, “Come in?”
The door opened and Leo stepped inside, carrying a paper bag that smelled like heaven. Real food. Not hospital cafeteria sadness or prepackaged allergy-safe meals.
“Delivery,” he announced, then stopped when he saw my face. His expression shifted from playful to concerned in half a second. “Whoa. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I croaked, which was obviously a lie given the tears still drying on my cheeks and my voice sounding like I’d gargled gravel.
He set the bag on the dining table and moved closer, his hands shoved in his pockets like he was trying to stop himself from reaching for me. “You’re crying.”
“Observant.”
“Is it the flowers? Did we screw up the flowers? I told Ares roses were too formal, but he insisted—”
“The flowers are beautiful.” My voice cracked. “Everything’s beautiful. That’s the problem.”
Leo tilted his head, studying me with those forest-green eyes that probably made women confess secrets they’d sworn to take to their graves. “I’m not following.”
“This.” I gestured at the suite, the flowers, the laptop, and the mountain of clothes. “It’s too much. I don’t—I can’t—”
“Breathe,” he said gently. “Doctor’s orders, remember?”
I sucked in air that tasted like smoke and flowers and whatever delicious thing was in that paper bag.
“Better,” he said. “Now, can I sit? Or do you need space?”
I patted the sofa next to me. He sat, leaving a careful foot of distance between us. Professional. Except for the way his eyes kept drifting to my face like he was cataloging every tear track.
“You want to know something?” he said. “Orion texted me about an urgent situation on the casino floor. Very specific, very detailed problem that absolutely required his immediate attention.”
I blinked. “Okay?”
“Except there is no problem. I checked. Everything’s running smooth as silk down there.”
My brain, still foggy from smoke and emotion, took a second to catch up. “He…made it up?”