“Actually,” I hear myself say, “one drink sounds good.”
“Excellent!” Wilson claps his hands. He’s glowing like the cat who got the cream, and I have no doubt he’s planned a long night with copious amounts of champagne.
I step into the warm evening air, letting the desert breeze carry away thoughts of insurance policies, voicemail messages, and untouched clothes. For tonight at least, I’ll pretend to be someone else—someone who celebrates wins, who drinks with clients.
“My car’s here,” Wilson adds. “I have a reservation at the Parthenon.”
The Parthenon. Of course. The Michelin-starred restaurant in the Olympus. I haven’t been since it opened, and I wonder if Athena will be there tonight. The thought sends an unexpected flutter through my stomach. Ourlast conversation keeps playing over and over in my mind. Part of me wants to talk to her, accept that standing invitation for coffee or something stronger. There’s unfinished business between us, a door left ajar, and that bothers me.
But what would I even say? Or ask? It’s not like I’ll get answers unless I sign that joke of an NDA and give her a fortune.
No. Better to keep my distance.
I slide into the leather back seat of the SUV and close my eyes for a beat, letting the hum of the engine wash over me. Seven days of freedom has never felt so much like a prison sentence. I desperately need a stiff drink.
TEN
ATHENA
I pause at the entrance of the Parthenon, smoothing down my white palazzo pants—Valentino, fresh from Paris. The maître d’ nods in deference—no reservation needed when you own the place. Behind him, the dining room hums with the particular energy of success and celebration over wagyu beef and hundred-dollar glasses of wine.
My dinner companion, a gaming commissioner, has just canceled. His text suggests traffic on the Strip, but I know he’s probably at the Bellagio, trying to squeeze concessions out of my competitors. Let them have their little victories. I own the sky up here.
A familiar voice cuts through the ambient noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations. I turn and have to do a double take. It’s really her—Ruby Walsh, looking decidedly less controlled than last time I saw her. She’s sitting with four men in suits, an impressive wine bottle on their table. Her cheeks are flushed, auburn hair slightly disheveled. The top buttons of her silk blouse are undone, her jacket draped over her lap rather than the backof her chair—small details that speak volumes about her state.
I drift closer, drawn by curiosity. Ruby’s head is thrown back in laughter at something one of the men has said. I’ve never seen her laugh so freely and it transforms her face completely, erasing the perpetual furrow between her brows. Her green eyes sparkle in the golden light from the Swarovski chandeliers overhead, and for a moment, I glimpse the woman she might have been before grief carved its way into her soul.
Without thinking, I place my hand on her shoulder. She startles at the touch, twisting to look up at me. Recognition floods her face, followed quickly by something else. Embarrassment? Fear? The wine has stripped away some of her usual armor, leaving her emotions closer to the surface.
“Athena,” she says, her voice slightly husky. “I didn’t expect…” She trails off, clearly struggling to compose herself.
“Hey,” I reply, squeezing her shoulder. I survey the table—plates scattered with the remains of Chef Dimitris’s dessert specialties. “What are we celebrating?”
The man to Ruby’s right straightens himself, adjusting his tie. “Ms. Stavros, right? I’m James Wilson.” He flashes me a smile. “We closed the deal of a lifetime today, thanks to this brilliant woman right here.” He gestures at Ruby with his wine glass, nearly sloshing the expensive vintage. “She absolutely destroyed the other side.”
“Did she now?” Under my hand, I feel Ruby’s muscles tense, coiled tight.
“You know each other?” Wilson asks, looking between us with poorly concealed curiosity. The other men at the table lean in, equally fascinated.
“We’re neighbors,” I explain, not removing my handfrom Ruby’s shoulder. “Ruby and I share a fondness for late nights.” I catch her eye, enjoying the way she flushes deeper at the reference. The wine has made her more transparent than usual.
I signal to the sommelier. “This calls for celebration. Send over a bottle of the Krug, Andreas. On the house.” The 1988 vintage is a $2,000 gesture that will be repaid tenfold in gossip about my generosity.
“Oh, I should actually be going,” Ruby says, starting to rise. Her movement is unsteady, one hand gripping the table for balance. “I have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Nonsense!” Wilson protests, reaching for her arm. She flinches almost imperceptibly at his touch. “One more drink! This is a big day, Ruby. Just one more.”
I watch her falter, clearly torn between escape and social obligation. Her eyes dart around the room like a trapped animal seeking exit. Time to intervene.
“I’m heading home myself,” I say smoothly. “I’d be happy to give you a lift.”
She looks up at me, relief warring with suspicion in those striking green eyes. “I have my car…”
“Which you absolutely shouldn’t be driving,” I say firmly. “Come on, neighbor. Let me help.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nods. The men protest, but I silence them with a smile and a promise of champagne. Ruby gathers her things—briefcase, phone, suit jacket.
I guide her to the private elevator, my hand on the small of her back. She’s warm through the thin fabric of her silk blouse, and I can feel the slight tremor in her muscles—too much wine, too much pressure, too much of everything. The doors close and we descend in silence, the casino lights rising up around us through the glass walls.
