I don't sleep.
Can't sleep. Not in that bed. Not with Damien twenty feet away on the couch. Not with his words echoing in my head on an endless loop.
You made me weak. That's why I destroyed you.
At 3 AM I give up trying. Slip out of bed. Walk quietly to the living room.
He's awake too. Sitting on the couch in the dark, staring out at the Strip. The neon glow paints his face in shades of blue and red, making him look like a stranger. Or maybe making him look like who he really is.
"Can't sleep either?" I ask.
He turns. "Never can. Not anymore."
I should go back to the bedroom. Should maintain distance. Instead, I sit in the chair across from him. Safe distance. Neutral territory.
Except nothing between us is neutral anymore.
"Tell me about your mother," I say.
He blinks. "What?"
"You said your father threatened to cut off her medical care. Tell me about her. About the MS. About what he was holding over you."
"Why?"
"Because I need to understand." I pull my knees up to my chest. "I need to know if you're telling the truth. If you were really trapped or if this is just another manipulation."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then:
"Her name is Eleanor. She's fifty-eight. Used to be a concert pianist before the MS destroyed her hands." His voice is soft. Sad. "She got diagnosed when I was sixteen. My father was... he wasn't a good husband. Wasn't a good father. But she stayed with him because of me. Because she thought I needed a stable family."
"And the treatment?"
"Experimental drug therapy. It slows the progression but it's not covered by insurance. Costs sixty thousand a month. Maybe more now, I haven't checked." He runs his hand through his hair. "My father pays for it. Has for twelve years. And he reminds me of that fact every single time I step out of line."
"That's abuse," I say quietly. "You know that, right? Using someone's medical needs to control you—that's abuse."
"I know." He looks at me. "But what was I supposed to do? Let her suffer? Let her die?"
"You were supposed to tell me." The words come out sharper than I intended. "You were supposed to trust me enough to tell me the truth. We could have figured it out together."
"How? You were twenty-five. I was twenty-nine. Neither of us had that kind of money. Your father's company was successful but not 'sixty-thousand-a-month for indefinite medical care' successful. There was no solution."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"So you just..." I can't finish.
"So I just did what I was told. Like I'd been doing my whole life. Like a good son." The bitterness in his voice is sharp enough to cut. "My father raised me to be a tool. A weapon he could aim at whatever target needed destroying. And I let him. Because the alternative was watching my mother deteriorate."
My chest aches. For him. For me. For all of us caught in Richard Cross's web.
"Where is she now?" I ask. "Your mother?"
"Private care facility in Connecticut. She doesn't know about any of this—what I do, what my father makes me do. She thinks I'm a legitimate businessman. That I'm making her proud." He laughs. It's a hollow sound. "Sometimes I visit her and she tells me how much she loves me. How grateful she is. And I smile and nod and pretend I'm not destroying people's lives to keep her alive."
"Damien—"
"Don't." He stands abruptly. Walks to the window. "Don't pity me. Don't make excuses for me. I made my choices. I could've walked away. Could've found another way. I didn't. That's on me."
I stand too. Walk over to him. Stop just close enough that our reflections overlap in the glass.
"Your father's a monster," I say.
"So am I."
"No." The word surprises us both. "You're not. You're just... broken. Like me. Like everyone he's touched."
"That doesn't absolve—"
"I'm not absolving you." I meet his eyes in the reflection. "What you did was unforgivable. But understanding why you did it... that changes things. Makes it more complicated."
"You wanted simple. Clean revenge."
"I did." I press my hand against the glass. "But nothing about this is simple, is it?"
He turns to face me. We're close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"What are you saying, Aria? That you forgive me?"
"No." Honest. "I don't think I can forgive you. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I'm saying... I'm starting to understand. And that's terrifying. Because it's easier to hate you when you're just a villain. When you're also a victim, it's—" I break off. "It's complicated."
His hand comes up. Hovers near my face but doesn't touch. Asking permission.
I should say no. Should step back. Should maintain the walls I've built so carefully.
Instead, I lean into his palm.
His thumb brushes my cheek. The touch is gentle. Reverent. Like I'm something precious instead of something he destroyed.
