Mirela
Stepping out of the sleek black car at the elaborate entrance of the most expensive hotel in Las Vegas, I adjusted my scarf with practiced precision.
The sting of Louis’s slap still lingered on my cheek, the angry red mark now hidden beneath layers of silk.
I couldn’t risk the media spotting me like this; one wrong picture, and I’d be the subject of endless gossip columns.
Louis had mocked me earlier, saying Eric should see it - that Eric deserved to know someone else had claimed me.
I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
With my personal assistant trailing behind, arms loaded with my essentials, I walked into the grand lobby. The opulence around me - crystal chandeliers, gold-accented walls, and plush carpets - did little to soothe my frayed nerves.
Minutes later, I stood at
