We leave my suite, whisking our way down the plush carpeted hallway, then into the elevator. I press the button for the basement. No need to sweep through the casino dressed like this.
I’m not worried about being seen, per se. Nor am I sneaking off. I’d just rather enter the party already feeling like someone else. And so that’s how I want to begin the night too.
Also, another rule to live by is this: one should always err on the side of caution when one likes playing dress-up.
And this girl has always loved to play pretend.
The elevator lets us off at the lower level, and we wind through hallways till we near the exit. Reaching into my clutch, I grab my phone, dial my driver, and ask him to come around. Seconds later, we head outside to the portico at the back entrance of the hotel.
The valets glance my way, but none of them say, Good evening, Ms. Carmichael.
Neither do the doormen.
We are simply two women in costume. We blend in, because Vegas is a land for slipping into other personas.
The ruse works. No one expects to see buttoned-up Sage like this.
A frisson of excitement winds through me, the buzzy promise of getting away with something. It rushes through my body, the zip of anticipation, the hum of possibilities.
The gleaming black limo arrives within a minute, the driver pulling to the curb and stepping out.
Carlos’s eyes scan quickly, finding us. He opens the door for the back seat while a valet tips his cap. “Have a lovely evening in Las Vegas,” the valet says, as if we’re anyone.
I grin privately, delighted to pull this off.
When we’re in the car, the valet shuts the door behind us as Carlos returns to the wheel.
“Where am I taking you tonight, Ms. Carmichael?” he asks in the mirror.
He’s the only one who’ll know, and a good driver doesn’t let on about his boss’s nighttime escapades.
“Take us to Aria.”
He nods crisply. “As you wish.”
As the car swings away from my home, whooshing past The Invitation, a brand-new gleaming hotel across the street from mine, I shift my gaze to Eliza. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. She’s thinking what I’m thinking. We are Cinderellas off to the ball.
Only, I don’t want to meet a Prince Charming.
I’ve no interest in that.
I’ve been there, ridden off into the sunset with the man I thought was the one.
The man who turned out to be the furthest thing from it, his charm nothing but a lie.
I won’t go there again, won’t risk that type of man.
But I wouldn’t mind meeting a Prince Wicked.
I wouldn’t mind that at all.
2
Cole
Opening a new hotel isn’t for the faint of heart.
Or the weak of stomach.
It takes an iron gut and balls of steel to go all-in on a new casino in Sin City.
As well as billions of dollars.
Fortunately, I possess all of those, as well as a lion’s determination to get what I want. And I want The Exquisite Show, a Cirque du Soleil–style production but even sexier, even racier.
Nearly every hotel on the Strip has been vying for this theatrical production.
I study the photos on my laptop, images of acrobats twisted into impossible shapes, sliding up and down metal scaffolds in an urban dreamscape of sorts. The pictures are from a show in Paris, where I saw it last, when I knew I wanted this kind of show for myself.
If all goes well, I’ll have it here soon at The Invitation.
The deal should be inked tonight, and I intend to make the winning offer, the one that beats every other hotel in this town.
I check my watch. I have one hour before I’m due at Aria for a party, the first one I’ll be attending since I relocated to Vegas last month for the opening of this hotel. I fire off a couple of emails, replying first to Scarlett in Paris, our newest business partner who invested in our European properties, then to the city of Las Vegas’s marketing manager about an ad campaign he wants The Invitation to participate in.
We’re the new kids on the block with one week open under our belt, so naturally, my response can only be an enthusiastic We’d be delighted to join your meeting to discuss these plans. I hit send as my VP of business affairs raps on the ajar door to my office.
One look and my instincts tell me what’s coming.
A motherfucking problem.
It’s in his shoulders, the way he carries himself, the set of his jaw.
Everything in his disposition says I didn’t deliver.
Mostly, his news is telegraphed in the way he swallows before he speaks. “Mr. Donovan,” he begins, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.
“Yes, Braxton,” I say as I shut my laptop, rise from my chair, and walk around my desk. “What’s the news with The Exquisite Show?”
Another swallow, a breath, then he lifts his chin. “I ran into a bit of a snag with the deal.”
Grabbing my phone from my desk, I arch a brow and toss back dryly, “You don’t say?”
“I’m sorry, sir. But it seems they didn’t like the terms I offered for a six-month residency.” He’s normally steady. That’s why I hired him. I wouldn’t let someone work for my company who couldn’t get shit done. But today, he’s uncharacteristically wobbly. And I suspect it’s because he knows how badly I want The Exquisite Show’s new production. Because I want this hotel to be the best on the Strip. It’s a simple goal, and it’s mine.
“And why didn’t they like the terms? The terms were fantastic,” I say, striding across the carpet, then motioning for Braxton to follow me.
There is no need to simply talk when you can walk and talk.
We head down the hallway lined with corporate offices, making our way to the elevator.
“They only want to agree to four months,” Braxton says. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says again, and I can hear the worry in his voice.
He knows he’s disappointed me.
I expected him to handle this.
I can’t do every-fucking-thing.
But Braxton mostly delivers. He mostly nails deals. This is rare for him, and that means I can either rip him to shreds for failing, or I can teach him how to do better.
Doesn’t do me any good to demean an employee. It only benefits me to build him up. So that’s what I do.
Starting with this rule of business. “Braxton, let me teach you something.”
The sandy-haired man nods crisply, a good soldier. “Yes, sir?”
I lift a finger, speaking softly. “Save your sorrys for your wife, or your girlfriend. Don’t say you’re sorry in business. Instead, say what you need. What you’re going to do. Or what you need me to do. That’s how you get ahead. Sorry doesn’t matter in business. Actions and plans do.” I pause, run a hand down my tie, and wait. “What do you need, Braxton?”
He squares his shoulders, taking a breath. “I need to get them to agree to six months. Can you help me with that?”
“I can.” I look at my watch again. “Meet me here in thirty minutes, and I’ll take care of this. You can listen to how it’s done.”
He nods dutifully, and I go upstairs to my penthouse suite, pour a finger of scotch, knock it back, and head to the shower.