“Perfect. We’re giving them the opposite,” Ares finished. “We make them fall in love with our story before they can weaponize it.”
“Exactly.” I squeezed Orion’s hands. “This will be exhausting.”
“And expensive,” Orion added.
“Orion,” Ares said with exasperation.
“I can’t help but think about the money,” he said defensively.
“Speaking of,” Leo said, “give her our black card, so she doesn’t have to stop and ask us to handle a purchase.”
“Good idea.” Orion reached into his back pocket and brought out a billfold. “When I get a chance, I’ll order one with your name on it, but I’ll call and make sure you’re an authorized user.”
I turned over the card and stared at it. “How much can I spend?”
“Whatever you want. There is no limit on it.”
I sucked in a breath. “No limit? I’m not used to such a thing.”
“Get used to it, honey,” Leo said with a wide grin. “You’re with us now.”
“We’re all in,” Orion confirmed.
“Always,” Ares added.
I looked at each of them—these three men who’d somehow become my everything in such a short time. Who protected me, challenged me, and loved me despite the chaos I’d brought into their lives.
“Then let’s throw the biggest, most romantic, most talked-about party Las Vegas has ever seen.”
“And make the Gaming Commission look like villains for trying to destroy us,” Leo added.
I pulled out my master timeline. “According to this, we need to have the final walk-through complete by four p.m. tomorrow. That gives us thirty-one hours.”
“Then we’d better get started,” Orion said.
And just like that, we were at war, fought with ice sculptures, videos, lighting designs, and carefully crafted press releases. A war where victory looked like four people standing on a stage, unashamed and in love, while the world watched and had no choice but to acknowledge that what we had was real.
I gathered my papers, my mind already racing through the first ten calls I needed to make.
Leo’s phone buzzed. “Frank’s waiting for you in the ballroom.”
“Then I’d better get going,” I said.
Frank Delacorte was a legend in Vegas production circles—fifty-something, gray ponytail, perpetually dressed in black, and capable of making miracles happen with duct tape and sheer force of will. He met me in the grand ballroom thirty minutes after Leo’s call, his arms already full of equipment cases.
“So,” he said, setting down his load and pulling out a roll of bright yellow blocking tape. “Leo says you want to throw the party of the century. Tomorrow night.”
“That’s right.”
“All this in less than a day?” He gestured at the cavernous ballroom—beautiful but currently empty, echoing, and absolutely not ready for a gala.
“Thirty-one hours,” I corrected.
“Not counting sleep.”
“Who needs sleep?” I pulled out my notebook, feeling the adrenaline singing through my veins. I was energized, and despite the mattress gymnastics, I felt as if I could keep up this pace all day.
Frank’s eyebrows shot up. Then he laughed—a genuine belly laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. “Oh, honey. I like you already. Okay. Show me what you’re thinking.”
