Chapter 10 #2
He opens the box. Lifts the pendant. Steps behind me and fastens it around my neck without asking permission.
“Because you wanted it. And you were never going to let yourself have it.”
The silver is cool against my collarbone. The weight is almost nothing.
It feels like everything.
“One more stop.”
We’ve been walking for another ten minutes. The sex shop bag swings from his hand like an accusation. The queen pendant rests against my throat like a confession.
“We should get lunch. Prepare for—”
“You need a dress.”
“I have clothes.”
“You have armor.” He stops in front of a boutique—not the high-end designer stores of the Wynn, but something smaller.
More curated. The window displays dresses that look like they’re meant to be worn, not weaponized.
“Tonight isn’t about being the director.
It’s about being a newlywed. A woman who just married a man on impulse. Who’s actually enjoying herself.”
“I don’t—”
“You showed up at a security conference in a power suit. Ray’s already seen you as the boss. Tonight, he needs to see you as human.” His eyes are serious now. No grin. No performance. “Let me help.”
I want to argue. The director would argue. The director would point out that her clothing choices are strategic, that professionalism matters, that …
The director got rejected this morning.
“Fine. But I have veto power.”
“Obviously.”
Inside, he moves through the racks like he’s done this before. Pulls options without hesitation. Hands them to a sales associate who materializes with the kind of efficiency that suggests good commission structures.
“This one.” He holds up something deep green. Silk. A neckline that plunges lower than anything I own.
“That’s—”
“Perfect.”
“Impractical.”
“Also perfect.”
“I can’t wear that to a professional conference.”
“You’re wearing it to a gala. With your new husband. Who thinks you’d look incredible in this color.” He tilts his head. “Try it. If you hate it, we’ll find something else.”
The dressing room is small. The mirror is unforgiving.
The dress is …
Not me. Except maybe it is. A version of me I’ve never let exist. The silk clings without constricting. The color makes my skin glow. The neckline shows the queen pendant, silver against flushed skin.
“Well?” His voice comes through the curtain.
I should say no. This isn’t Director Vance. This is someone softer, more exposed, more—
“It fits.”
“Let me see.”
I push the curtain aside.
His expression changes. The constant motion stills. The grin fades into something else entirely.
“We’re getting that one.”
“I haven’t seen the others—”
“We’re getting that one.” His voice is rougher than before. “Trust me.”
The word lands differently now. After the sex shop. After the pendant. After all of it.
Trust.
I nod.
Lunch is a quiet restaurant off the Strip. No slot machines. No neon. Just white tablecloths, actual silverware, and a view of the mountains that makes Vegas feel like a hallucination.
The black bag sits between us like a dare. The shopping bag with the green dress. The pendant against my throat.
“So.” He unfolds his napkin. “You’ve really never.”
“Do we have to keep discussing this?”
“We don’t have to. But I’m curious.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the director of the NRO. You control satellites. You’ve got more power than most people dream of.” He leans forward. “And you’ve never let yourself be blindfolded. Never let someone tie your wrists. Never—”
“Never, what?”
“Never surrendered.”
The word lands like a grenade.
“Surrender is dangerous.”
“Surrender can be a gift.”
“To whom?”
“To yourself. To someone you trust.” He’s watching me with those dark eyes that see too much. “When’s the last time you let go, Sarah? Really let go?”
I should shut this down. Change the subject. Talk about the gala, about Costa, about literally anything else.
“I don’t remember.”
The honesty surprises us both.
“Why not?”
“Because letting go means losing control. And losing control means …” I stop. The words are too close to the wound. “It’s not safe.”
“For who?”
“For me. For whoever I’m with. For everyone.” I pick up my water glass. Set it down without drinking. “My father taught me that. Every lesson was about control. How to gain it. How to keep it. How to make sure no one ever has power over you.”
“And you think surrender means giving someone power over you?”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.” He says it simply. Like it’s obvious. “Surrender means trusting someone to hold you when you stop holding yourself. That’s not power over someone. That’s power shared with someone.”
I don’t know what to do with that. So I change the subject.
“Tell me about flying.”
