Room service arrives at seven.
I ordered everything I remembered from that first night—filet mignon, lobster tail, some ridiculously expensive wine I couldn't pronounce then and barely can now. The server sets it all up on the dining table by the windows, the Strip glittering below us like a promise the city can't keep.
Damien watches from across the room. Silent. Waiting.
"Sit," I tell him once we're alone.
He sits.
I take the chair across from him, the table a safe distance between us. Neutral territory. Except nothing about this room is neutral. Every surface holds a memory. Every corner whispers about who we used to be.
"Eat," I say.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat anyway." I cut into my steak. Force myself to take a bite even though my stomach's in knots. "You're going to need your strength for what comes after dinner."
That gets his attention. Fear flickers across his face, followed by something else. Something that looks almost like anticipation.
God, we're both so broken.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The city noise drifts up from below—car horns, music, the constant hum of Vegas pretending to be alive.
"Do you remember what we ordered that first night?" Damien asks quietly.
"Don't."
"Room service. You wanted the vegetarian option because you said you were trying to be healthier. I convinced you to split a burger with me instead. You ate three quarters of it and pretended you didn't."
I set down my fork. "I said don't."
"We stayed up until four in the morning talking." He's not looking at me. Staring at his plate like it holds answers. "You told me about your father's company. About how he built it from nothing. How proud you were to work for him. How someday you wanted to—"
"Stop." My voice cracks. "Stop talking."
"Why? Isn't that what tonight's about? Remembering?" He looks up finally. His eyes are red-rimmed. Devastated. "You brought me here to torture me with memories. So let's remember. Let's remember how real it was before I destroyed it."
"It was never real." The lie tastes bitter. "You were working. Playing a role. Everything about that night was calculated."
"The job was calculated. The approach was calculated." He pushes his plate away. Leans forward. "But what happened after... Aria, I wasn't supposed to sleep with you that first night. My instructions were to get close, build trust slowly. But you looked at me like I was—" He breaks off. "You looked at me like I mattered. Like I was more than what I did for a living. And I couldn't resist."
"How romantic." I drain my wine glass. Pour another. "You couldn't resist fucking the mark."
He flinches. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like? Explain it to me, Damien. Make me understand how you justified it."
"I can't." Simple. Honest. "There's no justification. I was weak. Selfish. I wanted you and I took you even though I knew—" His voice breaks. "Even though I knew it would end badly. That I'd have to hurt you. That this perfect thing we had would turn to poison."
I stand. Can't sit anymore. Can't be still. I walk to the window, put distance between us, try to breathe through the anger and pain and memories that are choking me.
"You want to know what I remember?" I don't turn around. Can't look at him. "I remember thinking I'd finally found it. That thing everyone talks about. That connection. That person who sees you—really sees you—and stays anyway."
Behind me, I hear him stand. Hear his footsteps getting closer.
"I remember lying in that bed—" I gesture toward the bedroom, "—and thinking 'this is it. This is the man I'm going to marry.'"
He's right behind me now. Close enough that I can feel his heat.
"I remember planning our future," I continue. Voice shaking. "Wondering if we'd have kids. What they'd look like. Whether they'd have your eyes or mine. I remember being so stupidly, naively happy that I actually thanked God for putting you in my path."
"Aria." His voice is wrecked. "Please."
"Please what?" I spin around. He's closer than I thought. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hit. "Please stop? Please forgive you? Please pretend that you didn't take the happiest moment of my life and turn it into the thing that destroyed me?"
"I was happy too." Tears streaming down his face now. No pride left. Just raw honesty. "That morning after—when you were still asleep and I watched the sun come up—I called my father. Told him the job was off. That I couldn't do it. That I'd found something more important than money or power or his approval."
My breath catches. "You're lying."
"I'm not." He pulls out his phone. Scrolls through old messages. Shows me the screen.
It's a text thread from three years ago. Damien to a contact labeled "Father."
I can't do this. The Kane job is off. I'll pay back what you've invested but I'm done.
The response: We need to talk. In person. Now.
And then nothing. No more messages.
"What did he say?" I whisper. "When you met him?"
"He reminded me about my mother." Damien's hands are shaking. "About her MS. About the experimental treatment that was keeping her alive. Treatment that cost sixty thousand a month and would stop immediately if I didn't finish the job."
"So you chose her over me."
"I chose her over everything." He closes his eyes. "What was I supposed to do, Aria? Let my mother die? She's the only person who ever—" He can't finish. "She's all I have."
And there it is. The thing I've been trying not to see. The complexity I don't want to acknowledge.
Because hating Damien is easy when he's just a monster. When he's just a greedy bastard who destroyed my family for profit.
But hating him when he's also a son who was forced to choose between love and his mother's life? When he's a victim of his own father's manipulation?
That's harder.
"You still made the choice." I step back. Need distance. Need air. "You chose to hurt me instead of standing up to him."
"I know."
"You chose to destroy my father's company. My father's life. My life."
"I know." He's not defending himself. Not making excuses. Just accepting it. "I made the choice. And I've paid for it every day since. But you want to know the worst part?"
