Yet, I’m not overwhelmed.
Not like before.
Trey’s hand rests at my waist.
A woman approaches us almost immediately, her smile polished and professional, her eyes sharp with quiet assessment.
She is stunning in that effortless, curated way Vegas seems to perfect, with deep bronze skin and sleek dark hair pulled into a high, sculpted ponytail, her cheekbones catching the light with every turn of her head. Her dress is black and minimal, cut high at the thigh, the fabric clinging like liquid as she moves, while gold glints at her ears, wrists, and fingers in deliberate, expensive accents.
“Mr. Ryder,” she says smoothly, dipping her head slightly. “Your table is ready.” We are led through the crowd as security parts it ahead of us with quiet authority, Niko’s men unmistakable in their sharp suits and sharper expressions, while the atmosphere subtly shifts around us, whispers following in our wake, more phones lifting, attention turning, though no one steps too close.
Respect. Or caution. Perhaps both. The booth is tucked into a raised section overlooking the dance floor, semi-private yet still close enough to feel the energy of the room. Low lighting pools around the table in warm amber tones, where bottles already wait—top-shelf whiskey, vodka, champagne resting in chilled buckets, glasses lined neatly beside them. We slide in together, the space filling quickly with Mac, Logan, Sam, and Chace—familiar in a way that steadies the edges of everything else. I settle beside Trey, aware of him in that constant, quiet way I always am.
“I’m just going to have some water,” I say softly, leaning slightly toward him.
His brows lift just a fraction, not questioning, simply noticing…he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask, but turns his head toward the server instead.
“Just a water, please,” he says calmly.
Mac nudges my arm gently, already smiling as she rises. “Come on,” she says, half-laughing. “Dance with me before they get swarmed.” A soft laugh escapes me as I let her pull me up. Mac looks beautiful, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the light with every movement, her bright blue eyes alive with energy as they scan the room. Her dress is silver and form-fitting, the fabric shimmering subtly as she moves, paired with heels that somehow make her look even more poised, more effortless.
We slip into the crowd together, the music taking over where thought leaves off, the bass settling into my bones as the lights blur and the press of bodies becomes something to move with rather than something to fear. I am aware of everything. The space, the people, the hands that come too close but never quite touch—and above all, I am aware of him. I feel Trey before I look, that constant awareness pulling at me with quiet insistence, andwhen I finally glance back toward the booth, I find him exactly where I knew he would be. Watching me.
He is leaned back into the seat, one arm stretched along the back of the booth, his legs slightly spread, his drink resting loosely in his hand in a posture that appears relaxed but is anything but careless. There is something in his gaze that does not soften, does not waver, even as the world moves around him—Something focused, intent, as though everything else has faded into background noise and I am the only thing he came here for.
My stomach tightens, not with fear but with something warmer, something stronger. I turn back into the music, letting myself move, letting myself feel it fully—the way the dress clings to my body, the way my breath settles into rhythm, the way I exist in this space without shrinking.
This moment is mine. This life is mine. And I am not giving it back.
A few songs pass before the shift comes, subtle at first as the energy changes, attention redirecting. Trey is on his feet. Nothing stops him.
Not the hands that reach out as he passes, not the phones lifted in his direction with glowing screens trying to capture him, not the voices calling his name. He doesn’t acknowledge any of it, his focus unwavering, his eyes locked on me with a certainty that makes every step he takes deliberate.
My breath catches as he reaches me, his hand finding my waist without hesitation as he pulls me into him with quiet authority, and the world narrows instantly, the music fading into something distant and secondary.
His forehead presses to mine, his breath warm against my skin.
“Took you long enough,” I murmur, softer than I expect.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Wanted to watch you first.”
Heat curls low in my chest.
I don’t look away.
Not this time.
My hands slide slowly up his chest, feeling the solid line of him beneath my palms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, until they settle at his collar, my fingers curling into the fabric as I hold him there.
This man is all mine.
His eyes darken, a flicker of surprise passing through them.
He is used to leading, to taking, to owning every moment.
Not this one, husband. This one belongs to me.
I rise slightly onto my toes, closing the space between us, brushing my lips first along his jaw before finding his mouth, intentional and undeniably public.
