So I check in at the airport counter, sliding my ID across with the kind of casual confidence that still feels like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
I go through security without incident—no beeping, no pat-downs, just a smooth glide through the scanner and a polite nod from the TSA agent who doesn't look at me twice because I'm nobody worth remembering.
I get on the plane, settle into my window seat, buckle in, and let myself disappear into the hum of takeoff while scrolling mindlessly through my phone.
And two hours and five minutes later—after a complimentary ginger ale I didn't finish and a packet of pretzels I ate just to have something to do with my hands—I'm stepping off the jetway into McCarran International Airport, surrounded by the chaotic symphony of slot machines dinging and chiming, people rushing past with roller bags, and that enormous Welcome to Las Vegas sign lit up like a whore on Christmas, glittering, and shameless, and utterly, perfectly alive.
My smile is so big it feels like my face might crack open. I feel reborn before the glow-up has even officially started, beforeI've set foot in a salon, or touched a poker chip, or done anything except breathe in recycled airport air that somehow smells like possibility.
Modern life is a fucking miracle when you have money.
The taxi pulls up to a porte-cochère that's quieter than the main Strip chaos, bronze-toned and understated in that way expensive things whisper instead of shout. A sign readsWynn Tower Suites - Private Entranceand I feel like I'm sneaking into somewhere I don't belong.
Except I do belong. I paid for this. Well. Caleb paid for this, technically, but the money's in my account now so it counts.
The valet opens my door before I can reach for the handle. "Welcome to the Tower Suites, miss."
I mumble something that might be thank you and step out onto pavement so clean it looks freshly scrubbed. My single carry-on bag feels pathetic suddenly—everyone else arriving here has matched luggage sets and personal assistants.
Inside, the lobby isn't a lobby. It's more like walking into someone's very rich, very tasteful living room. Warm wood paneling, soft amber lighting, a massive floral arrangement on a center table.
No slot machines.
No noise.
Just hushed, rarefied air and the faint scent of something expensive I can't identify.
A woman in an immaculate suit approaches with a smile that's professionally warm without being fake. "Ms. Desmond?"
"Yes," I manage.
"Welcome. I'm Claire, your personal concierge. We have you in a suite on the fifty-eighth floor with Strip views. Your appointments begin in thirty minutes. I booked everything you requested."
I nod like this is normal. Like I do this all the time.
She walks me to a private elevator bank—not the main casino elevators, a completely separate set that requires a key card to access. The doors open immediately because apparently tower suite guests don't wait for anything.
The ride up is silent except for the faint whoosh of expensive machinery. When the doors open on my floor, Claire leads me down a hallway that smells like fresh flowers.
My suite.
My suite.
The door opens and I stop breathing for a second because the space is bigger than my entire old apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Strip—all those flashing lights, and crawling traffic, and chaos spread out below like a glittering infection.
Claire goes through the amenities—minibar, espresso machine, bathroom with the soaking tub, something about turndown service—but I'm not listening. I'm standing at the window, palms pressed against the glass, staring down at thousands of people who have no idea I exist.
No one here knows who I am.
Not ScarletSins. Not the girl who got sold at auction. Not the freak who ran a sex maze in the Caribbean.
Just another anonymous body in a city built for forgetting.
Claire's voice pulls me back. "Your first appointment is in twenty-five minutes, Ms. Desmond. Shall I have them send a car, or would you prefer to walk? The salon is just across the property."
I turn from the window. "I'll walk."
Then I remember the tip. I pull a fifty out of my purse and hand it to her. She doesn't look at it, just smiles at me and backs out.