"I don't deserve this," he whispers. "Don't deserve you trying to understand. Don't deserve—"
My phone rings.
We both jump. The moment shatters.
I pull away. Check the screen. Maya.
"It's 3 AM," I answer. "This better be important."
"It's important." Her voice is tense. "Victoria Sterling just posted something. You need to see it. Now."
"Posted what?"
"Check your social media. And Aria? Prepare yourself. It's bad."
She hangs up.
I open Instagram with shaking hands. Scroll to Victoria's account. See the post at the top of her feed.
It's a photo. Grainy, clearly taken by a private investigator through a window. But unmistakable.
Me and Damien. In this suite. Standing close. His hand on my face.
The caption: When your fiancé spends the night in Vegas with another woman. But sure, it's "just business." More to come. #Betrayal #Truth #Receipts
"Shit." Damien's reading over my shoulder. "Shit, shit, shit."
There are already hundreds of comments. Thousands of likes. People I've never met weighing in on my life, my choices, my revenge plot that was supposed to be private.
"She knows," I say numbly. "About Vegas. About us being here. About—"
My phone rings again. Unknown number this time.
I answer. "Hello?"
"Hello, Aria." Victoria's voice. Sweet as poison. "Enjoying your romantic getaway?"
"How did you—"
"How did I get your number? Please. I'm a Sterling. We can get anything." A pause. "But that's not why I'm calling. I'm calling to let you know that I know. Everything. About your little revenge plot. About the twenty-one nights. About the deal you made with my fiancé."
My blood runs cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't insult my intelligence. My investigator's very thorough. He found the contract. Well, a copy of it. Seems your assistant isn't quite as loyal as you thought."
Maya. No. Maya wouldn't—
"She didn't betray you," Victoria continues, reading my mind. "But she keeps copies on her laptop. And laptops can be hacked. Technology is wonderful that way."
Damien's face has gone pale. He can hear Victoria's voice through the phone.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"What do I want?" She laughs. "I want you to understand that you're not the only one who can play games. You think you're so clever, blackmailing Damien. Making him dance to your tune. But here's what you don't know: I have copies of everything now. Every piece of evidence you have on him. Which means I can destroy him just as easily as you can."
"Then do it."
"Oh, I'm not going to destroy just him. I'm going to destroy both of you." Her voice hardens. "You humiliated me at that gala. Made me look like a fool in front of everyone who matters. You think I'm going to let that slide?"
"Victoria—"
"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to end this sick little arrangement. Damien's going to come home. We're going to get married as planned. And you're going to disappear back to whatever hole you crawled out of. If you do that, I'll keep your secrets. The escort work. The bankruptcy. All the dirty little details of Aria Kane's fall from grace."
My hands are shaking. "And if I don't?"
"Then I release everything. The twenty-one-night contract. The blackmail. Your past. His crimes. All of it. I'll make sure both of you are destroyed so thoroughly that you'll wish you'd never met each other."
"You'd destroy your own fiancé to get back at me?"
"In a heartbeat." No hesitation. "Because he's already destroyed. Better to burn it all down than let you have him."
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone. Stare at it like it might explode.
"She's bluffing," Damien says. But he doesn't sound convinced.
"Is she?" I pull up Victoria's Instagram again. She's posted another photo. This one's a document. Blurred enough that you can't read details, but clear enough to see what it is: a contract. With the words "TWENTY-ONE NIGHTS" visible at the top.
The caption: *When you discover your fiancé's dirty secrets. Stay tuned. The real story drops tomorrow. #ExposedMy phone starts buzzing. Texts. Emails. Social media notifications. Everyone who saw Victoria's posts wanting answers, gossip, blood.
"We need damage control," Damien's saying. "We need lawyers. We need—"
"We need to finish this." I look at him. "Tonight. Right now. We finish this before Victoria can do any more damage."
"Aria, we can't—"
"Night Four starts now." I'm already walking toward the bedroom. "Get ready. We're going somewhere public. Somewhere visible. Somewhere we can control the narrative before Victoria controls it for us."
"Where?"
