The Bellagio suite has a terrace.
That's where we end up at 4 AM—me sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, Damien standing by the railing, both of us watching the fountains dance below. The water moves to some orchestral piece I don't recognize, shooting up in perfect choreographed arcs.
Beautiful. Controlled. Exactly what I'm pretending to be.
"Your Instagram post has ten thousand likes," Damien says without turning around. "And about three thousand comments. Most of them are speculation about who the man is."
"Let them speculate."
"Victoria's posted again. Says she'll release 'the full truth' at noon today unless we both issue public apologies and end whatever this is."
I check my phone. He's right. Victoria's latest post is a countdown clock. Twelve hours until exposure.
"She's bluffing," I say. But I'm not sure.
"Maybe." He finally turns. "Or maybe she's exactly as ruthless as you are."
The words should sting. They don't. Because he's right.
"I need a drink," I mutter.
The suite's bar is fully stocked. I pour myself whiskey. Offer him one. He shakes his head.
"I need to stay clear-headed for whatever you're planning."
"Smart." I take a sip. Let the burn settle. "Night Four. You want to know what it is?"
"I'm almost afraid to ask."
I walk back out to the terrace. The sky's starting to lighten at the edges—that pre-dawn gray that makes everything feel surreal.
"You're going to touch me," I say.
His breath catches.
"But I'm not going to touch you. You don't get to have me, Damien. You don't get that satisfaction. What you get is the torture of being close enough to remember what you lost. Being intimate enough to feel it. But not close enough to have it."
"Aria—"
"And you're going to do exactly what I say. When I say it. How I say it. You're going to pleasure me while denying yourself. You're going to watch me come apart and you're not going to get any relief. Understand?"
His jaw tightens. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Ms. Sterling."
Better.
I walk past him. Back into the suite. Into the bedroom with its ridiculous king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip.
He follows. Stops in the doorway.
"Close the door," I command.
He does.
The sunrise is starting now—pink and orange bleeding across the sky. It paints the room in warm light, makes everything feel softer than it should.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Cross my legs. Let the slit in my red dress fall open just enough to make him look.
His eyes darken.
"Take off your jacket."
He shrugs it off. Drapes it over a chair.
"The tie."
He loosens it. Pulls it over his head. His hands are shaking slightly.
Good.
"Come here."
He walks over. Stops in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"On your knees."
A pause. Then he sinks down.
We're eye-level now. The power dynamic couldn't be clearer—him kneeling, me sitting, both of us breathing too fast.
"Do you remember the first time?" I ask softly.
"The first time I touched you?"
"The first time you made me believe you loved me." I reach out. Trace my finger along his jaw. "It was morning. In that suite in Vegas. We'd been up all night talking. You kissed me when the sun came up. Told me I was beautiful. Told me you'd never felt like this before."
"It was true." His voice is rough. "All of it."
"Was it?" I let my hand slide into his hair. "Or was that the job too?"
"It was true." He closes his eyes. Leans into my touch like he's starving for it. "God help me, it was all true."
I pull his hair. Hard enough to hurt. His eyes fly open.
"Then prove it," I whisper. "Show me what you should've shown me three years ago. Devotion without agenda. Pleasure without manipulation. Touch me like you mean it. Like you're worshipping something you'll never deserve to keep."
"Aria—"
"And don't you dare call me that right now." I release his hair. Lean back on my hands. "You don't get to use my name like we're lovers. We're not. This is business. This is revenge. This is me taking back what you stole."
He's breathing hard now. Hands clenched at his sides. Fighting for control.
"Touch me," I command.
His hands come to my ankles. Slowly. Reverently. He slides them up my calves, over my knees, pushing the fabric of my dress higher.
I don't stop him. Just watch his face. Watch the war happening behind his eyes—desire and guilt and longing and shame all mixed together.
His hands reach my thighs. Stop.
"Keep going."
"Aria, I don't think—"
"I don't pay you to think. I pay you to obey."
The words are cruel. Intentionally so. I watch them land. Watch him flinch.
But his hands keep moving. Higher. Until his fingers brush the edge of my underwear.
I suck in a breath despite myself.
He notices. Of course he notices.
"You're nervous," he says quietly.
"I'm in control."
"You're nervous." His thumb strokes along my inner thigh. "Your pulse is racing. You're breathing too fast. You're trying to look cold but—"
"But what?"
"But you want this as much as I do." He looks up at me. "You hate that you want it. Hate that you still feel something. But you do. I can see it."
He's right. Damn him, he's right.
"Shut up and touch me."
His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Find me wet and wanting and trembling.
I close my eyes. Force myself not to react. Not to give him the satisfaction.
But when his thumb finds that sensitive spot and circles slowly—deliberately—a sound escapes my throat.
"There it is," he murmurs. "There's the truth under all that ice."
"Damien—"
"You want to know what I think about?" He's working me with practiced precision now. Knows exactly how to make me fall apart because he's done it a hundred times before. "I think about this. About you. Every single day for three years."
His fingers slide inside me. I gasp.
"I think about the sounds you make," he continues. Voice low. Hypnotic. "The way your breath catches. The way you say my name when you're close. I think about how you used to look at me afterward—like I'd given you something precious instead of stolen something irreplaceable."
"Stop talking." My voice is weak. Breathless.
"No." He's relentless now. Fingers moving with purpose. Thumb pressing exactly where I need it. "You wanted the truth. Here it is. I'm obsessed with you. Ruined by you. Every woman since has been a poor substitute. Every touch a reminder of what I lost. You haunt me, Aria. And I deserve to be haunted."
I'm close. So close. My hands fist in the sheets. My hips move against his hand despite my best efforts to stay still.
"That's it," he breathes. "Let go. Show me you still feel something. Show me I didn't destroy everything."
And I break.
Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. I can't stop the sounds escaping my throat. Can't stop my body from arching. Can't stop myself from grabbing his shoulders and holding on while I fall apart.
He works me through it. Gentle now. Coaxing out every last tremor.
When I finally come back to myself, he's still kneeling. Still watching me with those gray eyes full of longing and pain.
I push him away. Stand on shaky legs. Smooth my dress back down.
"That's all you get," I tell him. "For Night Four, that's all you get. The knowledge that you can still make me feel. Still make me want. Still—" My voice breaks. "Still affect me."
He's hard. I can see it. Can see him struggling with need and the knowledge that he won't get relief.
"You don't get to finish," I continue. "You don't get satisfaction. You go back to your room, to your fiancée, to your life, and you live with the wanting. Just like I've lived with it for three years."
"Aria—"
"Get out."
"Please—"
"Get. Out."
He stands. Slowly. Adjusts himself with shaking hands. Grabs his jacket and tie.
At the door, he pauses.
"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I'm glad you still feel something. Even if it's just desire mixed with hate. It means I didn't destroy everything. That somewhere under all this pain, there's still—"
"Don't." I wrap my arms around myself. "Don't finish that sentence. Don't make this about hope or redemption or whatever you're trying to convince yourself this is."
"What is it then?"
I meet his eyes. "It's Night Four. And you have seventeen more to go."
He leaves.
I collapse on the bed. Still shaking. Still feeling his touch like a brand on my skin.
Still wanting him despite knowing I shouldn't.
This is getting complicated.
More complicated than I planned.