Her voice is soft as she looks at me."Remember that trip to Vegas?"Her voice comes out as nostalgic even though this isn’t real."Five years back?"
I lean back in my seat and carry on the fiction."The one where you cleaned out the blackjack table?"
She shakes her head."The one where you swore you'd never go back."Her eyes hold mine.There's something underneath the easy tone.A reminder.A warning.Something I missed.Something she wants me to know.
"Things change," I say carefully.
"Do they?"She tilts her head slightly."Or do we just convince ourselves they do until we're in too deep to walk away?"
Marquez chuckles from the front."In Vegas, you're always in too deep.That's the appeal."
Adena's smile doesn't waver, but her gaze stays locked on mine."Some bets aren't worth doubling down on."
She twists the ring on her finger, spinning it around."Depends on what you're playing for," I say quietly.
Her eyes meet mine.
Marquez says something to Valentina in Spanish.Ortega laughs at whatever it is.
But Adena and I are locked in our own conversation.The one happening beneath the words.The one that matters.
"Everything," she says finally.So soft I almost miss it under the engine noise.
The jet lifts.The ground falls away.
And I realize we're not talking about Vegas anymore.
Adena
The hotel is obscene.
Not opulent—obscene.The kind of wealth that stops pretending to have taste and just drowns you in excess until you forget what moderation looks like.
The lobby stretches three stories high, all black Italian marble veined with gold.A chandelier the size of a small house hangs from the ceiling—thousands of hand-cut crystals catching light and throwing it back in fractured rainbows.The air smells like money.Literally.Some custom scent they pipe through the vents.
The floor is so polished I can see my reflection in it.
Everything is sharp angles and dark elegance.No bright colors.No tacky neon from the Strip.Just black and gold and cream, punctuated by massive arrangements of white orchids that probably cost more than most people's rent.
A manager—or someone who looks like one—appears from nowhere and hands Marquez a set of key cards in a leather folio embossed with gold.He murmurs something about the penthouse level being prepared.
Of course it is.
We're ushered toward a private elevator, not the ones for regular guests.A separate bank tucked behind a discreet alcove, guarded by a man in a suit who doesn't smile.
The elevator doors are bronze.Actual bronze, not plated.They slide open silently.
Inside, more mirrors.More gold trim.Soft lighting that makes everyone look like they belong in a magazine.
The ascent is so smooth I barely feel it.
If Jagger is impressed, he's not showing it.But then I'm not showing anything either, other than the slight hint of boredom I learned to project when my mother decided beauty pageants were passé and forced me into modeling.
The elevator opens onto silence.No soft background music, no distant hum from the casino below.Just a stretch of marble hallway so pristine it looks untouched.
Three doors wait at the end, unmarked, each with a discreet gold handle.
The manager steps forward, voice low and deferential.“The penthouse floor is exclusively yours, Señor Marquez.”He gestures to the central door.“Your suite, as always.”To the one beside it: “Señor Ortega’s accommodations.”Then to the farthest door, set slightly apart at the corner of the hall.“Mr.Rourke, yours and your fiancée’s.”
