Penthouse.
Thank God.
I lead her down the hallway, my stride purposeful, my pulse a heavy thrum in my ears that drowns out the distant sounds of the casino floor below.
She matches my hurried steps, laughing under her breath.
“Husband,” she says, like she’s still testing the word. “You walk very fast.”
“I have motivation,” I mutter.
She squeezes my hand.
I reach the door to my suite and swipe the key card, my hand steady now. Good thing my body burns through alcohol fast, because I have plans for tonight.
The little green light flashes.
Access granted.
The heavy mahogany door swings open, revealing the expanse of the suite.
It’s a temple of excess.
Floor-to-ceiling windows spill neon light across polished marble and dark wood. The Strip glows beneath us, alive and pulsing, like the whole city is watching.
The bedroom sits off to the side, partially visible—dark sheets, wide and inviting.
“Hoooooly crap,” Talia breathes as she steps inside, like she’s just crossed into another universe.
She lets go of my hand and spins in a slow circle, her yellow dress flaring out around her thighs. Her laughter fills the room, bright and reckless and completely intoxicating.
“Hercules,” she says, staring around in awe. “This isn’t a room. This is a kingdom.”
I close the door behind us.
She walks deeper into the suite, fingertips grazing the marble bar, the leather couch, like she needs to touch everything to make it real.
“Are you like… rich?” she asks, squinting at me suspiciously.
“Don’t worry about it,” I grunt.
Because money is the last thing on my mind right now.
She drifts toward the windows, pressing her palms flat against the glass. The city glows beneath her, painting her skin in gold and pink.
“Look at the lights,” she whispers. “Everything looks like tiny little jewels from up here. Even the traffic.”
I watch her instead.
The curve of her back.
The way the thin fabric of her dress hugs her waist.
The sparkle of the cheap ring on her finger.
My ring.
My wife.