He blinks at the pivot. But he follows.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why you do it? Why you fly like you have a death wish?”
Something shifts behind his eyes. A door opening, just a crack.
“The first time I went up alone, I almost turned back.” He’s not looking at me now. Looking at something only he can see. “Instructor on the radio, telling me I was cleared, and all I could think was that nothing was holding me up but physics and faith.”
“What made you stay up?”
“Realized I was already flying. Only thing left to decide was whether I was going to enjoy it.” He pauses. “Everything else falls away up there. All the noise. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt quiet.”
Quiet. He says it like other people say sanctuary. Or home.
“You don’t seem like someone who needs quiet.”
“Nobody does, looking from the outside.” His gaze returns to mine. “Your turn.”
“My turn, what?”
“I showed you mine. Now you show me yours.” The innuendo is automatic, but his eyes are serious. “What made you who you are?”
I should deflect. Make something up. Give him the sanitized version.
Instead, the word slips out: “Chess.”
“Chess?”
“My father taught me when I was eight. He was patient. I remember that. Hours at the board, teaching me to think three moves ahead. I thought he was giving me a gift.”
“Wasn’t he?”
“He was teaching me to see everyone as an opponent.” I turn my water glass. “I didn’t realize I was included.”
“What do you mean?”
“He let me win, at first. Then he stopped. He said losing teaches more than winning.” The memory tastes like ash.
“It never occurred to me that he was also teaching that everyone has an angle. Everyone wants something. Every interaction is a game, and the only way to survive is to be three moves ahead.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s necessary.”
“Is it?”
I look up. He’s watching me with something I can’t name. Not pity. Not judgment. Something closer to recognition.
“What would happen if you stopped playing?”
“I’d lose.”
“Lose, what?”
Everything. Control. Safety. The only identity I’ve ever known.
“I don’t know.”
He reaches across the table. His hand covers mine. Warm. Steady. Present.
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
We walk back as the light changes. Vegas waking up, neon flickering to life, the Strip transforming from daylight mediocrity to nighttime magic.
He’s made me laugh four times. I counted.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed four times in one day.
The black bag swings from his hand. The dress bag is in the other. The pendant rests against my collarbone like it’s always been there.
His shoulder brushes mine. I don’t move away.
A crowd surges around us near one of the fountains—tourists jockeying for photos—and his hand finds the small of my back. Guiding. Protective.
I don’t pull away from that either.
“We should go up.” The Wynn rises ahead of us. “Get ready for tonight.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
“Sarah.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t, what?”
“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
He’s quiet for a moment. The fountains dance behind us, music swelling, water catching the dying light.
“It’s already hard.” His voice is low. “Hasn’t been easy since the chapel.”
The chapel. His mouth on mine. The sounds I made. The way I kissed him back like—
“That was for the cover.”
“Was it?”
No. Yes. I don’t know anymore.
“The gala starts in four hours.” I force my voice into director mode. Clipped. Professional. “We need to prepare. Costa’s had time to think. Tonight, I try again.”
“And if he says no again?”
“Then I find another way.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he nods.
“Then we find another way.”
We.
The word shouldn’t warm me the way it does.
We walk into the hotel together. Through the lobby. Into the elevator. Standing on opposite sides of the small space like it’s the only way to survive.
The black bag between us. The green dress. The pendant against my throat.
Four hours until the gala. Four hours until I face Ray again.
But right now, all I can think about is the man across from me. The one who dragged me into a sex shop and then bought me a silver queen. The one who picked a dress that made me look like someone I don’t recognize. The one who asked about trust, as if it were a simple thing.
He’s gotten past my defenses. I don’t know when it happened. Between the chapel and the terrace and the ridiculous feather boa, somewhere in the cracks I didn’t know existed.
The elevator doors open.
We step into the hallway.
I should retreat. Regroup. Become the director again.
But looking at him—really looking—being the director loses its appeal.
I want to be the woman in the green dress. The one who laughs. The one who wears silver queens and wonders what it would feel like to surrender.
The wanting terrifies me more than anything Phoenix could do.
And for the first time in my life, my instinct isn’t to run from the fear.
It’s to lean into it.