"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.
