In the back of my mind, a darker thought forms, and I hate how quickly it creeps in. Did I just quit my job for some kind of shady deal? Worse—am I here as part of a joke? Some twisted prank orchestrated by Vance to humiliate me.
Does he know Vance?
The man seated in front of me doesn’t flinch under my scrutiny. His calm, steady gaze is both unnerving and comforting. “You’re right,” he says evenly. “Iamrolling in money and offers for support. But I need your help because what I need fixed requires someone unknown—someone off the radar.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a quiet intensity that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. “I can’t risk using any of the big PR firms, no matter how discreet or sensitive they claim to be. It’s too dangerous. One leak, one slip-up, and everything I’ve built is gone. But I trust you, Mae. I trust you to be discreet.”
I nod my head, waiting for him to elaborate on why he trusts me over an organization designed for sensitivity directed towardsathletes; but instead, he picks up two full shot glasses from the table and hands one to me.
"But first, let’s celebrate that divorce of yours."
***
Two hours later, I’m teetering on the edge of blackout, spinning in circles and dancing alone in Dexter's VIP section.
My shoes pinch, my head swims, and my movements are borderline ridiculous, but I can’t seem to care. The pulsing bass thumps through the suite, and the champagne haze buzzing in my veins tells me I deserve this—whateverthisis. Letting loose, a new job opportunity, a better future.
Three shots ago, I tried to pry some details about the mysterious job Dexter wants to hire me to do. His response? A casual grin and a wave of his hand, insisting it was far too sensitive to discuss here, in the noisy chaos of the casino. “Not now,”he’d said, topping off my glass of champagne like it was his life’s purpose. Instead of answers, I got more booze, a toast to my “freshly single and free” status, and encouragement to let loose and enjoy myself in the meantime.
And I have.
I’ve done shots with his massive linebacker friends and their glamorous, impossibly put-together girlfriends and side-chicks. I’ve laughed at jokes I didn’t fully understand and let the music drown out the gnawing, familiar voice in my head—the one that reminds me of all the things that I should be worrying about like bills, the laundry piled up in my apartment, how I’m going to make it through this month when I just quit my job and only have five-hundred dollars in my savings account.
For the first time in years, I’ve allowed myself to stop thinking about survival. No spreadsheets full of overdue bills. No cold sweats about next month's rent or student loan payments. No constant vigilance to keep Elsie safe, healthy, and happy.
Tonight, it’s just me.
Me, champagne, and the realization of how much I’ve let myself fall apart these past few years. My nails are chipped, my hair desperately needs a trim, and I’ve lost ten pounds of muscle and fat that I didn’t have to spare. Survival mode has a way of hollowing you out, of stealing more than just your sleep and peace of mind. It takes pieces of you. But tonight, Elsie is safe at home with Sienna, and I’m betting on myself. Betting on the fact that this is going to break my cycle of living in struggle.
I’m dancing in a room filled with people who likely couldn’t understand my life if they tried. Dexter sits back on one of the plush velvet couches, a champagne flute dangling from his fingers as he watches me with that impossibly big, self-assured grin. It’s the kind of smile that feels like sunshine on a stormy day—warm, effortless, and dangerously contagious.
He doesn’t say a word, just leans back and watches me flail like some lunatic who’s forgotten the weight of the world she carries every single day. And for tonight, I have. For once, I’m letting someone else take care of things and it feels damn good. Letting the champagne and dim lighting blur the edges of my worries. I’ll figure it all out tomorrow. Tonight, I just want to breathe, even if it’s in between drunken, clumsy dance moves under Dexter’s amused gaze.
"You know, I've always wanted to come up here and see this section for myself. I'm glad that the first time I'm experiencing it is as a guest and not an employee," I shout at him over the loud music.
"You deserve a lot more than a few shots and bottle service for what your ex put you through."
I smile and knock back another shot before jumping up to dance on the velvet couch in my bare feet.
By the time 2 AM finally rolls around, even Dexter, a guy with well over two hundred pounds of pure muscle, is teetering on the edge of oblivion after finally joining me in drinking. And finally, he gives in to my demands to know what he's hired mefor.
“Let’s go up to my suite. I’ll tell you there,” he responds as I cling to his bicep, laughing harder than I have in years. Even in my drunken state, I know that sounds like a risky idea. I haven’t been with a man in a long time, and I’m not sure I want my first time being a one-night stand with a guy who’s holding more power over me than I’m willing to admit just yet.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I shout a little too loudly. Thankfully, his friends are all distracted or have already headed back to their rooms with their girls for the night.
He laughs easily. “I wasn't expecting that. The suite has two rooms. Sleep off the alcohol, and we’ll talk in the morning. I'm afraid if I let you out of my sight, you'll chicken out and disappear on me.”
I shrug, feeling like I don’t have a choice. I’ve just impulsively and unprofessionally quit the only job I have while trying to scrape by and study for the Bar exam. What am I supposed to do? Go home and stare at the ceiling all night, worrying about how I’m going to make ends meet? Besides, Sienna had already planned to stay the night at my apartment with Elsie. Checking the time confirms that they are both peacefully asleep and the last text from her three hours ago confirmed that.
Outside, a sleek black town car idles at the curb, its driver standing at attention. Without hesitation, Dexter opens the door for me, his easy confidence making me feel like this isn’t some reckless leap into the unknown and I’m doing the right thing. The short ride to the hotel is quiet, except for the hum of the engine and the pounding of my pulse.
When we pull up to the entrance, my breath catches. This isn’t just a hotel he’s staying it—it isthehotel. The kind I’ve only seen in the glossy pages ofRitzy Living Magazine, a backdrop for celebrity scandals and red-carpet interviews.
Dexter climbs out first, casually pulling a baseball cap lowover his face to shield himself from prying eyes. Meanwhile, I bolt for the entrance, painfully aware of the fact that I’m still wearing my skimpy Cypress Palace uniform—a little black dress that had seemed barely tolerable under the dim casino lights but now feels outright scandalous under the pristine, glittering chandeliers of this place.
Once inside, I stick close to Dexter, who maneuvers through the lobby with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from living a life where this sort of luxury is routine. My eyes dart around, half expecting paparazzi to leap out from behind a plant, but thankfully, no one seems to pay us any attention. When we step into the elevator, Dexter reaches out and presses a button labeledPH, its golden letters glowing against the smooth black panel.
Penthouse. Of course.
I lean back against the cool, elevator wall, stealing a glance at Dexter, who stands with his hands in his pockets, relaxed and unreadable. Meanwhile, my nerves buzz like static, my thoughts racing as the numbers continue to tick higher.