"What?"
"I'd probably make the same choice again." The honesty in his voice is brutal. "If it was between you and my mother, between your family and mine... I'd choose her. Every time. Because she's my mother and she's dying and I'm all she has."
The confession should make me angrier. Should make this easier.
Instead, it just makes me sad.
"Get out," I say quietly.
"What?"
"Get out of this room. Go to the bar downstairs. Come back in an hour. I need... I need to think."
"Aria—"
"Ms. Sterling. And that wasn't a request."
He looks like he wants to argue. But after a moment, he just nods. Grabs his jacket. Walks to the door.
Pauses.
"For what it's worth," he says without turning around, "if I could go back and choose differently—if I could sacrifice anything to undo what I did—I would. In a heartbeat."
Then he's gone.
And I'm alone in the suite where we fell in love.
I walk to the bedroom. Stand in the doorway. The bed's been made with fresh sheets but I can still see us there. Young. Stupid. Happy.
I sit on the edge. Run my hand over the duvet.
This was supposed to be simple. Revenge. Power. Making him pay.
But nothing about this is simple.
My phone buzzes. A text from Maya: Victoria's PI got photos of you two entering the hotel. She knows you're in Vegas together. This is going to blow up.
I don't care. Let it blow up. Let the whole world know.
Another text, this one from an unknown number: Enjoying your romantic getaway? —V
Victoria. Of course.
I should be worried. Should be planning damage control. Should be thinking about the consequences.
Instead, I'm just tired.
Tired of being angry. Tired of revenge. Tired of carrying this weight.
There's a knock at the door forty-five minutes later.
I open it. Damien's standing there, looking uncertain. "You said an hour but I... can I come in?"
I step aside.
He walks past me, stops in the middle of the living room, turns.
"I've been thinking," he says. "About what you asked me to do tonight. Telling you everything. The truth."
"And?"
"And you're right. You deserve the truth. All of it. No matter how ugly." He takes a breath. "Ask me anything. I'll answer honestly. No filters. No protecting myself."
I walk closer. Study his face. Looking for lies. For manipulation.
I find only exhaustion and something that looks like resignation.
"Did you ever love me?" The question comes out smaller than I intended. "Really love me? Or was it always just part of the job?"
"I loved you so much it terrified me." No hesitation. "From that first night. From the moment you laughed at my terrible joke about quantum physics and I realized you actually understood the reference. I loved you and it scared the shit out of me because I'd never loved anyone before. Didn't know how. Didn't know it could feel like that."
My chest tightens.
"When did you know you'd have to betray me?"
"From the beginning. That was always the plan." He swallows hard. "But I kept thinking I'd find a way out. A way to protect you. A way to have both—finish the job without destroying you. I was delusional."
"Yes. You were."
We're close now. Too close. I can smell his cologne. The same one he wore three years ago. Same one that used to drive me crazy.
Still drives me crazy, apparently.
"If I'd said no to your deal," he asks quietly, "if I'd chosen prison over this... would you have been satisfied? Would it have been enough?"
"No." The admission surprises us both. "I don't think anything would be enough. Because what I really want—what I've always wanted—is to go back. To undo it. To have that night back when we were just two people falling in love and nothing else mattered."
"We can't go back."
"I know."
His hand comes up. Hesitates. Slowly, so slowly I have time to stop him, he reaches for my face. Cups my cheek.
I should pull away. Should slap his hand away. Should remind him who's in control here.
But I don't.
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. The touch is gentle. Reverent. Like I'm something precious he's afraid to break.
"I've missed you," he whispers. "God, I've missed you so much."
"Don't." But I'm leaning into his touch. Betraying myself.
"I've missed your laugh. Your smile. The way you'd argue with me about everything just because you liked the debate. I've missed waking up next to you. Coming home to you. Having someone who—"
I grab his shirt. Pull him closer.
His breath hitches.
We're inches apart now. I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. Racing. Terrified. Desperate.
Just like mine.
"This doesn't change anything," I say.
"I know."
"I still hate you."
"You should."
"I'm still going to destroy you."
"I know." His forehead touches mine. "Do it. I deserve it. I deserve everything you want to do to me. Just... just let me have this moment first. Please. One moment where I can pretend we're back here. Before everything went wrong. Before I—"
I kiss him.
Or he kisses me.
I don't know who moves first. Don't care.
His lips are exactly how I remember. Soft and demanding and desperate. He tastes like whiskey and regret and three years of longing.
I kiss him like I'm drowning and he's air. Like I'm dying and he's the cure. Like I hate him and love him and want to destroy him and save him all at once.
His hands are in my hair. Mine are fisting his shirt. We're pressed together so tightly there's no space between us, no room for lies or pretense or armor.
Just this. Just us. Just the truth we've both been trying to deny.
We stumble toward the bedroom. His mouth never leaving mine. My brain screaming at me to stop, my body refusing to listen.
We hit the edge of the bed—that bed—and reality crashes back.
I shove him away.
Hard.
He stumbles backward. Lips swollen. Eyes wild. Looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"No." I'm shaking. "No, we're not doing this."
