I glance at the faint reflection of the clutch in my hand, the understated jewelry—small diamond stud earrings, a matching tennis bracelet, a simple diamond pendant at my throat; nothing that screams or distracts. Everything about me says: I came because I had to, not because I wanted to be seen.
Good.
Do Isometimes wish to wear something more sensual or showy? Definitely. But I know, in my profession, it would send the wrong kind of message.
I smooth a hand down the side of the dress anyway, flattening a crease that isn’t really there. Habit.
Then I lift my chin a fraction and let my expression settle into neutrality—pleasant enough to be civil, blank enough to be safe.
Behind me, the lobby continues moving. A couple crosses toward the elevators. A bellman glides past with luggage. Somewhere deeper in the building, there’s a swell of sound, muted by distance, that tells me the event is already underway.
I check the signage and find the black-and-gold placard mounted on a stand: THE REGENT CLUB — GALA with an arrow pointing down a corridor.
Of course, it’s in a ballroom.
I turn away from the mirror and follow the arrow.
The hallway beyond the lobby feels like a transition by design—less open, more controlled, the lighting slightly dimmer, the walls dressed in textured panels that look soft until you get close enough to realize they’re another kind of expensive. The carpet under my shoes is thick.
The Regent Club makes you feel like you’re floating toward something exclusive.
I call it what it is: deliberate containment.
As I walk, I take in detailsautomatically—camera placement in corners, the way the sightlines narrow, the doors that require staff to operate. Nothing about this building is accidental. It isn’t only meant to impress; it’s meant to control access, to direct bodies where they want them, to keep certain spaces invisible unless you have permission to see them.
A hotel and casino dressed in elegance, but built on systems.
That, at least, is honest.
The signage repeats at the next intersection—another black-and-gold placard, the same arrow. I follow it past an alcove with a sculptural arrangement of flowers that smells like money, past a set of double doors with attendants stationed beside them in dark suits, their posture sharp, their gazes scanning without looking like they’re scanning.
Private security, I note, without having to try very hard.
The sound grows louder as I approach the ballroom entrance, and the air changes—warmer, carrying the faint sweetness of champagne and perfume and the heavier note of catering. I can already hear laughter, too bright, too practiced. The kind that tells me the gala is well underway and quite a bit of alcohol has already been served.
At the final turn, the entrance is clearly marked, the placard now reading BALLROOM — GALA THIS WAY with an arrow pointing straight ahead.
I slow.
Not because I’m nervous. Because I refuse to let haste dictate my entrance. I may be late, but I will not arrive flustered. I will not arrive apologizing. I will not arrive giving anyone an opening to decide I’m disorganized or overwhelmed.
I square my shoulders, tighten my grip on the clutch just enough to feel grounded, and take one more measured breath.
Then I step toward the ballroom doors.
Chapter Three
Antonio
I see her the moment she steps into the room.
And I’m not the only one.
It’s not dramatic. The music doesn’t change. No one announces her. But attention shifts, eyes change direction, there’s a fraction of a pause in conversation.
The ballroom is full of practiced attention tonight. People are here to be seen, to see who matters, to keep score without admitting they’re doing it.
She walks in like she isn’t keeping score at all.