I grab my phone. Pull up a contact. Someone who owes me a favor.
"The Bellagio," I say. "High roller suite. I know the manager. He'll let us in even at this hour."
"Why the Bellagio?"
"Because Victoria wants a show? We'll give her a show." I'm throwing on clothes now. Not the soft pajamas—armor. The red dress I brought as backup. The heels that could kill. War paint. "We're going to walk through that casino like we own it. We're going to make sure everyone sees us together. And then we're going to give them something to really talk about."
"Aria, you're not thinking clearly—"
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." I turn to face him. "Victoria has evidence. She has leverage. She has power. But you know what she doesn't have?"
"What?"
"The truth." I walk closer. "She has documents. Photos. Proof of what we did. But she doesn't have the why. She doesn't know about your father. About your mother. About the impossible position you were in. She doesn't know you were a victim too."
"I'm not a victim—"
"Yes, you are." I grab his face. Force him to look at me. "You were manipulated. Controlled. Forced to make an impossible choice. That doesn't excuse what you did but it explains it. And if we're going down, we're going down with the full truth. Not Victoria's version. Ours."
He stares at me. "You'd defend me? After everything?"
"I'd defend the truth." I let go. Step back. "Now get dressed. Put on your best suit. The one that makes you look like a billionaire who has his shit together even when he doesn't."
"What are you planning?"
I smile. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile I learned from my grandfather. The one that says I'm three steps ahead and you're just now catching up.
"I'm planning to beat Victoria at her own game." I check my reflection. Perfect. Powerful. Dangerous. "She wants to ruin us? Fine. We'll ruin ourselves first. On our terms. With our story."
"That's insane."
"Probably." I head for the door. "But I've spent three years being careful. Being smart. Playing it safe. Where did that get me? Alone in a studio apartment planning revenge."
I look back at him.
"It's time to burn it all down, Damien. Victoria's version. Your father's version. The version where we're just villains destroying each other. Let's give them something real."
"And what's that?"
"The truth." I open the door. "That we're two broken people who destroyed each other because we loved each other. That revenge and love aren't opposites—they're two sides of the same coin. That this whole mess is complicated and messy and human."
He's getting dressed now. Moving fast. "This could backfire spectacularly."
"It could." I'm already in the hallway. "But right now? I don't care. I'm tired of playing defense. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending I'm just angry when I'm also heartbroken and confused and—"
I stop. Breathe.
"I'm tired," I finish quietly. "And I'm done being tired."
We take the elevator down. The casino floor's still packed even at 3:30 AM. Vegas never sleeps. Perfect.
I link my arm through Damien's. He looks down at me, surprised.
"What are you doing?"
"Night Four," I say. "Starts now. And the theme is truth."
We walk through the casino. Past the slot machines and poker tables. Past the gawkers and tourists and everyone with their phones out, already texting, posting, spreading the gossip.
I see the recognition. The whispers. Someone points. Someone takes a photo.
Good. Let them look. Let them talk.
We reach the VIP section. The manager's waiting. He takes one look at my face and knows better than to ask questions.
"Ms. Sterling. Mr. Cross. Your suite is ready."
We follow him up. The suite's obscene even by Vegas standards. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Private terrace. View of the fountains.
The manager leaves.
Damien and I stand there. Alone. With eighteen nights left and Victoria's threat hanging over us and the whole world watching.
"Now what?" he asks.
I pull out my phone. Open Instagram. Start typing.
"Now we tell the truth."
"Aria—"
"Not all of it. Not the blackmail. Not the crimes. But enough." I show him what I've written:
Three years ago, a man destroyed my life. Today, I'm taking it back. Not through revenge. Through truth. Stay tuned. The real story's just beginning.
"You're really doing this."
"We're really doing this." I look at him. "Unless you want to back out? Let Victoria win? Marry her and live the lie?"
He takes the phone. Reads the post again.
Then he hits publish.
"Eighteen nights left," he says.
"Eighteen nights left," I agree.
And somewhere in New York, I know Victoria's watching. Planning. Preparing her next move.
But for the first time in three years, I'm not afraid.
I'm ready.
Let the war begin.