"Aria—"
"That's not what tonight is about." I force steel into my voice. "You think you can kiss me and I'll forget? You think one moment of honesty erases three years of hell?"
"No. I know it doesn't. I just—"
"Get on your knees."
He blinks. "What?"
"You heard me. On your knees. Now."
Slowly, he sinks down. Right there in the bedroom doorway. Looking up at me with those gray eyes full of confusion and hurt and something that still looks like hope.
Fool.
"This is what tonight's really about," I tell him. Voice cold. Controlled. Even though I'm dying inside. "Not romance. Not nostalgia. Control. You're going to kneel there and you're going to tell me the truth. Not the sanitized version. The real one. Every detail of how you extracted information from me. Every lie you told. Every time you used sex to get what you wanted."
"Aria, please—"
"Ms. Sterling. And start talking."
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they're wet.
"The second week we were together," he starts. Voice hollow. "You mentioned a new encryption algorithm your team was developing. I asked follow-up questions. Made it seem like casual interest. You explained it to me. Pillow talk. You thought we were just... talking. I recorded it on my phone while you were in the shower."
My stomach turns. "Keep going."
"The trip to Singapore. You were stressed about the Meridian contract. I offered to give you a massage. Got you to talk through the details while you were relaxed. Used what you told me to front-run the bid. Made sure my father's client could undercut your offer."
Every word is a knife.
"That weekend in Paris," he continues. "When I told you I loved you on the bridge. That was real. But the reason we went to Paris in the first place was because I knew you had a meeting with a potential investor scheduled for Monday. I needed you out of town so you'd miss it. So the deal would fall through."
"You planned the most romantic weekend of my life as a business maneuver."
"Yes." He's crying openly now. "And I hated myself for it even as I was doing it. Because you were so happy. So in love. And I was destroying you piece by piece while pretending to worship you."
I should feel vindicated. This is what I wanted—him broken, honest, paying for his sins.
Instead, I just feel empty.
"Look at me," I command.
He does.
"Did you feel anything real? Anything at all? Or was every moment calculated?"
"Everything was real," he says. "That's what made it so terrible. I loved you. Genuinely loved you. And I used that love to destroy you. I let you trust me, believe in me, plan a future with me—all while knowing I was going to take it all away."
"Why?" The question comes out broken. "If you loved me, why didn't you just tell me the truth? We could have—"
"We couldn't have done anything." He shakes his head. "You want to know why I really destroyed you? The real reason I couldn't stop? Couldn't choose you?"
"Tell me."
He looks at me. Really looks at me. And what I see in his eyes is devastating.
"I did love you," he says quietly. "That's why I destroyed you. Because you made me weak."
The words hang in the air.
"I'd spent my whole life being what my father wanted. Strong. Ruthless. Willing to do whatever it took to succeed. And then I met you. And suddenly I wanted to be different. Better. I wanted to be the man you saw when you looked at me instead of the man I actually was."
He's still on his knees. Still looking up at me.
"You made me want to choose love over power. Happiness over success. You made me want to be someone worthy of you. And that terrified my father. Because a son who chooses love is a son he can't control."
My hands are shaking.
"So he made me choose," Damien continues. "And I chose wrong. I chose power over love. My father's approval over your trust. Security over happiness. I destroyed you because loving you meant destroying myself. Destroying everything I'd built. Becoming someone I didn't know how to be."
"You destroyed me because you were a coward."
"Yes." No argument. No defense. "I destroyed you because I was a coward. Because I was weak. Because I couldn't be brave enough to choose you."
A tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away angrily.
"And now?" I ask. "If you could choose again?"
He stands. Slowly. Until we're face to face.
"Now I'd choose you," he says. "In a heartbeat. Without hesitation. Because I learned something in these past three years."
"What?"
"Power without love is just another prison. Success without happiness is just a different kind of failure. And being strong enough to please my father meant being too weak to keep you."
His hand comes up again. Touches my face.
"You didn't make me weak, Aria. You made me human. And I destroyed you for it. That's the truth you wanted. That's my real crime."
I'm crying now. Can't stop. Can't breathe.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"I know."
"I hate that I don't hate you enough."
"I know that too."
We stand there. Him touching my face. Me crying. Both of us broken in different ways.
"Eighteen more nights," I finally say.
"Eighteen more nights."
"This doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything." He steps back. Lets his hand fall. "But I'll take whatever you're willing to give. For as long as you're willing to give it."
He walks to the door. Pauses.
"I'll sleep on the couch tonight," he says. "Unless you want me to leave entirely."
I should tell him to leave. Should send him away. Should end this before it gets any more complicated.
"Stay." The word escapes before I can stop it. "On the couch. Don't... don't leave."
He nods. Doesn't ask why. Doesn't push.
Just accepts it.
After he's gone, I collapse on the bed. The same bed where we first made love. Where I first believed in fairy tales.
Where I first started falling toward this moment—this horrible, beautiful, devastating moment where I don't know if I want to destroy him or save him.
Or if there's any difference anymore.