Chapter 6
The Strip was humming again.
March Madness had returned like a storm of neon-soaked nostalgia. Groups of college buddies flooded the city in matching polos and retro jerseys, toasting their younger selves with thousand-dollar bets and bottomless bourbon. The casinos were alive, buzzing with the chaos of buzzer-beaters and bracket meltdowns. The screens glowed in every direction, and the noise was almost comforting—Vegas, in all its chaotic splendor, pretending like nothing had changed.
From the high-limit lounge at Bellagio, Alessia Cruz watched it all with practiced detachment.
Her clients were Chicago boys, Hedge fund partners by day, former frat kings for the weekend. They were three bourbons deep, debating Purdue’s chances with the fervor of men who’d never grown past college.
Alessia smiled when appropriate, laughed when expected, and kept their drinks full. In her hand, a chilled glass of Veuve Clicquot shimmered gold. She raised it as they toasted to “final fours and final mistakes,” her voice perfectly smooth.
“To champions and bad bets,” she said.
They cheered like she was one of them. But when one of the men leaned in and murmured something about Cabo for his 40th, her smile didn’t flicker. She just nodded. “Send the jet.”
She wouldn’t go. She never would. But promises in this city weren’t meant to be kept—they were meant to keep things moving.
The nightclub pulsed with a new kind of energy
Roman DeLuca stood at the edge of the VIP floor, surveying the crowd like a king on his perch. USC alumni filled his club tonight, old money in new sneakers, their voices too loud, their wallets too open. It was the kind of night where the lights felt extra golden and the sparklers burned just a little longer.
He saw her before she saw him.
Savannah Carter, lithe and luminous in black sequins, slipped through the crowd like a secret. She wasn’t supposed to work tonight, but one of the girls called out, and Roman had asked. She never said no to him. Not really.
“Table seven,” he said, pulling her aside. “Polo bros from L.A. Big spenders. Watch out for Bryce.”
She raised a brow. “That a warning or an invitation?”
Roman didn’t answer. Just let her go.
Bryce was already holding court when she arrived. Tall, sun-kissed, the kind of man whose grin came pre-approved by every girl he’d ever ghosted. He ordered a $2,000 bottle of Rosé just to see her smile.
She poured. He flirted.
“Here’s to finding the right girl in the wrong place,” he said.
The champagne fizzed in their glasses. She drank.
Savannah woke up alone
The suite was cold and modern, all clean lines and impersonal art. The Dom bottle was still half-full on the glass coffee table. Her dress lay in a heap near the balcony door.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, three missed texts from Roman. One from Alessia.
The memories trickled in slowly: the kisses, the elevator, the skyline. Then nothing. He hadn’t said goodbye. He hadn’t left a note.
She found a hand-drawn bracket on hotel stationery. USC had lost. Bryce was gone.
She stared out the window, then pulled her phone and texted Roman.
Savannah: I’m good. Thanks for the intro.
No emoji. No lie. Just distance.
Roman read it mid-shift, standing in his rooftop office with the Strip glowing beneath him. He didn’t answer.
A poolside cabana at the Venetian
Ethan Blake tilted his head back, letting champagne drip over his lips from the bottle a model was tipping into his mouth. Nix Karras was beside him, laughing too loudly, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. The music thumped, the girls danced, and everything looked like a win.
But Ethan kept scanning the crowd. And Nix couldn’t quite keep the twitch out of his hands.
They were hiding in daylight.
“Best way to die, right?” Nix joked as a girl popped a bottle, spraying foam over his shirt.
Ethan laughed. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
The salon at Aria was quiet, full of orchids and whispers.
Alessia sat under a dryer, sipping green tea and staring at a text she hadn’t answered. Savannah slid into the chair beside her, still wearing last night’s lashes, sunglasses perched on her head.
They didn’t speak at first. The silence was comfortable. Honest.
“I’m so tired of being someone’s moment,” Savannah said eventually.
Alessia glanced at her. “In Vegas? That’s all anyone is.”
Savannah looked away. She didn’t want that to be true.
But it was.
Roman stood at the window again that night, drink in hand, music pulsing below. The Strip looked alive. Screaming drunk fans. VIP lines stretched around corners. The kind of night Vegas promised.
But his club felt cold.
He thought about Savannah. About how she looked walking away. About Bryce.
He texted Alessia: The city’s loud again. You feel it too?
She replied: Loud doesn’t mean alive.
He didn’t respond.
In the final moments of the night, the city blurred into motion:
The sportsbook erupted over a last-second shot. Nix lit a cigarette with shaky hands. Ethan stared too long into his reflection in the pool glass. Savannah watched an old TikTok of herself, laughing, lips wrapped around a champagne bottle. She looked happy.
Alessia sat in her car, the bracelet on her wrist catching the dashboard lights. Her phone rang. Another whale. Another night.
She let it go to voicemail.
In Vegas, they all made promises. To leave. To love. To win.
But champagne lies sweet. And no one ever means it.
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